Page 34 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

“No, it’s not. But it’s changing.”

We wait in the morning sun, fifty bikers and twelve federal agents, while somewhere in the mountains, forensic investigators sift through ash and debris looking for traces of a woman who never existed.

Rick lights a cigarette, the flame from his Zippo bright against the chrome of his bike. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? Federal government coming into a man’s hometown, making demands, threatening his family.”

“Hell of a thing,” I agree.

“Good thing the family’s got friends.”

“Good thing.”

Hours pass. The helicopter makes wider circles, fuel consumption forcing it to return to base and refuel. Some of the bikers break out lunch supplies, sharing sandwiches and coffee, like this is a casual gathering instead of a standoff with federal law enforcement.

Ben paces behind his vehicles, radio pressed to his ear, receiving updates from his forensic team. With each conversation, his posture grows more rigid, his movements more agitated.

Finally, around 1400 hours, one of his agents approaches with a tablet displaying digital photographs. Even from a distance, I can see images of burned debris, forensic markers, and evidence bags.

Ben studies the photos for several minutes, his face cycling through disbelief, anger, and reluctant acceptance.

“DNA analysis will take seventy-two hours,” he announces, his voice carrying across the street. “But preliminary evidence suggests a female victim died in that fire.”

“Condolences to her family,” Rick says solemnly.

“If this is Agent Hayes—if she’s really dead—then this investigation ends here.”

“And if it’s not?” I ask.

“Then we’ll be back. With warrants, with evidence, and with enough firepower to level this entire compound.”

The threat hangs in the air between us, backed by federal authority but tempered by the reality of fifty armed bikers who’ve made their allegiance clear.

That’s when the final SUV returns from the Morrison facility, carrying the senior agent who outranks Ben in the federal hierarchy. Deputy Director Susan Lake emerges from the vehicle with the kind of calm authority that comes from decades of law enforcement experience.

She surveys the assembled bikers without apparent concern, notes the defensive positions around our compound, and approaches our formation with confident steps.

“Director Lake,” I greet her. “Welcome to Wolf Pike.”

“Mr. Bishop. Interesting situation we have here.”

“How so?”

“Fifty members of an outlaw motorcycle club, facing down a federal task force in the middle of a public street. Could be seen as intimidation of federal officers.”

“Could be seen as concerned citizens protecting their community,” Rick counters. “Depends on your perspective.”

“Indeed, it does.” She turns her attention back to me. “Agent Torres informs me that you claim Agent Hayes died in an industrial accident.”

“I claim nothing. I simply provided information about a fire that occurred in your investigation area.”

“And this fire conveniently destroyed all evidence of Agent Hayes’ alleged criminal activities?”

“Director Lake, if Agent Hayes was conducting criminal activities, she kept that information to herself. We hired her as a waitress, paid her legal wages, and treated her with the same respect we show all our employees.”

“Until she died in a suspicious fire.”

“Until she died investigating leads related to her federal assignment. Which, if I understand correctly, involved determining whether our business operations included criminal enterprises.”

Lake nods slowly. “And her investigation?”

“Apparently got her killed by unknown subjects who didn’t appreciate federal attention.”

“Convenient.”

“Tragic.”

She studies my face, looking for tells, for signs of deception. But I’ve been lying to federal agents since before she graduated from Quantico. My expression remains neutral, concerned, appropriately puzzled by the implications of Agent Hayes’ death.

“The forensic evidence will determine cause and manner of death,” she says finally. “But I want to be very clear about something, Mr. Bishop.”

“I’m listening.”

“My eyes are on each and every one of you. One whiff of illegal dealing—just a whisper of criminal activity—is all I need to throw your ass in federal prison for the rest of your natural life.” The threat carries real weight, backed by the full authority of the federal government and delivered by someone with the power to make it happen.

I step closer, close enough that our conversation becomes private despite the audience watching from both sides.

“Director Lake,” I say quietly, “I’ve been running legitimate businesses in Wolf Pike for fifteen years.

I employ local people, contribute to the community, and pay my taxes on time every year.

If you want to investigate my operations, you’re welcome to try.

But you’ll find exactly what Agent Hayes found—a restaurant that serves good food and a man who takes care of his neighbors. ”

“And if I find something else?”

“You won’t. Because there’s nothing else to find.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for cracks in my composure. Finding none, she steps back and addresses the assembled bikers. “This investigation is concluded pending forensic confirmation of Agent Hayes’ death. All personnel will withdraw from Wolf Pike immediately.”

“Understood,” Ben says, though his voice carries clear reluctance.

“However,” Lake continues, “this area remains under federal monitoring. Any suspicious activity, any hint of criminal enterprise, will result in immediate task force deployment with full tactical support.”

“Noted,” I reply.

She turns to walk back toward her vehicle, then pauses. “Oh, and Mr. Bishop?”

“Yes?”

“Give my condolences to Agent Hayes’ family. Losing someone that young is always a tragedy.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

The federal convoy pulls away as slowly as it arrived, black SUVs disappearing down Main Street like a retreating army.

Within minutes, Wolf Pike returns to its normal afternoon quiet—just a mountain town going about its business, with fifty bikers providing an unusually colorful tourist attraction.

Rick approaches, exhaling cigarette smoke through a satisfied grin. “Well, that went better than expected.”

“Better than I hoped,” I agree. “No shots fired, no arrests, and they’re officially closing the investigation.”

“What about the forensic analysis?”

“It’ll confirm that Special Agent Natalie Hayes died in an industrial accident while investigating our operations. Case closed, file archived, threat neutralized.”

“And your girl?”

“Gets to live the rest of her life as Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix. Three names, three fathers, and the protection of the Black Wolves MC.”

Rick nods, grinding his cigarette under his boot. “Speaking of protection, we should probably discuss permanent security arrangements. Los Serpientes are still out there, still pissed about their dead soldiers.”

“Agreed. But first, we need to bring our woman home.”

“She’s safe with Rowan and the kids. Black Dog compound’s as secure as any place in the county.”

“I know. But she belongs here, with us.”

“Then let’s go get her.”

As the last federal SUV disappears around the mountain curve, I feel something I haven’t experienced in years.

Not just victory, but completion. The twenty-year rift between me and my MC brothers is finally healed.

The federal threat to our family has been neutralized.

And somewhere across town, the woman carrying our child waits for us to bring her home.

Time to reclaim what’s ours.