Page 23 of Claimed By the Bikers

“I’ll check it. Thanks for letting me know.”

She nods and returns to her tables, but I catch the way her eyes linger on the door marked “Private” behind the bar. Curious about what goes on back there, what kind of business calls I might be taking.

Good. Curiosity is exactly what I’m counting on.

I disappear into my office and make a show of taking several calls, speaking just loud enough that anyone passing by might catch fragments of conversation. Shipment schedules, delivery locations, payment arrangements. Nothing incriminating by itself, but enough to paint a picture for someone trained to connect dots.

Around two o’clock, when the lunch crowd has thinned to a handful of regulars, I approach Ember at the coffee station.

“Hey, I need to run out to the warehouse. Supplier meeting that can’t wait.” I pull out my keys, making sure she sees me lock the office door. “Think you can handle things here for an hour?”

“Of course. Anything special I should know?”

“Just the usual. Finn’s got the kitchen covered, and most of the afternoon crowd won’t show up until after four.” I pause, as if remembering something important. “Oh, and if my lawyer calls back, take a message. Tell him I’ll have those insurance documents ready for review by tomorrow.”

“Insurance documents?”

“Nothing major. Just updating our liability coverage. Paperwork’s in the safe if he needs specifics, but I doubt he’ll call back today.”

I leave through the front door, making sure several customers see me go. Then I circle around to the back of the building and slip in through the rear entrance, moving quietly through the storage areas toward my office.

The bait is set. Now I wait to see if Agent Hayes takes it.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear the soft click of a lock being picked.

I position myself in the storage room next to my office, watching through the crack in the door. She slips inside, moving with the fluid grace of someone trained in covert operations. No hesitation, no wasted movement. She goes straight to the safe, pulling out a small device that makes quick work of the combination lock.

She photographs each document with practiced efficiency, using a camera that’s definitely not standard equipment.

When she reaches for the folder marked “Colorado Operations,” I make my move.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

She spins around, camera still in hand, and for a split second, I see the real woman underneath the cover identity. Alert, dangerous, ready to fight or run depending on which option gives her better odds.

“Atlas! You scared me. I was just?—”

“Photographing confidential business documents with professional surveillance equipment.” I step into the office, closing the door behind me. “Great job, Agent Hayes.”

Her face goes blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Agent Natalie Hayes, FBI. Three years with the bureau, undercover specialist. Should I continue, or do you want to drop the act?”

She straightens, and suddenly she’s not a nervous waitress anymore. She’s a federal agent who’s been caught in the act, and she’s calculating her next move.

Her eyes flick toward the door. Measuring distance, looking for an escape route.

“I wouldn’t,” I advise. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned. Better to cooperate.”

“Cooperate with what? You haven’t actually done anything illegal that I can see.”

Smart woman. Even caught red-handed, she’s not admitting to anything that could compromise her mission or her agency.

“Maybe not. But breaking and entering, theft of confidential documents, fraud—those are all very real crimes. Local prosecutor might be interested in hearing about them.”

“You invited me to work here. Gave me access to areas of the restaurant. Hard to prove breaking and entering when I was following legitimate job instructions.”

“Legitimate job instructions don’t typically involve lockpicks and surveillance cameras.”