Page 40 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Look, the Bishop brothers are criminals. We know it, even if we can’t prove it through conventional means. Sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins. “You want me to plant evidence.”

“We want you to ensure that dangerous criminals don’t escape consequences due to technicalities.”

“That’s not how this works, Ben. That’s not how any of this works.”

“It’s how it works when national security is at stake. These men have connections to larger criminal organizations. Taking them down sends a message to every MC in the country.”

I fumble for the record button on the phone, my hands shaking with fury. “Let me make sure I understand this correctly. You want me to plant fake evidence connecting the Bishop brothers to crimes they didn’t commit?”

“I want you to do your job, Agent Hayes. I want you to remember that you swore an oath to protect and serve the American people.”

“By fabricating evidence? By framing innocent people?”

“Innocent?” Ben’s laugh is cold. “Natalie, these men kidnapped a federal agent. They’re holding you against your will. That alone justifies whatever action we take.”

“What if I told you I’m not being held against my will?”

Silence. Then: “Stockholm syndrome is a real thing. It’s common in hostage situations. That’s why we need to get you out of there and into proper debriefing.”

“This isn’t Stockholm syndrome.”

“Then what is it?”

I close my eyes, trying to find words for something I barely understand myself. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it. Plant the evidence, send us your location, and we’ll handle the rest. You’ll be back in Quantico within forty-eight hours.”

“And the Bishop brothers?”

“Will face justice for their crimes.”

“Crimes you’re asking me to fabricate.”

“Crimes we know they committed, even if we can’t prove it through traditional methods.” His voice grows harder. “This is a direct order, Agent Hayes. Plant the evidence, or face charges for failure to complete your mission.”

The recording captures every word, every admission, every threat. When he finally stops talking, I feel like I might throw up.

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Go to hell.”

I end the call and immediately upload the recording to my secure cloud storage, the same system I’ve used for years to back up case files.

Then I smash the phone against the concrete foundation of the maintenance shed, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces. Plastic and circuits scatter across the ground, and I grind theremnants under my heel until there’s nothing left but electronic debris.

The walk back to the house feels endless. Every step carries the weight of what I’ve learned, what Ben asked me to do, what it means for the men who’ve become my whole world. By the time I reach the front door, my hands have stopped shaking, but my resolve has never been stronger.

Inside, the smell of Garrett’s cooking fills the air. Something with garlic and herbs that would normally make my mouth water, but tonight my stomach is too twisted with emotion to care about food.

“There you are,” Silas calls from the kitchen. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Just needed some air,” I lie, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door.

“Everything alright?” Atlas appears in the doorway. “You look upset.”