Page 49 of Claimed By the Bikers

Tuesday nightsat Wolf’s Den are usually quiet, just locals nursing beers and the occasional trucker grabbing dinner before pushing on to Denver. I’m wiping down tables when I notice Mr. Hendricks at his usual corner booth, deep in conversation with Atlas. Nothing unusual there—Atlas talks to everyone—but something about their body language catches my attention.

Hendricks looks tired. More than tired. Defeated. His hands shake as he reaches for his coffee cup, and when he speaks, Atlas leans in to hear him better.

“…can’t afford another round. Insurance won’t cover it, and the VA keeps jerking me around with paperwork.”

Atlas slides something across the table. Small white bottle, the kind that holds prescription medication. “This should get you through the month. Same supplier, same dosage.”

“I can’t keep taking charity?—”

“It’s not charity. You earned this.” Atlas’s voice is quiet but firm. “Twenty-six years in the Army, three tours in Iraq, shrapnel inyour leg that still gives you hell. The government owes you a lot more than insulin.”

My rag stills on the table I’m cleaning. Insulin. Mr. Hendricks is diabetic, and Atlas is giving him medicine.

“What do I owe you?” Hendricks asks.

“Nothing. Just take care of yourself.”

They shake hands, and I watch Hendricks pocket the bottle like it’s made of gold. When he leaves, he stops to pat my shoulder.

“You’re lucky to work for good people,” he tells me. “Don’t see many like them anymore.”

After he’s gone, I approach Atlas’s booth. He’s making notes in a small leather journal, numbers and abbreviations I can’t read.

“Can I sit?” I ask.

He looks up, those gray eyes assessing. “Course. Slow night?”

“Atlas.” I slide into the booth across from him. “What just happened there?”

“Old soldier needed his medication. I helped him get it.”

“Where did you get insulin?”

He closes the journal, studying my face. “Does it matter?”

“It might. Depending on how you got it and why you’re giving it away.”

“You asking as our waitress or as Agent Natalie Hayes?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I’ve been Ember Collins for so long, I almost forgot there wasanother version of me. But Atlas hasn’t forgotten. None of them have.

“I’m asking as someone who cares about you. All of you. And wants to understand what I’m really part of.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, fingers drumming against the table. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m a smart girl. Try me.”

“Alright.” He signals Garrett behind the bar. “Close early tonight. Family meeting.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re in their living room. Atlas in his usual chair, Garrett and Silas on the couch, me curled up in the corner with a cup of coffee that’s already gone cold. The house feels different tonight, weighted with the importance of whatever Atlas is about to say.

“You want to know what we really do,” he begins. “Fair enough. But understand, what I’m about to tell you could destroy everything we’ve built. So I need to know you’re ready to hear it.”

“I’m ready.”

“Afghanistan, 2008. My unit was tasked with training local forces, helping them establish security in villages that had been overrun by Taliban fighters.” His voice takes on a different quality, distant and precise. “Beautiful country, when it wasn’t being torn apart by war. Mountain villages that looked like they belonged in another century.”

Garrett pours himself a whiskey. Silas lights a cigarette despite usually smoking outside. They’ve heard this story before, but it still affects them.