Page 59 of Claimed By the Bikers

I settle into a shooting stance that feels natural after thousands of hours of repetition in the field, track the first target through its pattern, and put three rounds center mass before it disappears.

The second target gets the same treatment. Then the third.

By the time I’ve engaged eight different targets at ranges from twenty-five to seventy-five yards, the only sound is brass hitting concrete and my own steady breathing.

“Holy shit,” someone whispers.

“That’s impossible,” Colton says faintly. “Nobody’s that fast and accurate.”

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Zane asks, moving closer to examine my target results.

“Here and there. You pick things up.”

“Nobody picks up that kind of precision,” Kip says flatly. “That’s professional-level marksmanship.”

“Ember’s got an interesting background,” Atlas says carefully. “Let’s just say she’s full of surprises.”

“No kidding,” Colton mutters, all his earlier swagger gone. “I, uh…sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to be condescending.”

“No harm done. We all make assumptions.”

“Yeah, but mine were stupid.”

“Little bit,” I agree, and he winces.

“Damn. Okay, I deserved that.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a completely different atmosphere. Instead of jokes about the city girl who probably can’t handle mountain life, the conversation centers around technique and equipment preferences. Kip asks about my training background, and I give him vague answers about growing up around firearms.

Even Colton eventually joins in. “Can I ask you something?” he says as we’re packing up equipment at the end of the afternoon.

“Shoot.”

“Ha. Good one.” He grins sheepishly. “But seriously—are you military?”

“Something like that.”

“Special forces?”

“Colton.” Atlas’s voice carries warning.

“Sorry. I know, don’t ask questions that aren’t my business.” Colton looks at me with new respect. “Just…glad you’re on our side.”

“Me too,” I tell him honestly.

We’re still laughing when we reach the restaurant’s parking lot, but my mood shifts when I notice the unfamiliar vehicles parkednear the entrance. Three black SUVs with tinted windows, too clean and expensive for the usual crowd.

“Expecting anyone?” I ask, automatically cataloguing details—license plates, positioning, sight lines.

Atlas follows my gaze, expression hardening. “No. We’re not.”

“Engine’s still warm on the closest one,” Garrett observes, moving casually but positioning himself between me and the vehicles.

“How long do you think they’ve been here?” Silas asks, hand drifting toward the knife at his belt.

“Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.” I study the SUVs, noting how they’re positioned to block the main exit routes. “Professional parking job. These aren’t tourists.”

“No,” Atlas agrees grimly. “They’re not.”