Page 68 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Long-term, we prepare for the real attack. Last night was reconnaissance with teeth. They wanted to see how we fight, how we’re organized, what our response time looks like.”

“And now they know?”

“Now they know we’re not going to roll over. Which means they’ll come back with more men and better tactics.”

Garrett pauses his sweeping to look at me. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“I killed one of their soldiers with a wine bottle. I’d say I’m committed to this fight.”

“Killing in the heat of battle is different from planning for war,” Atlas says quietly. “What happened last night was reactive. What’s coming next will be deliberate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’ll target our weaknesses. Our people, our supply routes, anyone we care about.” His gray eyes meet mine across the destroyed dining room. “They’ll come after you specifically, because you proved you’re dangerous.”

The thought sends ice through my veins, but not because I’m afraid for myself. “What about the families you help? The veterans who depend on the medical supplies?”

“We’ll protect them. But it’s going to get complicated?—”

The sound of multiple vehicles pulling into the parking lot cuts through our conversation.

“Expecting company?” Silas asks, hand drifting toward the gun tucked into his waistband.

“No.” Atlas moves to the boarded-up window, peering through a gap in the plywood. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Federal agents. At least six vehicles, maybe more.”

My stomach drops. “FBI?”

“Has to be. Local sheriff wouldn’t bring that kind of firepower for a follow-up interview.”

Garrett appears at my side, expression grim.

Through the gap in the plywood, I can see them deploying from the vehicles.

The Black SUVs are positioned to block escape routes, and agents in tactical gear are taking defensive positions.

This only means one thing. It’s a forceful extraction.

Through the gaps in the plywood, I count at least a dozen agents in tactical gear, maybe more, positioned where I can’t see them. I watch the federal agents spreading out around the compound. My former colleagues, with whom I’ve worked, trained, and shared dangerous assignments. Now they’re here to drag me back to a life I don’t want, to an agency that tried to use me as a disposable asset.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“We show them you’re under our protection now,” Atlas says, checking his rifle. “Give them a lesson they won’t forget in a long time.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Months ago, I was FBI Agent Natalie Hayes, sworn to uphold federal law and bring criminals tojustice. Now I’m standing in a shot-up restaurant, planning to resist federal agents alongside the men I was sent to investigate.

“How long before they move?” I ask.

“Not long. They’ll want to control the situation before we can organize a response.”

“Then we’d better get ready.”

“Ember.” Atlas’s voice stops me as I head toward the weapons cache. “You sure you’re ready for this? Fighting federal agents is different from cartel soldiers.”

“They’re the ones who sent me here to frame you. They’re the ones who wanted me to plant evidence on innocent people.” I check the rifle Silas hands me. “I made my choice weeks ago.”