Page 70 of Claimed By the Bikers

“They showed me what you really are,” I interrupt. “What the FBI really wanted from this operation.”

Ben’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Agent Hayes, you’re coming with us. Willingly or not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You killed a Mexican national last night. That’s a federal crime that could put you away for life unless you cooperate with this investigation.”

“Mexican national?” Garrett laughs harshly. “You mean the cartel soldier who was about to murder a family with children?”

“That’s not how the report will read.”

And there it is. The threat I was expecting, delivered with the same casual authority Ben’s always used when he needed me to do something I didn’t want to do—cooperate or face consequences that could destroy my life.

Except my life is already destroyed. The old one, anyway. And I’m not interested in going back to it.

“Let me guess,” I say, taking another step forward despite the rifle barrels tracking my movement. “The report will say I went rogue, killed an innocent Mexican citizen, and need to be brought in for my own safety. Clean narrative that explains away any inconvenient questions about what I found here.”

“Agent Hayes?—”

“Or maybe the report will say I died in the line of duty. Tragic loss during a dangerous undercover operation. Much simpler that way, isn’t it, Ben?”

Several of the agents exchange glances. They can hear the conversation, see Ben’s expression, and some of them are starting to realize this isn’t a standard fugitive recovery.

“Agent Hayes, you’re clearly not thinking rationally. These criminals have brainwashed you?—”

“Brainwashed me into what? Into discovering that the FBI wanted me to plant evidence connecting innocent people to crimes they didn’t commit?”

Ben’s face goes carefully blank, but I see he’s trying to figure out how much I know, how much I can prove.

“That’s a serious accusation,” he says finally.

“It’s a serious crime. Which is why I recorded our conversation.”

Ben goes completely still. Even his gum chewing stops. “What conversation?”

I pull out the burner phone I’ve been carrying—the one with cloud storage access that survived after my other devices were destroyed. “The one where you admitted the FBI orchestrated a frame-up operation. Where you told me to plant evidence connecting these men to crimes they didn’t commit. You said sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served.”

“Agent Hayes, put the phone down.”

“Why? Worried about what your own people might hear?”

I activate the speaker function and find the saved recording. Ben’s voice is crystal clear and damning: “We want you to ensure that dangerous criminals don’t escape consequences due to technicalities.”

“That could be taken out of context?—”

The recording continues, “Sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served.”

More glances between tactical agents. These aren’t corrupt cops or dirty agents—they’re career FBI personnel who took thesame oath I did and believed they were serving justice, not participating in frame-ups.

“Plant the evidence, send us your location, and we’ll handle the rest,” Ben’s recorded voice continues.

“Turn it off,” Ben orders, but his authority is cracking.

But I let the recording continue: “This is a direct order, Agent Hayes. Plant the evidence, or face charges for failure to complete your mission.”

Several agents lower their rifles slightly. One removes his helmet entirely, staring at Ben like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“That recording is fabricated,” Ben says, but it sounds like even he doesn’t believe it.