Page 90 of Claimed By the Bikers

Near the back, I see the human impact of this work. An elderly man is testing mobility equipment while his wife watches with tears of gratitude.

“This is incredible,” I tell Atlas, following him through the organized aisles.

“Years of building the network. We process about fifty thousand dollars worth of medical supplies here every month.”

“And all of them are free to people who need them?”

“Yep.”

I notice a truck near the loading dock with tinted windows, its engine running. But before I can point it out, the shooting starts.

Cartel members pour through the main entrance and loading dock simultaneously, firing wildly.

“Office!” Atlas shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the elevated position. “Now!”

We sprint between the rows of medical equipment, staying low while bullets punch through cardboard boxes and ping off metal shelving. Behind us, I can hear the screams of the other people in the warehouse as well as Garrett and Silas returning fire, theirshots more controlled than the spray-and-pray tactics of our attackers.

The office is small but well positioned, with windows overlooking the main floor and a solid desk that provides decent cover. Atlas pushes me down behind it while he takes a position at the window.

“Do you know how many?” I ask, drawing my Glock and checking the magazine.

“At least eight. Maybe more.” He fires two quick shots. “They’re not as organized as the last group, but they’re persistent.”

Through the window, I can see the cartel members advancing through the warehouse, using the medical equipment as cover while they close the distance to our position. They’re exactly what Atlas described—street criminals with guns and attitude.

But they’re still dangerous, especially in numbers.

My first shot drops a man trying to flank our position from the left side. Clean center mass, and he goes down hard.

The second takes out another who thought the oxygen tanks would provide adequate cover.

“Good shooting,” Atlas says, adjusting his own position. “But conserve ammunition. We don’t know how long this will last.”

Now that I’m in a defensible position, Atlas leaves to help the others. The sustained gunfire echoes through the warehouse, punctuated by screams from the beneficiaries who were receiving supplies.

“Get to the loading dock!” someone yells—probably the veteran who was examining mobility equipment moments ago.

“My insulin!” the young mother cries, clutching her son’s diabetes supplies while scrambling for cover behind overturned wheelchairs.

The financial devastation is staggering.

My magazine runs dry after six more shots, and I’m reaching for a spare when a cartel member appears in the office doorway. Young, maybe early twenties, with prison tattoos covering his arms.

He’s faster than I expected, crossing the small office in two quick strides before I can bring my reloaded weapon to bear. His tackle takes us both to the floor behind the desk, my Glock skittering away across the concrete.

I go for his eyes with my fingernails, earning a howl of pain and a wild swing that connects with my shoulder. The blow knocks me sideways, but I use the momentum to drive my knee up toward his groin.

He twists away from the worst of it, but the impact still doubles him over long enough for me to scramble away from his reaching hands. My palm closes around the first weapon-like object I can find on the desk surface.

A letter opener. Brass handle with thin blade.

The cartel member lunges again, and this time I’m ready for him. I sidestep his charge and drive the letter opener into the side of his neck, just below the ear, angling upward toward his brain stem.

Blood sprays across the office walls as he drops to his knees, hands clawing at his throat. His eyes go wide with shock, then glaze over as life leaves them.

The letter opener falls from my hand, clattering onto the concrete floor beside his still body.

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