Page 96 of Claimed By the Bikers

I climb the stairs, leaving Finn’s muffled sobs echoing in the concrete space below. Atlas waits in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear.

“Understood.” He listens, then nods. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Problem?” I ask as he ends the call.

“FBI. Ben Torres is putting together a tactical team for another extraction attempt. Bigger force this time, with authorization to use lethal force if we resist.”

The next morning, my shoulder aches from sleeping on the couch in the office, keeping one ear open for any movement from the basement where Finn spent the night tied to that metal chair. Back at the house, Garrett’s bullet wounds kept him restless, tossing and turning while Ember tried to help him find comfortable positions.

None of us slept well.

“It’s been confirmed. They’re moving forward with their operation,” Atlas says, brewing coffee. “They’re treating this as a high-priority terrorist extraction.” He pours coffee into four mugs.

“Terrorist?” Garrett emerges from the bathroom, fresh bandages visible under his open shirt. “That’s new.”

“Ben’s upgraded his narrative. Now we’re not just criminals holding a federal agent hostage—we’re domestic terrorists with ties to international arms dealers.”

Ember laughs, but the sound carries no humor. “International arms dealers?”

“Creative storytelling to justify lethal force authorization.” I light a cigarette, needing the familiar ritual. “Question is, what do we do about it?”

“We could fight,” Garrett suggests, easing into his chair with careful movements. “Fortify the compound, make them pay for every inch.”

“They’re going to have air support.” Atlas shakes his head. “We’d be dead within an hour.”

“We could run,” Ember says quietly. “All of us. Disappear into the mountains until they give up looking.”

“They won’t give up. And running means abandoning everything we’ve built here—the restaurant, the supply network, the families depending on us.”

I study Ember’s face, seeing the wheels turning behind her green eyes. “You have an idea.”

“Maybe. What if I’m not here when they arrive?”

“They’ll tear the place apart looking for you.”

“What if I’m dead?”

The kitchen goes silent except for the coffee maker’s dying gurgles. Atlas sets down his mug with deliberate care. “Explain.”

“Stage my death. Make it convincing enough that they call off the search and close my file.” She looks between all of us. “If Special Agent Natalie Hayes dies during an undercover operation gone wrong, they have no reason to keep pursuing the investigation.”

“How do we fake your death convincingly enough to fool federal forensics teams?” Garrett asks.

“Fire. Warehouse explosion, body burned beyond recognition. Plant enough DNA evidence to satisfy their investigation, but not enough that they can determine the cause of death.”

Atlas leans back in his chair, processing the logistics. “We’d need a location they’d believe you might be. A reason you’d be there alone. Physical evidence that supports the narrative.”

“The old Morrison grain facility,” I suggest. “Been abandoned for three years, dry wood and stored chemicals make it a natural fire hazard. Easy to believe someone might use it for a clandestine meeting.”

“What about DNA evidence?” Ember asks.

“Hair, blood samples. Enough to prove you were there when it burned, not enough for detailed analysis.”

“And dental records?”

“We can fake those. I know a guy in Denver who specializes in creative paperwork for people who need fresh starts.”

Garrett shifts in his chair, wincing as the movement pulls his stitches. “This assumes they don’t find the body.”