Page 98 of Claimed By the Bikers

“She’ll need to disappear completely until the FBI investigation closes,” I say.

“For how long?”

“However long it takes. Could be days, could be weeks.”

Brick nods. “Rowan will be thrilled. She’s been wanting to meet the woman who tamed the Bishop brothers.”

“Nobody tamed anybody,” Ember protests.

“Sure they didn’t,” Rick says with a grin. “That’s why you’re all glowing with domestic happiness.”

As the bikers prepare to leave, Ember moves to stand beside me. “Thank you. For thinking of everything, for keeping me safe, for finding people who understand.”

“We protect what’s ours,” I tell her simply. “Toujours.”

“Always,” she agrees.

Tomorrow we’ll fake her death and send her into hiding. But at least she’ll be hidden with people who know how to keep dangerous secrets.

30

ATLAS

Dawn creepsover the mountains as I gather my brothers around the kitchen table one final time. Coffee steams in our mugs, but nobody’s drinking. The weight of what comes next hangs between us like smoke.

“Time to move to the next stage,” I announce, my voice cutting through the quiet morning air.

Garrett nods, his wounded shoulder still wrapped, but his eyes clear. “Morrison facility?”

“Morrison facility. We execute this right, and by tonight, Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix officially exists while Special Agent Natalie Hayes becomes a closed case file.”

Silas stubs out his cigarette, exhaling the last of the smoke toward the ceiling. “Equipment’s loaded in the truck. Industrial accelerants, DNA samples, timer devices. Everything we need to make this look like an accident with criminal overtones.”

“Timing?”

“Fire starts at 0800 hours. By the time Wolf Pike Fire Department responds, the structure’s fully engulfed. Nothing left but ash and enough forensic evidence to satisfy federal investigators.”

I check my watch—0645 hours. Plenty of time to reach the abandoned grain facility and set our trap before anyone expects us to be awake and moving.

“Garrett, you’re driving. Silas handles the technical work. I’ll coordinate timing and cleanup.” I drain my coffee mug, tasting the bitter dregs. “We do this clean, we do this quiet, and we make damn sure nobody can trace anything back to us.”

“What about the Black Wolves?” Garrett asks, gesturing toward the window where our newfound brothers are setting up camp around the compound. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They provide cover. Fifty bikers hanging around Wolf Pike gives us a legitimate reason to be moving equipment, having meetings, looking busy with club business.”

Through the kitchen window, I watch Rick Cross directing his men in establishing defensive positions around our property. Professional work—overlapping fields of fire, clear sightlines, escape routes planned and marked. These men remember their training, remember why the Black Wolves used to matter.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” Silas confirms.

“Let’s go kill Special Agent Hayes.”

The drive to Morrison Grain takes us through back roads that wind deeper into wilderness, away from curious eyes and morning commuters. Garrett handles the truck despite hisinjuries, while Silas checks and rechecks our equipment in the passenger seat.

“Accelerant placement?” I ask from behind them.

Silas answers. “Four ignition points, timed to create maximum structural damage. Fire will burn hot enough to compromise forensic analysis but leave enough trace evidence to confirm victim presence.”