Page 101 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“Just fucking peachy as you can see,” Samson grumbles from his bed.

He’s pale and he looks worn out, but he’ll be on the mend soon enough—at least that’s what his doctor told us on the way in. Personally, I found additional relief in seeing four Riders standing guard outside his door along with two of Bentley’s deputies, though given what we’ve learned from Rory and Patches, I doubt we can trust anyone outside our club at this point.

“You ran into trouble,” Samson says, frowning as he looks over at Jagger’s bandaged shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s just a graze,” Jagger replies. “I stopped by one of the nurses before we came up here. I know you’re squeamish about blood. Didn’t want you to faint like the prissy little princess you are.”

The old man chuckles dryly, then winces from the pain. “You nonchalant prick. Tell me what happened.”

We give him a brief account of our meetings over the past twenty-four hours. By the time we’re done, poor Samson is ashen, paler than ever as he too connects the dots and realizes precisely the amount of trouble we’re in. Worst of all, none of it is of our own making.

“Fucking Marlo,” he concludes.

“Said the same thing,” I sigh deeply. “How’s it looking in here?”

“Quiet. Couple of folks died back at the diner. They brought the rest of the injured here. The whole place is swarming with deputies. Gave my statement to the sheriff too,” he says. “Bentley said he wants to bring the Staties in to help. He’s overwhelmed. Margo’s people have started taking over their old corners. They’ve already pulled over a couple of their trucks. More to come. It’s gonna get ugly, boys. Real ugly, real soon.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“And this DEA bullshit. Seriously? Now we gotta deal with crooked Feds too?”

“Honestly, I thought I’d be more shocked by the idea, but it kind of makes sense,” Jagger surmises. “I mean, look at all the busts they make, all the dope they seize and burn. Yet the dealers keep coming out like cockroaches from under the furniture. If some of these guys decide to stop fighting the bad guys and join them instead—”

“It’s the end of the fucking world as we know it,” I say. “I can’t stand for that. We have to do something about it.”

A knock on the door interrupts our conversation, and we all jerk out heads around simultaneously.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Faraday says as he walks in, his tie loose and his shirt crumpled. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault,” I reply. “Glad to see you’re okay, though.”

“I thought I was a goner back there,” he says. “I’ve been riding the phone all night and all day. I finally got a lead on the DEA situation.”

“We’ve got a lead too,” Diesel says. “Not the good kind, though.”

“What do you mean?” Faraday asks.

About two minutes later, our lawyer is as white as a sheet of paper.

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath and has a seat on the edge of Samson’s bed. “So here’s the thing. I just got off the phone with one of the lead agents within the DEA’s Intelligence Unit. There was no talk of suspected crooked colleagues or anything like that, but he was able to disclose that they’ve got an undercover agent working in Redwood.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jagger groans with frustration.

“So, not Spalding. ’Cause he’s been out and proud about it,” Diesel mutters.

Faraday shakes his head. “No, not Spalding. Obviously, I wasn’t privy to the undercover agent’s identity, but I was told they’re here working the Hughes family angle, not the Rogue Riders. In fact, he sounded a tad surprised that Spalding did what he did.”

“He couldn’t confirm that Spalding was out of his scope on this one,” I scoff, “because then it would mean the supervisors can’t keep their people on a leash. The DEA would have egg on their faces. But the warrant Spalding provided was completely legit, right?”

“Yes, and my DEA contact confirmed it. Something tells me it wasn’t sanctioned, but they’re not pulling away from it either,” Faraday says.

Diesel rubs his face. “There’s an undercover Fed on top of it all. Who the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know, but we have a saboteur in the club as well,” Jagger reminds us. “We’re flying blind here, aren’t we?”

“More or less,” I say, then take out my phone. “Let me check in with Robyn at least.”

“Yeah, do that,” Diesel replies.

---