Page 100 of Claimed By the Bikers
I set down my coffee mug and walk slowly toward the federal formation, noting how my Black Wolves brothers shift position to provide covering angles. Not threatening, just present. Fifty armed men who’ve made their choice about which side they support.
“Agent Torres,” I call back, stopping about twenty feet from his position. “Good to see you again.”
“Where is she, Bishop?”
“Where is who?”
“Don’t play games. We have federal warrants, helicopter support, and authorization to use lethal force. Send out Natalie Hayes, or we’ll come in after her.”
Rick Cross dismounts his bike with fluid grace, moving to stand beside me. His presence draws more bikers forward, creating aloose semicircle that faces the federal agents without appearing overtly hostile.
“Problem here, Atlas?” Rick asks, his voice carrying the authority of a man who’s commanded respect for decades.
“Agent Torres is looking for someone who isn’t here.”
“She’s here,” Ben insists, gesturing toward our compound with his bullhorn. “Intelligence confirms this location as her primary residence.”
“Your intelligence is outdated.” I meet his eyes across the distance, keeping my expression neutral. “The woman you’re looking for died two days ago.”
Silence settles over Main Street like a blanket. Even the helicopter circling overhead seems to pause in its patrol pattern.
Then Ben laughs. It’s a harsh sound, bitter and disbelieving, echoing off storefronts and empty windows. “You expect me to believe Natalie Hayes just conveniently died before we could arrest her?”
“I expect you to do your job. Which includes investigating suspicious deaths in your jurisdiction.”
“What suspicious death?”
“Explosion and fire at the old Morrison grain facility. Unknown female victim, burned beyond recognition but with dental work consistent with federal employment records.”
Ben’s laughter cuts off abruptly. “You’re lying.”
“Am I? Morrison facility is about fifteen miles north of here, just off the old mining road. Easy enough to verify.”
I can see him processing this information, weighing possibilities against probabilities. His team waits behind their vehicles, weapons ready but not aimed, professional enough to recognize they’re outnumbered by a significant margin.
“When did this alleged fire occur?” he asks finally.
“Day before yesterday. Around 0800 hours. Wolf Pike Fire Department responded and found the entire complex destroyed. Single fatality, female, approximately twenty-four years old.”
“And you think this was Agent Hayes?”
“I think you should investigate and make your own determination. That’s what federal agents do, isn’t it? Investigate suspicious deaths?”
Ben keys his radio, speaking in quick, clipped sentences I can’t quite hear. Behind him, two agents climb back into their SUV and drive away, presumably toward the Morrison facility to verify my story.
“This isn’t over, Bishop.”
“No, it’s not. But it’s changing.”
We wait in the morning sun, fifty bikers and twelve federal agents, while somewhere in the mountains, forensic investigators sift through ash and debris looking for traces of a woman who never existed.
Rick lights a cigarette, the flame from his Zippo bright against the chrome of his bike. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? Federal government coming into a man’s hometown, making demands, threatening his family.”
“Hell of a thing,” I agree.
“Good thing the family’s got friends.”
“Good thing.”
