Page 5 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Boss?” Finn appears at my elbow, bar towel slung over his shoulder. “Kitchen’s running low on the Macallan. Should I grab another bottle from storage?”
“Do it. And Finn? Check the inventory on the Jameson while you’re back there. We’ve been going through it faster than usual.”
He nods and heads toward the storage area behind the kitchen. Good kid, works hard, asks few questions.
My attention drifts to the booth in the far corner where Jake sits with two men I don’t recognize. Jake runs our primary storage facility, located about twenty miles outside town, and handles the logistics that keep sensitive cargo moving without drawing attention. Meeting with strangers in my restaurant means either new business opportunities or potential problems. Either way, I need to know which.
I make my way across the dining room, nodding to regulars, stopping briefly to check on a table of locals celebrating someone’s birthday. Finally, I slide into the booth across from Jake.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
Jake straightens slightly. “Atlas, good to see you. These are the associates I mentioned. David runs transport operations out of Denver, and Marcus handles distribution networks in Colorado Springs.”
I shake hands with both men, reading their faces. David has calloused hands and prison tattoos, barely visible under his sleeves. Marcus wears expensive clothes, but his eyes never stop moving. Both men carry themselves like they’ve seen violence and aren’t afraid of more.
“Jake says you might have storage needs in our area,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
David leans forward. “We’re expanding operations and need reliable facilities for temperature-sensitive merchandise. Jake vouched for your discretion and security measures.”
“Depends on the merchandise and timeline. I don’t handle anything that brings federal attention.”
“Nothing like that,” Marcus interjects. “High-end electronics, some pharmaceutical supplies, maybe occasional art pieces for private collectors. Clean paperwork, legitimate buyers, just need secure storage between acquisition and delivery.”
Electronics and pharmaceuticals mean stolen goods. Art pieces for private collectors translates to items taken without the owner’s consent. However, their story holds together, and Jake wouldn’t bring them here without verifying it first. Still, new partnerships require careful evaluation.
“I’ll need references from your previous storage providers, insurance documentation, and a clear understanding of yoursecurity requirements.” I lean back in the booth. “This isn’t a handshake business, gentlemen. Everything gets documented, every transaction gets recorded, every shipment gets tracked.”
David and Marcus exchange glances. “That level of recordkeeping might complicate things on our end,” David says.
“Then you need different facilities. I run legitimate operations with proper oversight. Anyone uncomfortable with transparency can find storage elsewhere.”
The truth is, detailed records protect everyone involved. Government taught me that documented operations with proper paper trails survive scrutiny better than shadow deals based on trust. When federal prosecutors start building cases, they look for gaps and inconsistencies. Give them complete records of legitimate business activities, and they struggle to prove criminal intent.
“We’ll discuss it and get back to you,” Marcus says, sliding out of the booth.
“Take your time. Good business relationships develop slowly.”
They leave with Jake, who promises to call tomorrow with their decision. I check my watch—nearly ten o’clock. Time to head home and brief Garrett on tomorrow’s new hire.
I lock up the office and walk through the kitchen, where Finn is cleaning the grill. “Good night, boss,” he calls out, and I wave back before stepping out the rear exit.
Behind the restaurant, our compound sprawls across three acres of fenced property.
The main house sits in the center, a two-story log structure we finally got around to building ourselves seven years ago.
My brothers have their own workshops here. Garrett occupies the left side, where he does woodworking and restores vintage furniture when he’s not handling security. Silas’s forge sits on the right, where he crafts custom metalwork and the occasional blade when clients need specialized tools.
Storage buildings line the back fence, officially for restaurant supplies but actually housing more sensitive inventory.
Lights are on in the main house, and I can hear music drifting from the kitchen windows. Sounds like Garrett’s entertaining again.
I push through the front door and immediately understand why the music’s so loud. Garrett has a redhead pressed against the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped around his waist while he moves against her with the kind of raw intensity that makes me glad the nearest neighbors are miles away.
“Christ, Garrett,” I mutter, grabbing a beer from the fridge without making eye contact. “Some of us live here.”
“Then knock next time,” he growls, not breaking rhythm. The woman moans something that might be encouragement, and I decide the living room is far enough away to avoid further details.
Twenty minutes later, Garrett joins me on the couch, pulling on a T-shirt while his companion lets herself out the front door.
