Page 1 of Claimed By the Bikers
1
EMBER
My Honda’sengine protests as I navigate another sharp turn on the winding dirt road, dust clouds billowing in my rearview mirror. The steering wheel vibrates under my palms, and I grip it tighter, focusing on the rhythm of gravel crunching beneath worn tires.
Mountains rise on both sides of the narrow path, their peaks cutting jagged lines against the afternoon sky. Pine trees crowd the edges of the road, their branches reaching toward my windows like gnarled fingers.
The silence in the car is heavy, broken only by the rumble of the engine and the occasional ping of a small rock hitting the undercarriage. This assignment could get me killed if I’m discovered. Infiltrating organizations like this one doesn’t come with backup plans or extraction teams. I’m on my own until the job is done.
A wooden sign emerges from the dusty haze as I crest the final hill:Welcome to Wolf Pike. Population: 5,270. Someone has carved a small wolf’s head into the wood below the text, andbullet holes pepper the right corner. Just the kind of welcome that tells you everything you need to know about a place.
Wolf Pike stretches out below me like a postcard from another era. Main Street cuts through the center of town, lined with buildings that probably haven’t changed much since the 1960s. I can make out a few cross streets, some residential areas spreading into the foothills, and at the very end of town, almost isolated from everything else, a cluster of buildings that must be my destination.
I follow the road as it curves toward the outskirts, passing a small clinic with a faded red cross painted on white siding, an elementary school with a chain-link fence around a playground, and a park where someone has left a tire swing hanging from an oak tree.
Pineview Motel appears around the bend, a single-story building with peeling paint and a neon sign that probably looked cheerful in 1975. Half the letters don’t light up anymore, so it just reads “Pi e ie Mo el” in flickering red.
I push through the glass door and approach the front desk. A middle-aged woman with graying hair divided into two ponytails looks up from a magazine, chewing gum loudly. Her name tag reads “Betty,” and she looks thoroughly bored.
“I need a room,” I say, though I already know what’s coming. “For a month.”
“Room twelve. One month, prepaid.” She blows a bubble and pops it. “Thirty-five dollars a night if you need to extend.”
Ben told me Betty would have everything ready. I hand her the cash, and she slides a metal key across the counter, making a note in her ledger without much interest.
“Thank you.” I take the key and head back outside, parking in front of unit 12.
Inside, I drop my duffel bag on the floor and walk to the queen bed with its brown comforter. I test the mattress with my hand, then move to the small table with two chairs. In the bathroom, I run the shower for a few seconds, checking the water pressure and temperature. The room smells like cigarettes and pine-scented air freshener, but it’s clean enough.
I check the loose floorboard near the window first. Surveillance device is there, small and black, exactly where it should be. Behind the bathroom mirror, I find the hollowed-out space containing a Glock 19 with extra magazines. Inside the old television set, the prepaid phone sits waiting.
Through the window, past the empty parking lot and across a field of scrub brush, I can see the Wolf’s Den Restaurant and Bar. The building is larger than I expected, two stories high, with a wraparound porch and additional structures behind it.
I unpack quickly, hanging clothes in the narrow closet and arranging toiletries on the bathroom counter. For this role, I need to look approachable but not desperate. I choose jeans that fit well without being too tight, a black tank top that shows I’m confident in my own skin, and ankle boots that look comfortable for long shifts. Hair goes into a ponytail, and I apply makeup that says I made an effort without trying too hard.
Three months ago, I sat in a windowless room that smelled like burned coffee and industrial cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh white light that made my skin look sickly.
Two men I’d never seen before sat across from me at a metal table that had seen better days. One had a completely shaved head that gleamed under the lights, while the other sported a military buzz cut that probably required weekly maintenance.
“How many ways could you get someone to talk without laying a finger on them?” Bald Head’s voice was gravelly, like he’d been smoking for decades.
I didn’t blink. “Depends on the person. Some respond to fear, others to charm. Most people want to be heard, they just need the right listener.”
Buzz Cut leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “How good are you at pretending?”
“Good enough that you’re asking me to take this job instead of someone else.”
They exchanged a look I couldn’t read. Bald Head opened a manila folder and slid a photograph across the table. Three men standing outside a restaurant, their faces partially obscured by shadow. “This might take months,” he said.
I studied the image, memorizing every detail I could make out. The restaurant’s wooden sign, the way the eldest man held his shoulders, and the defensive posture of the one on the right. “Then I guess I’d better pack for a long trip.”
Now, I make my way out of the motel. Walking to the restaurant takes ten minutes. Three motorcycles roar past me on the main road, their riders wearing leather jackets. A woman in her fifties waves from her front porch, and I wave back with a smile.
Wolf’s Den sits at the end of a dead-end road, surrounded by open space. Smart positioning. Behind the main building, I glimpse additional structures.
A bell jingles as I push through the heavy wooden door, and the scent of grilled meat and beer hits me immediately. The interior is dimly lit, with exposed wooden beams and booths that look well worn. A long bar runs along the left wall, bottles of liquor catching the light. The place is mostly empty since it’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, but I can hear voices in the back.
“Can I help you?”
