Page 101 of Claimed By the Bikers
Hours pass. The helicopter makes wider circles, fuel consumption forcing it to return to base and refuel. Some of the bikers break out lunch supplies, sharing sandwiches and coffee, like this is a casual gathering instead of a standoff with federal law enforcement.
Ben paces behind his vehicles, radio pressed to his ear, receiving updates from his forensic team. With each conversation, his posture grows more rigid, his movements more agitated.
Finally, around 1400 hours, one of his agents approaches with a tablet displaying digital photographs. Even from a distance, I can see images of burned debris, forensic markers, and evidence bags.
Ben studies the photos for several minutes, his face cycling through disbelief, anger, and reluctant acceptance.
“DNA analysis will take seventy-two hours,” he announces, his voice carrying across the street. “But preliminary evidence suggests a female victim died in that fire.”
“Condolences to her family,” Rick says solemnly.
“If this is Agent Hayes—if she’s really dead—then this investigation ends here.”
“And if it’s not?” I ask.
“Then we’ll be back. With warrants, with evidence, and with enough firepower to level this entire compound.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, backed by federal authority but tempered by the reality of fifty armed bikers who’ve made their allegiance clear.
That’s when the final SUV returns from the Morrison facility, carrying the senior agent who outranks Ben in the federal hierarchy. Deputy Director Susan Lake emerges from the vehicle with the kind of calm authority that comes from decades of law enforcement experience.
She surveys the assembled bikers without apparent concern, notes the defensive positions around our compound, and approaches our formation with confident steps.
“Director Lake,” I greet her. “Welcome to Wolf Pike.”
“Mr. Bishop. Interesting situation we have here.”
“How so?”
“Fifty members of an outlaw motorcycle club, facing down a federal task force in the middle of a public street. Could be seen as intimidation of federal officers.”
“Could be seen as concerned citizens protecting their community,” Rick counters. “Depends on your perspective.”
“Indeed, it does.” She turns her attention back to me. “Agent Torres informs me that you claim Agent Hayes died in an industrial accident.”
“I claim nothing. I simply provided information about a fire that occurred in your investigation area.”
“And this fire conveniently destroyed all evidence of Agent Hayes’ alleged criminal activities?”
“Director Lake, if Agent Hayes was conducting criminal activities, she kept that information to herself. We hired her as a waitress, paid her legal wages, and treated her with the same respect we show all our employees.”
“Until she died in a suspicious fire.”
“Until she died investigating leads related to her federal assignment. Which, if I understand correctly, involved determining whether our business operations included criminal enterprises.”
Lake nods slowly. “And her investigation?”
“Apparently got her killed by unknown subjects who didn’t appreciate federal attention.”
“Convenient.”
“Tragic.”
She studies my face, looking for tells, for signs of deception. But I’ve been lying to federal agents since before she graduated from Quantico. My expression remains neutral, concerned, appropriately puzzled by the implications of Agent Hayes’ death.
“The forensic evidence will determine cause and manner of death,” she says finally. “But I want to be very clear about something, Mr. Bishop.”
“I’m listening.”
