Page 97 of Claimed By the Bikers
“No body to find. Just evidence that you were there when the place went up.” Atlas stares at his coffee, working through the details. “We stage it right, they conclude you died in an explosion.”
I nod. “Ember gets a new identity. Complete documentation package—birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license, employment history.”
“How much would that cost?” she asks.
“Fifty thousand for bulletproof documentation. Another twenty for the physical evidence and staging. We’ll need three days minimum to arrange everything properly. I’ll contact my guy in Denver today to get the paperwork started.”
“I’ll handle the physical staging,” Garrett adds. “Explosive devices, accelerants, DNA placement. Make it look like an industrial accident with criminal overtones.”
“And I’ll coordinate with our people to make sure everyone knows you’re officially dead once this goes down,” Atlas concludes. “Can’t have anyone accidentally revealing you’re still alive.”
Ember looks around our kitchen with an expression I can’t read. “So I disappear. Leave everything behind and start over with a new name.”
“You don’t leave everything behind,” I tell her.
She reaches across the table to take my hand, her fingers warm against my palm. “How long before we know if it worked?”
“The FBI will investigate the fire within hours of discovery. If our staging’s convincing, they’ll close your case within a week and reassign the agents to other operations.” Atlas returns to his chair. “If it’s not convincing…”
“Then we’re back to fighting or running,” Ember says.
I shrug. “Oui. But it will be convincing. We’re very good at making things look like accidents.”
The sound of motorcycle engines cuts through the morning quiet as I’m reviewing the final details for tomorrow’s operation. Multiple bikes, at least six or seven, are approaching fast along our private road.
“Expecting company?” Ember asks from the kitchen table, where she’s been helping sort medical supply invoices.
“No. But those sound like Harleys, not sport bikes.”
We step outside as the first motorcycle crests the hill—Rick Cross on his customized Road King, followed by his brothers Chase and Zane. Behind them ride Brick Kane and his brothers Maddox and Ryder, their bikes gleaming in the morning sun.Six men total, all wearing Black Wolves patches, all armed and ready for whatever brought them here.
Rick kills his engine first, pulling off his helmet. “Heard through the grapevine that our founding fathers might need some extra muscle.”
“Word travels fast,” Atlas observes, joining us on the porch.
“Fast enough. Evie mentioned you’ve been having federal problems on top of the cartel situation.”
“We’ve got it handled,” I tell him.
“Do you?” Brick dismounts his bike with fluid grace. “Because from what we hear, you’re about to stage someone’s death while dodging federal agents. Sounds like you could use secure backup locations.”
Atlas and I exchange glances. We’ve been discussing exactly this problem—where to keep Ember safe during the fake death operation and potential FBI investigation.
“Actually,” Atlas says slowly, “we have been looking for a secure location. Somewhere off the radar while we handle the federal situation.”
“How secure?” Brick asks.
“Completely invisible. The woman in question is officially going to be dead, so she can’t be seen anywhere near Wolf Pike until this blows over.”
Brick’s grin spreads across his scarred face. “Well, now that’s convenient. Our compound’s about as off-the-radar as you can get. Plus, we’ve got someone who’s excellent at keeping people safe.”
“Your wife?” Garrett asks, appearing in the doorway.
“Rowan knows how to handle dangerous situations. Daughter of an MC president, trained from childhood to deal with trouble. Plus we’ve got kids—might be nice for your woman to have some family time while you three handle the unpleasant business.”
I look at Ember, seeing the relief in her expression. She needs safety during the operation.
“That sounds like exactly what we need,” she says.
