Page 99 of Claimed By the Bikers
“DNA samples?”
“Hair follicles at three locations, blood spatter near the presumed entry point, partial tissue samples on metal fragments designed to survive initial combustion.” Silas runs through the checklist with mechanical efficiency. “Enough to prove she was there when it went up, not enough for detailed cause-of-death analysis.”
“Timing devices?”
“Fifteen-minute delay from activation. Gives us time to clear the area and establish alibis before ignition.”
The Morrison facility sits in a natural depression surrounded by pine forest, invisible from the main road and accessible only through a private drive that hasn’t seen maintenance in years. Perfect location for a clandestine meeting gone wrong.
The buildings are exactly what we need—old wooden structures with enough chemical residue from grain storage to burn fast and hot. Add our accelerants, and the whole complex will be ash within an hour.
“Position one,” I call out, pointing to the main storage building. “Silas, set your timer there. Maximum structural damage.”
“Oui.”
“Position two, loading dock. Garrett, place the DNA samples and secondary accelerant charge.”
“Copy.”
“Position three, administrative building. I’ll handle the trace evidence and final ignition point.”
We move through our tasks with the efficiency of men who’ve planned this operation down to the smallest detail. Every placement calculated, every timing sequence verified, every piece of evidence positioned to tell the story federal investigators need to hear.
Special Agent Natalie Hayes came here following a lead on our operations. Unknown subjects were waiting for her. Violence erupted, leading to an explosion that destroyed the evidence and killed everyone present.
Simple. Clean. Believable.
“Timers set,” Silas reports through our radio headsets. “Fifteen minutes to ignition.”
“DNA placement complete,” Garrett adds. “Blood spatter consistent with close-quarters violence, hair samples positioned for discovery during post-fire investigation.”
“Final accelerant charges armed,” I confirm, checking my own timer device. “Exfiltration in sixty seconds.”
We converge on the truck with practiced speed, equipment stowed and secured before the engine starts. Garrett reverses down the access road, putting distance between us and the coming inferno.
At exactly 0800 hours, the first explosion blooms orange against the morning sky.
The secondary charges follow in rapid succession, each detonation feeding the next until the entire complex burns with the intensity of a small sun. Smoke rises in a black column that will be visible for miles, drawing firefighters and investigators exactly where we want them.
“Beautiful work,” I tell my brothers as we watch our handiwork from a safe distance.
“Magnifique,” Silas agrees. “Federal forensics will find exactly what they expect to find.”
“How long before they identify the remains?” Garrett asks.
“Seventy-two hours for preliminary DNA analysis. Another twenty-four for official confirmation.” I start the truck, beginning our drive back to Wolf Pike. “By this time next week, Ember’s federal file gets stamped DECEASED and archived permanently. Then we deal with Los Serpientes permanently.”
Two days later, the FBI convoy arrives like a funeral procession—six black SUVs moving slowly down Main Street, their tinted windows reflecting morning sunlight like dead eyes. I watch from the restaurant’s front porch, coffee mug in hand, as they deploy.
But they’re not alone on Wolf Pike’s main street.
Fifty Harley-Davidsons line both sides of the road like chrome and steel sentinels, their riders standing beside them in fullBlack Wolves colors. Rick Cross commands the formation from the center, his weathered face calm as he watches the federal agents exit their vehicles. Behind him, his brothers and their units create an impressive display of organized brotherhood.
The message is clear: Wolf Pike belongs to the Black Wolves now.
Assistant Director Ben Torres emerges from the lead SUV, his familiar long neck craning as he surveys the assembled bikers. Even through his tactical gear, I can see his confidence wavering at the sight of so much organized resistance.
“Atlas Bishop!” His voice carries across the parking lot, amplified by a bullhorn that makes him sound like a carnival barker. “Federal warrant for the arrest of Natalie Hayes! Send her out now!”
