Page 3 of Contracted to the Bikers

The quiet normalcy of the moment almost feels surreal—apart from the US Marshals watching over us.

Behind me, one of the marshals clears his throat. Marshal Harris has been leaning against my kitchen counter for the past twenty minutes, pretending to check his phone. He’s tall, mid-forties, with the kind of square shoulders that suggest a military background.

His partner, Marshal Reed, sits at the dining table watching the front window. These two men have to face endless days of boring monotony, watching us go about our business because a cartel-connected criminal probably wants me dead.

“You should eat something,” Harris says.

I glance at the untouched plate of toast beside my laptop before returning my focus to the document I’m reading. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that six times.”

“I’m still fine.”

He studies me with the weary patience of someone who has spent years babysitting stubborn witnesses. “I’ve worked protection details before,” he says. “People think they can outthink danger if they stare at it long enough.”

“I’m not staring,” I say, chewing on the end of my pen. “I’m researching.”

“Same difference,” he says with a shrug.

I ignore him and scroll down the screen again. My brain latches onto numbers the way it always does when I’m building a case. I’m studying the WITSEC relocation statistics, identity reassignment procedures, average witness cooperation length, and failure rates. My chest tightens slightly as I reach the section labeled ‘Program Breaches’. Statistics they don’t tell you flash up on my screen, how many witnesses are found, how many are killed, or those who vanished again after the government relocated them.

Most of the cases are decades old, but the pattern is clear enough. Witness Protection is not a strategy. You disappear and hope the people looking for you eventually lose interest. Whether you win or lose, you lose your life as you know it. It’s a gamble. The question is, is it one I’m willing to take?

“Mommy?” Jessy says in that sing-song way all children do when they want their mother’s attention.

“Yes, sweetheart?” I mumble, my gaze still fixed on the screen.

“My Stegosaurus thinks you should watch this fight.” She says this without a hint of irony. It’s what the dinosaur wants, not her.

I glance over. The Triceratops has apparently lost the argument and is now lying dramatically on its side. “Well done, Mr. Stegosaurus.”

Jessy beams and returns to her game, picking out a new opponent for her Stegosaurus to conquer.

Marshal Reed watches the exchange with the faintest hint of a smile before returning his attention to the window.

I can’t see out the front window from where I’m sitting, but I know the view like the back of my hand. I know that the front yard of our small house looks the same as it did a week ago. The street beyond it hasn’t changed, either. Children ride past on bicycles, the maple tree sways in the wind, and birds fly overhead—the illusion of normal life. I suppose to everyone else, life is carrying on as normal. It makes me feel even more isolated.

My laptop pings with another document loading. I lean forward, scrutinizing the new information. “Marshal Harris.”

“Yeah?” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“What’s the longest someone stays in witness protection?”

He shrugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether the people looking for them stop.” I appreciate that Marshal Harris is a straight shooter, a man who won’t lie or make empty promises, even if his words aren’t comforting.

I rub my eyes, trying to push past the headache building behind them. Thirty-two hours, that’s how long I’ve spent reading about the witness protection program since Detective Alvarez, the man in charge of my case, first suggested it. It’s been thirty-two long hours of reading federal policy manuals, testimony transcripts, and court cases. If disappearing with WITSEC were a legal contract, I’d know every clause by now.

Jessy suddenly gasps. “My Velociraptor escaped!”

The toy skids across the hardwood floor and bumps into my foot. I pick it up and hand it back to her. “Phew, that was a close one. He nearly ate my foot! He’s a dangerous predator,” I say, playing along.

“Very.” She studies the toy thoughtfully. “Do bad guys have dinosaurs?”

I know Jessy’s really asking, ‘Are we safe? Do the bad men have monsters to hurt us with?’ I’ve been trying to make this as normal as possible for us, but with the marshals in the house, and what happened outside her school, it’s impossible to hide the fact that everything is not normal. “No, sweetheart. Dinosaurs are extinct, you know that,” I remind her, avoiding the real question.