Chapter 1 #3
When her team finishes with the main floor, she approaches me again. "We'll need to see any additional areas of this building. Storage rooms, offices, anything connected to the address on the warrant."
My pulse stays steady. She's being careful, staying within the bounds of what the warrant covers. "This building is just the bar and clubhouse. You've seen everything. Shop is at a different location on Harbor Street."
"No storage areas? No other rooms we haven't accessed?"
"You've been through every room in this building." I gesture around. "Kitchen, storage, bathrooms, office. That's it."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to push harder. The warrant is specific to this address, and she knows it. "I'd like to verify the rear exit; make sure I have a complete picture of the property boundaries."
Fuck. I can't refuse without raising suspicion but letting her see the pathway to the Forge creates exactly the kind of question I don't want her asking.
"No problem." I lead her down the hallway, Shaw falling into step behind us.
The back door opens onto a small concrete area used for deliveries and trash pickup.
Beyond that, across a narrow courtyard, sits the two-story brick building.
Nondescript, no signage, windows on the second floor but none on the ground level.
Could be storage. Could be offices. Could be anything.
Agent Monroe's gaze tracks across the courtyard to the building. "What's that structure?"
"Private property. Not part of the bar. Different address, different owner. Your warrant covers 247 Waterfront Avenue only." I keep my tone professional, factual.
"Owner's name?"
"You'd need to check county records for that information."
It's not technically a lie. The Forge is owned by a separate LLC, legally distinct from the Iron Brotherhood MC and Ironside Bar.
Will and I set it up that way when we founded the Forge, specifically to create a firewall between our public operations and our private club.
It was a tactical choice, and it's proving especially valuable right now.
Agent Monroe pulls out her phone and makes a note. "What's the address of that building?"
"249 Waterfront Avenue." I watch her type it in. She's documenting everything, building a file, connecting dots. She'll run the address through county records, find the LLC, trace the ownership back to Will and me, and realize we own both properties.
Then she'll be back with another warrant.
She takes photos of the courtyard and the brick building, careful documentation for her investigation. "I'll be verifying ownership through official channels. If there's a connection between that property and your club, we'll need to discuss it further."
"Understood. We've got nothing to hide. When you verify ownership and see it's separate from the bar, you'll see we're cooperating fully."
Her expression suggests she doesn't quite believe me, but she can't push further without overstepping her warrant authority. Smart enough to know that and professional enough not to cross that line.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Agent Monroe says, tucking her phone away. "Let's head back inside and finish up."
We return to the main bar where her team is wrapping up their documentation. They've gone through every room, photographed every corner, cataloged everything that could potentially be relevant to their investigation. Professional, thorough, and ultimately unsuccessful.
"Surveillance footage," Agent Monroe says to Danny. "I'll need copies going back six months."
"Already queued up." Danny hands her a flash drive. "Digital files, organized by date and camera location. You'll find everything you need."
"Business records?"
"Email them to you by end of business tomorrow," Will offers. "Purchase orders, sales receipts, financial statements. Everything is documented and above board."
Agent Monroe takes the flash drive and tucks it into a tactical pouch on her vest. She glances once more toward the back hallway, then pulls out her phone.
Two addresses. Same waterfront location.
VP who positioned himself to monitor that hallway throughout the entire search.
A separate building that the club claims isn't theirs, but sits steps from their clubhouse.
She's not satisfied, and she shouldn't be. All the pieces are there. She just needs to connect them.
"Mr. Holloway." She turns to me as her team begins packing up their equipment. "You mentioned Ironside Customs is on Harbor Street. We'll be visiting that location next."
"Tate runs the shop. He'll give you full access, same as we did here. You won't find anything illegal there either."
"We'll see." She pulls out a business card and hands it to me.
"If you think of anything relevant to our investigation, I'd appreciate a call.
We're looking for whoever's running illegal weapons modifications through the gun show circuit.
If that's not you or your club, helping us find the real criminals serves everyone's interests. "
I take the card, noting the embossed ATF seal and her direct phone number. "Appreciate the professional approach, Agent Monroe. We'll cooperate however we can."
"Good." Her gaze holds mine for a beat longer than strictly necessary, and I catch something flickering behind that professional mask. Assessment. Interest. Challenge. "One more thing. You ride?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Why?"
"Just curious. Saw the bikes in the lot. Nice collection." Her attention shifts to the parking area where my Harley sits alongside my Brothers' rides. "You ever get out on the coast roads? Highway 101 is beautiful this time of year."
"Sometimes. When time permits."
"I ride a Triumph. Bonneville T120. Love taking it out on the weekends when I'm not working cases." She says it casually, like she's making conversation, but I read the subtext. She's telling me she's not just a federal agent. She's part of the riding community. She understands the culture.
I take the business card she extends, and my Delta Force-trained eye spots details most people would miss.
Calluses on her right hand at the base of her fingers and along her palm.
Not the soft hands of someone who rides occasionally for fun.
These are the calluses of someone who wrenches her own bike, changes her own oil, handles tools with the same familiarity I do.
Her stance is solid, weight balanced, feet shoulder-width apart.
Combat stance, but also the stance of someone who knows how to plant herself on a bike and handle it in any conditions.
Not what I expected. Not some desk agent playing investigator. This woman knows motorcycles, knows riding culture, probably knows more about MC operations than she's letting on.
The predator in me recognizes a worthy opponent. The part I keep locked down recognizes something else entirely.
Underestimating her would be a mistake.
"Triumph's a solid bike," I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. "British engineering. Classic design."
"Very classic." Agent Monroe's smile is professional but genuine. "Maybe I'll see you out on the road sometime, Mr. Holloway."
She walks away before I can respond, her team falling into formation around her as they return to their vehicles. I watch them pull out of the parking lot with the same precision they used to arrive, and something cold settles in my gut.
This isn't over. She's too smart, too thorough, too interested in things that don't quite add up in her investigation. She couldn't find what she was looking for today, but that just means she'll keep digging.
Will appears at my shoulder as the last SUV disappears down the street. "That went about as well as it could have."
"Yeah."
"But?"
"But she's not done. She saw the building. She knows we're not showing her everything. She'll dig into the LLC, figure out we own it, and come back with questions we don't want to answer."
Will's quiet for a moment, watching the empty street.
Then he turns to me with the kind of serious expression that means orders are coming.
"She's going to run those county records.
When she finds out we own both properties, she'll come back with a warrant for the Forge.
We've got maybe a week, two at most. Keep her away from it until we figure out our next move. "
I nod slowly, already running scenarios. Keeping Agent Shelby Monroe away from anything is going to be a challenge. She's sharp, trained, motivated, and now she has concrete leads to follow. Once she connects the dots on ownership, she'll have probable cause for another warrant.
Protecting the Forge means protecting everything we've built. The legitimate businesses. The Brotherhood. The one place where the darker parts of who we are get channeled into something consensual and controlled instead of destructive.
The place that keeps me from becoming what I was in Delta Force.
Keeping her from discovering what the Forge really is might be the hardest op I've run since I came home. Back then, I had authorization to do whatever was necessary to complete the mission—interrogation, elimination, whatever it took.
Different rules now. Different methods.
Orders are orders. And I've never failed a mission yet.
I walk back to where my Harley waits in the lot, fishing keys from my pocket while my mind sorts through tactical options.
Agent Monroe with her Triumph Bonneville, her callused hands, her combat stance.
Federal agent who rides, who knows MC culture, who sees through operational security like it's transparent.
Not some desk analyst I can misdirect with paperwork and professional courtesy—a woman who'll dig until she finds what she's looking for.
Keeping her at a distance should be straightforward. Maintain the VP polish, cooperate within legal boundaries, give her nothing that justifies deeper investigation. Standard operational security.
Except I've already clocked the calluses on her hands. Already assessed her stance, her confidence, the way she moves like someone who's earned her place in a world that doesn't welcome women easily. Already caught myself noticing things that have nothing to do with threat assessment.
The problem isn't the mission.
The problem is what happens when professional distance isn't enough.
When I stop relying on surveillance and misdirection and fall back on the methods I learned in Delta Force.
The ones that don't leave room for federal authority or legal boundaries or the VP polish I've been wearing since I came home.
The problem is that part of me already knows how this ends... and the darker part doesn't mind at all.