Chapter 2
SHELBY
The motel room smells like industrial carpet cleaner and stale coffee.
Standard federal per diem accommodations—clean enough, cheap enough, forgettable enough.
I've stayed in worse. Three years undercover with the Devils MC in Nevada taught me to appreciate basics like locks that work and beds without questionable stains.
Case files spread across the floral comforter in categories that make sense only to me.
Weeks of investigation condensed into manila folders and surveillance photos.
Photographs of modified weapons seized at gun shows across the Pacific Northwest. Sales records showing patterns of illegal transactions.
Vendor booth assignments placing the same players at multiple locations.
And there, in the background of vendor photos from several shows: through the convention center windows, Ironside Customs signage visible on what appears to be their delivery truck at three separate events.
Custom motorcycle parts delivered to gun shows where illegal weapons sales happened within hours.
Shipping manifests obtained through subpoena show packages sent from Ironside Customs to convention centers, picked up by vendors later flagged in weapons violations.
Coincidence stretches thin when the pattern repeats across multiple cities over several months.
Someone's using the Iron Brotherhood's legitimate business as cover for weapons trafficking. Either the club knows and profits, or they're being set up by someone with access to their operations.
My job is determining which.
Cole Holloway's file shows a military photo from his service record.
A younger version of the man I met this morning, but the predatory awareness was already there in his eyes.
Same stillness that reads less like discipline and more like violence held in perfect check.
A few more years of weight in his shoulders, but that edge of danger hasn't softened with time.
Army service spanning over a decade. Honorable discharge. The specifics are redacted, likely special operations given the classification level, but those records require DOD cooperation that takes months to secure.
What the file confirms: extensive military training, command experience, a security clearance that suggests operations most people don't want to know about. The kind of background that makes someone either very good at staying legal or very good at doing illegal things the right way.
The kind of man who's done things civilian law wouldn't forgive and learned not to lose sleep over it.
As Vice President of the Iron Brotherhood, he handles day-to-day operations, at least according to the club's business registration and corporate filings. Financial oversight, security systems. A perfect position for someone running a smuggling operation through a legitimate business front.
Also a perfect position for someone protecting a club being used without their knowledge.
Or, and this is worse, a perfect position for someone who operates in the spaces between legal and illegal, who knows exactly where the lines are and how to dance along them without crossing over. Until crossing over serves his purpose.
Coffee sits cold in the mug on the nightstand. I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine more than I need it hot.
Weeks of investigation led to this morning's search warrant. Weeks of tracking shipping records, photographing gun shows, documenting patterns. We found nothing during the search because either they're clean or they're better at operational security than most criminal enterprises I've investigated.
My instincts say it's the latter. Criminals with military training, MC structure, and legitimate business operations rarely leave evidence lying around for federal agents to find during routine searches.
But my instincts have been wrong before.
Another file waits on the bed. Personal. Not part of the official case documentation. Just photos and reports I've kept because forgetting feels like betrayal.
Blake Walsh. Partner for two years with the ATF.
Best investigator I've ever worked with, better friend than I deserved.
We were tracking weapons modifications moving through the gun show circuit when a buy went wrong.
Modified AR-15 with an illegal auto sear, sold by a vendor we'd been watching for months.
Blake went in to make the arrest. Vendor pulled a backup weapon, another modified piece with a suppressor, and fired twice before Blake could draw.
Dead before the ambulance arrived. Vendor disappeared into the crowd. Case went cold.
That was eighteen months ago.
The modifications I'm tracking now match the signature of the weapons that killed Blake.
ATF's firearms forensics lab confirmed it three weeks ago—same machining style on the auto sears, same threading pattern on the suppressors, same file marks on the trigger assemblies.
Either the same person is still operating, or someone learned their techniques well enough to replicate them.
Finding them won't bring Blake back. But it might prevent another agent from bleeding out on a convention center floor while civilians scatter and criminals vanish.
Personal motivation compromises objectivity. I know that. Doesn't change the fact that this case matters more than any I've worked since.
I close Blake's file and return to the Iron Brotherhood evidence. Focus on what I can prove, not what I'm feeling.
The vendor photos show Ironside Customs logo visible in backgrounds, but that's not evidence of criminal activity.
The shop is located on Harbor Street in Anchor Bay.
Gun shows across the Pacific Northwest all happen in convention centers within driving distance.
Ironside Customs is a legitimate custom motorcycle shop with a strong regional reputation.
They could have clients who attend the same shows.
Their work trucks could be visible in vendor photos without any connection to illegal weapons sales.
Except the shipping manifests tell a different story.
Six weeks of subpoenaed records from FedEx and UPS show custom motorcycle parts were delivered to those shows.
Parts ordered from Ironside Customs, shipped to convention centers, picked up by vendors who then sold illegal weapons within hours of receiving the packages.
That's more than coincidence. That's a pattern suggesting someone's using the shipping schedule to coordinate illegal sales.
The question is who.
Background files compiled over the past two months sit in neat stacks. Public records, business registrations, basic military service verification: the information any competent investigator can access with time and proper channels.
Will Lawson, club President. Army veteran, honorable discharge. Business owner on record for Ironside Bar. Married to Gemma Holloway according to county marriage records—Cole's sister. Clean criminal record, legitimate business operations for over a decade based on tax filings and business permits.
Shaw Riley, listed as Sergeant-at-Arms in the club's articles of incorporation. Marine Corps veteran. Currently employed as fire investigator with Anchor Bay Fire Department—verified through city personnel records. Also clean record.
Nathan "Tate" Morrison, Road Captain per club documentation. Navy veteran. Business manager for Ironside Customs according to state business filings.
Danny Hayes, club Treasurer. Army veteran. Handles financial records and business accounts based on his signature on corporate documents.
Jackson Rivera, full patch member per club roster. Army veteran. Works at Ironside Customs according to employment records subpoenaed from the business.
Mike Barrows, full patch member. Marine Corps veteran. Owns The Anchor restaurant based on business licensing.
I finish reading info on the rest of the members of the club. Every Brother has military or first responder backgrounds—information that's part of the public record. Veterans who found brotherhood after service, built legitimate businesses, contribute to their community.
On paper, they're exactly what they claim to be.
Also on paper, they have the skills, resources, and organizational structure to run a weapons trafficking operation sophisticated enough to avoid federal detection for months.
My notes from today's search fill three pages of detailed observations. Federal body cam footage won't be processed for days, but documentation doesn't wait for evidence processing.
Cole positioned himself near the back hallway during the search, monitoring who went where with the kind of awareness that goes beyond tactical.
Hunting for threats, assessing each agent like he was calculating response strategies.
How the other Brothers deferred to his authority without question, the kind of instant obedience that comes from knowing exactly what he's capable of.
Hierarchy. Discipline. Operational security.
All consistent with military culture transplanted into MC structure. Also consistent with criminal organizations run by men who know how to eliminate threats efficiently.
Cole's behavior during the search tells me more than any file. The way he deflected questions about the building behind the bar with the kind of professionally cooperative resistance they teach in interrogation survival schools. Not evasion. Manipulation.
He gave me just enough information to satisfy legal requirements while feeding me nothing that could justify expanding the search. Every word calculated, every response a tactical move.
The bastard was playing chess while most people panic during federal searches.
Smart. Lethal. Exactly what I'd expect from someone with his training protecting something he doesn't want discovered. Or someone who'd eliminate problems before they became threats.