Chapter 2 #2
The building on Waterfront Avenue bothers me.
Separate address, different owner according to Cole, but positioned close enough to suggest connection.
County records accessed during the drive back show the property owned by an LLC registered in Oregon.
Public information available through the state's online database.
Corporate veil designed to obscure true ownership, standard practice for businesses wanting privacy.
Breaking through that veil takes time and paperwork. Requests pending with the county assessor's office won't move on federal timelines. Could be days before confirmation of who actually owns that building.
My instincts say the Iron Brotherhood owns it.
Cole's body language during the search—not just protective, but territorial.
The kind of watch a predator keeps over something valuable.
His careful language about "different owner," the immediate deflection when I asked questions.
All tells that suggest he's guarding something connected to the club. Something he'd hurt people to protect.
Could be storage. Could be administrative offices. Could be where they're actually running the illegal operations.
Or it could be completely unrelated and I'm seeing patterns where none exist.
The laptop screen dims to black. I lean back against the headboard, rubbing tired eyes. Long day. Started with serving a warrant on the Iron Brotherhood, followed by thorough search that yielded nothing conclusive, ended with hours of evidence review that raises more questions than answers.
My phone buzzes. SAC Bauman. I consider letting it go to voicemail, then answer on the third ring because avoiding my Special Agent in Charge never ends well.
"Monroe."
"Shelby. Status update on the Iron Brotherhood investigation."
I glance at the files spread across the bed. "Executed the search warrant this morning. Found no evidence of illegal weapons or modifications on the premises. Club was cooperative, provided all requested documentation. Currently reviewing surveillance footage and financial records."
"Cooperative as in genuinely helpful or cooperative as in professionally obstructive?"
"Latter. They know how to handle federal investigations without giving us ammunition to expand the case."
Bauman's sigh carries through the phone. "Any probable cause to pursue additional warrants?"
"Not yet. I've got leads on a separate property that may be connected, but I need county records to confirm ownership. Should have that within a few days."
"Days we don't have." Bauman's voice sharpens.
"Portland field office is pushing back on resource allocation.
Anchor Bay falls in their jurisdiction, and they want to know why Seattle ATF is running point on a local case.
They want results or they want to take it over with someone who can dedicate full time instead of having you drive down from Seattle. "
Frustration tightens my shoulders. "Ma’am, this case connects to the weapons that killed Blake Walsh. Same modification signature, same distribution channels, same—"
"I'm aware of the connection. That's why I've kept you on it this long despite the lack of concrete evidence." Bauman pauses. "But we can't run investigations on revenge, Monroe. We need prosecutable cases built on solid evidence. Right now, you've got patterns and suspicions. That's not enough."
"Give me two weeks. I can build this case."
"You've got two weeks to either find evidence that justifies federal resources or we hand it off to local ATF and you come back to Seattle for reassignment."
The deadline lands like a punch. Two weeks to either prove the Iron Brotherhood is trafficking illegal weapons or watch someone else take over the investigation that might finally lead to Blake's killer.
"Understood, ma’am. I'll have something concrete within two weeks."
"See that you do. And Monroe? Don't let this get personal. Blake was a good agent and a good man, but you can't let his death cloud your judgment on this investigation."
"It won't, ma’am."
"Good. Check in with progress updates every forty-eight hours. Bauman out."
The call ends. Phone goes back on the nightstand.
Evidence files scattered across cheap motel bedding stare back at me.
Two weeks to find proof that the Iron Brotherhood is running illegal weapons through their legitimate business operations, or proof that they're being set up by someone else using their shipping logistics.
Either way, I need more than patterns and suspicions.
Cole Holloway's military photo sits on top of the stack. I study the image, then compare it to my observations from this morning. Same man, but the civilian version carries weight the soldier didn't. Weight that comes from choosing who lives and who dies, and living with those choices.
As VP, he protects the club's interests. Guards their operations. Maintains security systems sophisticated enough to require encrypted communications and rotating access codes—I noted the keypad system and camera coverage during today's search.
He positioned himself between me and that back hallway like a man protecting something he values, defensive rather than offensive. But special operations veterans excel at tactical deception.
Cole assessed me the moment I walked in: threat level, capabilities, potential for violence. I saw it in his eyes, the same calculation I've seen in men who've killed up close. If he wanted to appear protective rather than guilty, he'd know exactly which mask to wear.
Which leaves me unable to determine what I'm actually dealing with. He could be running a weapons trafficking operation with the same ruthless efficiency he brought to military operations. Could be the only thing standing between his club and whoever's using them.
Or he could be something darker than either option. A man who operates in the gray spaces between legal and illegal, who knows exactly where the lines are and crosses them when it serves his Brotherhood. Who'd eliminate threats without hesitation or remorse, and sleep soundly after.
Files go back into organized stacks. Evidence goes in one pile, background information in another. Blake's photos and reports go back in my bag where they belong instead of cluttering my workspace.
Tomorrow I'll follow up at their shop, Ironside Customs and check on the property records for that building behind their bar. Standard investigative work building toward probable cause for additional warrants.
Tonight I need sleep.
Except sleep won't come easy when my mind keeps circling back to the same problem. Cole Holloway with his lethal awareness and his violence held in perfect check. The way he assessed me with the same efficiency he probably uses to assess targets. Threat level, capabilities, vulnerabilities.
Reading me like I was reading him, calculating responses before I finished speaking. The calluses on my hands that he noticed, the stance he clocked, the cover story about riding that he saw straight through within seconds.
He knows I'm not just another federal agent serving warrants. Knows I understand MC culture from the inside. Probably suspects I've gone undercover before based on how I carried myself in his clubhouse, how I didn't flinch when he stepped into my personal space testing my reaction.
He's a smart man. Observant. Lethal.
And complicating everything I'm trying to maintain professionally, attractive in ways that trigger responses I locked down years ago.
Not the safe kind of attractive. The dangerous kind.
The kind that comes from recognizing a predator and feeling your body respond to the threat instead of running from it.
Three years undercover with the Devils MC taught me to recognize the appeal of dangerous men.
Taught me to fake attraction when necessary, suppress it when inconvenient, weaponize it when useful.
UC work requires compartmentalization. You feel what you need to feel to maintain cover, then you walk away and feel nothing at all.
Cole Holloway isn't my cover. He's my subject. The investigation requires objective assessment, evidence-based conclusions.
Not whatever the hell my body decided to feel when I handed him my business card and his fingers brushed mine with deliberate precision.
Not the way my pulse kicked up when he held my gaze and told me the Iron Brotherhood had nothing to hide—knowing full well he was lying, and knowing I knew he was lying, and not giving a damn because he'd already calculated how to stay three moves ahead.
Not the awareness that settled low in my stomach when I watched him move through his clubhouse with the confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is, what he's capable of, and how much damage he can do if you push him hard enough.
The motel bathroom mirror shows someone who looks harder than twenty-nine should look. Three years UC ages you in ways that don't show in photographs. Scars from playing the role, memories I'd rather forget, reflexes that don't translate well to polite society.
I also have skills that make me very good at my job. Reading people, recognizing lies, understanding criminal organizations from the inside out.
The Devils MC taught me more about outlaw culture than any academy class could. Taught me what real criminality looks like when it wears patches and rides motorcycles.
The Iron Brotherhood doesn't match that pattern.
Devils MC ran drugs, guns, protection rackets. Used violence casually, treated women like property, maintained power through intimidation and fear. Three years watching that culture from the inside left marks I'll carry forever.
The Iron Brotherhood has prospects who defer respectfully, Brothers who wear their patches with obvious pride, a memorial wall honoring fallen members.
Their clubhouse shows years of genuine brotherhood—worn furniture sat in during countless meetings, photos documenting rides and events and celebrations.
Community involvement. Legitimate businesses.
Either they're very good at maintaining cover, or they're exactly what they appear to be—veterans who found family in MC culture and built something worth protecting.
The evidence suggests someone's using their business for illegal purposes. It doesn't necessarily mean the club knows. Could be one member acting alone. Could be an employee with access to shipping systems. Could be someone external who's figured out how to exploit their operations.
Or it could be the whole club working together with military efficiency to traffic weapons while maintaining the appearance of legitimacy.
I won't know until I dig deeper.
I set the alarm for six and climb into bed. The mattress is adequate, the pillows too soft, the room too quiet after years of sleeping with background noise. Silence feels wrong. Makes it too easy to think instead of rest.
My mind won't stop circling back to Cole. The way he stood between me and that back hallway. His responses that gave away nothing while appearing cooperative. The awareness that comes from years of training that doesn't fade just because you trade military service for civilian life.
The training that includes how to extract information, how to resist interrogation, how to kill efficiently and live with it after.
Special operations veterans learn interrogation resistance. They learn things darker than that—how to interrogate others, how to break people without leaving marks, how to maintain cover under pressure that would shatter most men.
They learn how to protect classified information, how to present exactly the facade they want observers to see. If Cole's hiding criminal activity, he's got the training to do it successfully and the moral flexibility to sleep soundly after.
If he's protecting legitimate operations from federal overreach, he's got the same training to maintain that protection, and I suspect he'd be willing to cross lines to keep his Brothers safe. Legal lines. Ethical lines. The kind of lines that separate operators from civilians.
Which means I need to be better. Smarter. More thorough than he expects.
Two weeks to build a case that either proves the Iron Brotherhood is trafficking weapons or eliminates them as suspects.
Two weeks to find evidence that might lead to whoever killed Blake.
Two weeks to determine whether Cole Holloway is a criminal I need to arrest or a veteran I need to protect from whoever's using his club.
And somewhere in the middle of all that professional responsibility, I need to figure out why a man I met for less than an hour this morning is the last thing I think about before falling asleep.
The answer doesn't matter. Can't matter. He's a subject in an active investigation. I'm the federal agent assigned to determine whether he and his Brothers are criminals.
Personal attraction has no place in that equation.
Eyes close. Breathing evens out. Sleep comes eventually, fractured and restless, interrupted by dreams that mix memories of Blake's death with images of Cole's assessment. Those eyes that saw straight through me, calculating threat levels while I was doing the same to him.
The alarm will sound at six. The investigation will continue. The evidence will either prove guilt or innocence.
But lying here in the dark, I can't shake the feeling that Cole Holloway is the kind of man who doesn't fit into neat categories like guilty or innocent. The kind who operates in spaces where federal law doesn't reach and moral certainty doesn't exist.
The kind who'd cross any line to protect what's his and make you question whether he was wrong to do it.
Blake used to say the dangerous criminals aren't the ones who break the law. They're the ones who make you wonder if the law is wrong.
I'm starting to understand what he meant.