Chapter 3
COLE
This morning, Ironside Customs smells like metal shavings and motor oil before dawn. Good smells. Honest work smells. The kind that make civilians think we're legitimate businessmen in addition to veterans who found brotherhood when the military didn't need us anymore.
Last night, after the search at the bar, I spent several hours here at the shop going through records.
Now I spread what I found across my desk in the back office, cross-referencing shipping manifests with work orders.
Looking for patterns, for problems, for whatever Agent Monroe will use to build her case when she comes back.
Federal investigators don't serve search warrants and walk away empty-handed.
Better to know what's in our records before she finds it.
I've found several orders that don't track right.
Custom parts purchased, paid for through what appear to be legitimate customer accounts.
Shipped to convention centers. Work orders logged in our system showing modifications completed.
But when I pull the pickup records, there's nothing.
No follow-up appointments, no customer contact, no registration paperwork.
Could be clerical errors. Could be customers who changed their minds and never collected their parts. Could be legitimate orders that slipped through the cracks of normal operations.
Or could be something worse.
I pull more records. Go back further. I find more orders with the same pattern. All within the past months. All shipping to convention centers in different cities. All logged as completed work with no actual pickup documentation.
Someone's been running ghost orders through our books.
My first instinct is to destroy anything we didn’t give them the night before—paper records, digital files—eliminate any potential problem before it becomes prosecutable.
I've done worse for less important reasons.
Delta Force taught me that some problems require permanent solutions, and civilian law is more guideline than gospel when it comes to protecting what's mine.
But destroying evidence proves guilt. Proves we're hiding something. Gives Monroe exactly what she needs to convince a judge we're trafficking weapons through the shop.
Which means I need to get ahead of this instead. Control the narrative before she creates one of her own.
The back door opens. Axel, our prospect, arriving early like he's supposed to. Kid's been doing prospect work for months now, learning what it means to earn the patch instead of just wanting it. He's former Army, good with his hands, keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open.
He's also still learning the basics.
"Morning, Cole." He heads straight for the coffee maker, movements efficient.
I wait until he's poured his cup before I speak. Let him relax first. Let him think everything's normal. "Your kutte."
Axel freezes. He glances at the prospect vest he left draped over a chair near the front workbench last night. "Shit. I mean, sorry. I'll—"
"Hang it up." I'm not angry, just teaching. But my tone's cold enough that he knows this isn't a suggestion. "You don't leave your kutte lying around like it's a jacket. You don't toss it on furniture. You don't disrespect what it represents."
He moves immediately, grabbing the vest and hanging it properly on the designated hook by the door. "Won't happen again."
"It won't." I return to the financial records, dismissing him. "Start prepping bay three. Oil change and tire rotation on the Softail. Customer picking up mid-morning."
"On it."
Axel disappears into the shop floor. I hear him moving equipment, organizing tools. The lesson will stick because I didn't humiliate him in front of the others. Just showed him the line and let him understand what happens when you cross it.
Minutes later, Shaw walks in through the front entrance. Early for him. Fire department shift doesn't start until later, and he usually arrives at the shop closer to his start time.
"Didn't expect you this early." I close the laptop, giving him my full attention. Shaw doesn't waste time without reason.
Shaw pulls up a chair, settling into the easy stillness that comes from years of knowing when to be patient. "I need to talk to you about the fire suppression system in the back building. It's due for inspection. I want to make sure we're current before the marshal's office comes sniffing around."
The back building. The Forge. Where we're absolutely not having this conversation with federal agents potentially monitoring our communications.
"System's current. Inspected and certified last month. Documentation's filed with the city."
"Good." Shaw's eyes track to the closed laptop. "You reviewing records this early means Monroe's coming back."
It's not a question. Shaw reads people the way I read electrical systems. Sees patterns in behavior, recognizes when something's wrong before it becomes obvious. Marine sniper turned fire investigator. One of the few people I trust to see problems coming before they arrive.
"She's coming here this morning. I found something in the shipping logs that doesn't track right. Ghost orders. Parts going out, no bikes getting picked up."
Shaw goes very still. The kind of stillness that comes before violence. "How many?"
"Several that I've found so far. Could be more if I dig deeper." I pull up the spreadsheet, turn the laptop so he can see. "All within the past months. All shipping to convention centers. Work logged but no actual customer pickups."
Shaw examines the data with the same focus he brings to fire investigations. Looking for patterns, identifying points of origin. "Someone with system access."
"Or someone who figured out how to create orders that look legitimate enough to pass through." I close the laptop again. "Either way, Monroe's going to find this. Question is whether I show her first or let her dig it up herself."
"Show her first." Shaw doesn't hesitate. "Gets ahead of the narrative. Proves we're not hiding evidence. Makes it look like cooperation instead of obstruction."
"Also proves it’s either someone inside our organization or someone who knows our systems well enough to hack in." I lean back. "The thing is, we don't exactly have a lot of people with access. It's Brothers, Axel, maybe one or two others. Small operation, tight circle."
"You thinking internal or external?"
"Won't know until we dig into the system logs, see if there's a pattern we can trace back. Could go either way. We won't know until we figure out how it's happening."
"Mira could help with the financial forensics. She's good at tracing money through shell companies, finding patterns most people miss."
"Your insurance investigator girlfriend would be willing to help prove someone's setting up a motorcycle club like she did with the fires?" I raise an eyebrow. Bringing civilians into Brotherhood business has consequences.
Shaw's mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "She moved into investigative consulting after the arson case closed. Works her own cases now, not tied to one company. And yeah, she'd help. Brotherhood's family."
The shift in Shaw since Mira came into his life is visible.
Still the controlled Marine, still the meticulous fire investigator, but there's something settled about him now.
Something that wasn't there before he found a woman who could match his intensity.
It makes him more stable. Also makes him vulnerable in ways he didn't used to be.
"How is she?" I ask, because Shaw's my Brother and Brothers check in on each other's people.
"Good. Working a case in Portland this week, but she'll be back Friday." His expression softens fractionally. "We're good."
"Good." I return to the financial records. Mira's investigative skills could be useful. Her connection to Shaw means she's already compromised by association. Might as well use it. "Tell her if she's got time, I could use her eyes on these shipping manifests. See if she spots patterns I'm missing."
The front door opens again. Tate, right on schedule. Our Road Captain moves through the shop with the easy confidence of someone who's been working bikes since before the Navy taught him how to operate in hostile waters. He takes one look at Shaw and me in the office and changes course.
"What's wrong?" Tate leans against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand.
"Possible setup." I gesture at the laptop. "Ghost orders running through our shipping system. Parts going to convention centers, work logged but no pickups."
Tate's expression goes flat. "How many?"
"Several so far. Maybe more."
"And you're just finding this now?"
"Wasn't looking before. Federal search warrant yesterday made me look.
" Tate's not at fault here. These orders look legitimate during normal operations.
Only show up as problems when you cross-reference shipping against pickup records.
"Someone's been careful. Made the orders look real enough that they wouldn't raise flags. "
"Who has access to create orders in the system?" Tate sets his coffee down, all business now.
"Anyone working intake. Me, you, Axel when he's covering the desk.
" I pause. "We've never been careful about passwords or security protocols.
But the reality is, we don't exactly have a rotating door of employees.
It's Brothers and people we trust. Which means either someone we trust is dirty, or someone figured out how to get into our system from outside. "
"Should have been more careful," Tate says, jaw tight.
"Yeah. Should have been." I don't argue.
He's right. "But we weren't, and now we're dealing with it.
Priority is figuring out how the orders are getting created.
System might track who logs in, might not.
Need to dig into the logs, see if there's a pattern.
Then shut down whatever vulnerability they're exploiting. "
Shaw speaks up. "And figure out if it's internal betrayal or external compromise."