Chapter 3 #2
Silence settles between us. Brothers who've been through enough shit together that we don't have to explain what comes next. If someone inside is setting us up, we handle it. If it's external, we find them. Either way, we protect what's ours.
The front door opens again. Nash this time, already arguing with someone on his phone.
"No, I'm telling you the route through downtown makes more sense.
Hits more neighborhoods, gets better visibility for the toy drive.
" He pauses, listening. "Because families actually live there, not in the industrial district where nobody's going to see a hundred bikers collecting toys for kids.
" Another pause. "Fine. Bring it up at Church.
See if the Brothers agree with your shitty route planning. "
He ends the call and looks at us. "What?"
"Toy run route drama?" Tate asks, amused despite everything.
"Mike thinks we should use the waterfront route.
I'm telling him that's stupid because it's all businesses and tourists, not families with kids who'd actually participate.
" Nash pours coffee, movements sharp with irritation.
"Christmas toy drive's supposed to help local families.
Kind of defeats the purpose if we ride through areas where nobody has kids. "
"Bring it to Church," I say, echoing his phone conversation. "Vote on it. Democracy in action."
Nash flips me off good-naturedly and heads to his workstation. Normal morning chaos. Brothers arguing about charity events, prospect learning kutte protocols, Road Captain dealing with shop logistics.
This is what we built. This is what we protect.
And someone's trying to destroy it by making us look like criminals.
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.
Mr. Holloway. Agent Monroe. I'll be at your shop at 8 AM to review records. Please have shipping manifests and work orders available for the past year.
Direct. Professional. No wasted words. I can respect that even as it confirms what I already knew: she's coming back, and she's coming prepared.
I text back:
Records will be ready.
No point in being difficult. Cooperation buys me control over what she sees and when she sees it. Obstruction just makes her more motivated to dig.
I pull up what I found last night. The ghost orders, organized by date and shipping location. It's not comprehensive, not a complete analysis. Just enough to show there's a pattern. Enough to prove I'm not hiding evidence.
Enough to make her think I'm cooperating instead of controlling the narrative.
At exactly the agreed time, Shelby Monroe walks through the front door of Ironside Customs.
She's wearing jeans, boots, a leather jacket over a plain black shirt. No fed suit. No badge on display. Dressed for shop culture instead of asserting federal authority.
Minimizing hostility by adapting to the environment instead of demanding the environment adapt to her. I respect that even if it means keeping my guard up. Respect makes you careless if you're not careful.
She scans the shop floor, taking in the Brothers working on various builds. Nash at his workstation, Tate in bay three with Axel, Shaw leaning against a workbench reviewing something on his phone. Cataloging faces, matching them to whatever files she compiled before serving the warrant.
Her gaze finds me in the office. Holds.
I stand. Walk out to meet her instead of making her come to me. It shows I'm not intimidated, not hiding, not treating this as her invading my territory.
Even though that's exactly what this is.
"Agent Monroe." I stop a few feet away. Professional distance. "You're punctual."
"Habit." She doesn't offer her hand. Neither do I. We both understand that handshakes are social contracts, and we're not operating under social rules. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"Didn't have much choice. Federal investigation doesn't pause for inconvenient scheduling."
"No. It doesn't." Her eyes track past me to the office. "I need to review your shipping records, cross-reference them with work orders and customer pickup logs."
"I know what you need." I gesture toward the office. "I've already pulled some records you should see. This way."
She follows me without comment. Her positioning tells me everything I need to know—keeps me in peripheral vision while scanning the office space. Looking for exits, evaluating sight lines, cataloging potential threats.
UC training. Comes from living in hostile environments where reading a room wrong gets you killed.
I understand because I've done the same thing in places where the stakes were considerably higher than a motorcycle shop in Oregon.
"Have a seat." I gesture to the chair across from my desk, then settle into my own chair. There's no point in looming. I know what I am.
Shelby sits, movements controlled. Her gaze goes to the laptop, the scattered financial records, the shipping manifests organized into neat stacks.
"You've been busy," she observes.
"Seemed prudent to review our records before you came this morning." I turn the laptop toward her. "Found something you should see."
Her expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tension in her shoulders. Evaluating whether this is genuine cooperation or sophisticated manipulation.
Smart woman. Makes her dangerous.
"Show me," she says.
I pull up the spreadsheet I compiled last night.
"Several orders over the past months that don't track right.
Custom parts purchased, paid for through what look like legitimate customer accounts.
Shipped to convention centers across the Pacific Northwest. Work orders logged in our system showing builds or modifications completed. "
My finger traces down the column of addresses. "Except when I cross-reference against pickup records, there's nothing. No follow-up appointments, no customer contact, no registration paperwork. The parts shipped out, but the bikes they supposedly went into don't exist."
Shelby leans forward, focus locked on the data. I watch her connect the pattern to her investigation.
"How long did it take you to find these?" she asks.
"Couple hours last night. Could be more if I dig deeper, but these are the ones that stood out immediately."
"Who has system access to create these orders?"
"Anyone working intake. Me, Tate Morrison who you met yesterday, our prospect when he covers the desk." I pause deliberately. "We've never been systematic about security protocols. But we don't run a regular business with employees cycling through. It's Brothers, people we trust. Small operation."
"Have you changed credentials recently?"
"Not systematically. I changed mine a few months back when I thought about it.
Can't speak for everyone else." The truth.
We've been sloppy. Didn't matter until it mattered.
"The suspect pool is actually pretty small if it's internal.
Which means either someone we trust is setting us up, or someone compromised our system from outside. "
"And you need to figure out which," she says.
"Need to figure out how the orders are being created first. System might track who logs in, might not. Have to dig into the logs, see if there's a pattern we can trace." I lean back. "Priority is shutting down whatever vulnerability exists, then working backward to whoever's exploiting it."
Shelby makes notes on her phone. "These addresses. Convention centers in multiple cities. Someone knew the gun show schedule well enough to coordinate deliveries."
"Someone with knowledge of the circuit. The vendors, the timing, the logistics." I keep my voice level. "Someone running a professional operation using our shop as cover."
"Or someone inside your organization running the operation themselves."
"Possible." I don't deny it. Denying makes you look guilty. "But every person who works here is a veteran. We've got too much to lose to risk federal weapons charges. Someone's either setting us up, or someone's exploiting our shitty security protocols."
She holds my gaze. Weighing my words against whatever profile she's built.
"You could have destroyed this evidence. Wiped the files, burned the records. Why show me instead?"
"Because destroying evidence proves guilt." I don't look away. "I'm not interested in looking guilty. I'm interested in finding whoever's using my shop to traffic weapons and making sure they face consequences."
"Legal consequences?"
"Whatever consequences are appropriate." I don't lie to her.
Don't pretend I operate within boundaries that constrain normal people.
"But I'd prefer to let the federal government handle this one.
You've got resources I don't. Jurisdiction I don't. And unlike me, you can't be accused of vigilante justice. "
The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Acknowledgment that we both understand exactly what I'm saying.
She returns her attention to the laptop, scrolling through the shipping records. Takes her time with each order. Looking for patterns, connections, weaknesses in my explanation.
Then she stops. Taps the screen.
"This order here. Parts shipped to the convention center in Seattle. But the delivery address listed isn't the convention center. It's 249 Waterfront Avenue, Anchor Bay."
My jaw tightens. The building behind the bar. The Forge.
"249 Waterfront. That's the building back behind Ironside Bar. But that address shows up in the shop’s records," Shelby continues, watching my reaction. "Why??"
"Storage building. Events space. Not connected to Ironside Customs operations."
"But you own it."
"The Brotherhood owns it. We use it for private events, equipment storage, club business that doesn't require shop access." All technically true. Just not complete truth.
"Private events," she repeats, skepticism clear.