Chapter 3 #3
"Birthday parties, anniversary celebrations, Brotherhood gatherings." Also true. We do host those events at The Forge. Just not the events she's imagining. "It's a separate building with separate purpose. Not part of the customs shop, not part of Ironside Bar's public operations."
"But someone listed it as a delivery address for parts allegedly going into custom bike builds."
"Someone who knows our property layout well enough to make it look connected." I keep my expression neutral. "Using that address suggests whoever's setting this up knows our operations intimately."
Shelby makes more notes on her phone. "I'll need access to that building. Verify what you're telling me about its use."
Every instinct I have screams to refuse.
To protect The Forge from federal scrutiny.
The club's not illegal—consenting adults engaging in consensual activities behind closed doors.
But it's not a place that welcomes scrutiny from people who don't understand the lifestyle.
Federal agents poking around, asking questions, treating a consent-based community like a criminal enterprise would destroy everything we've built.
The privacy. The trust. The safe space people depend on.
But refusing proves I'm hiding something. Gives her exactly the leverage she needs to get a warrant and come back with more agents, more authority, more power.
"It's private property used for private events. We've got nothing illegal there, but we also don't have anything relevant to your weapons investigation. It's storage and event space. That's all."
"Then you won't mind me verifying that." Her tone suggests it's not a request.
"Get a warrant." I hold her gaze. This is the line.
The boundary I won't cross without legal force.
"You want to search private property not connected to the business you're investigating, go through proper channels.
I showed you cooperation on the shop records.
Doesn't mean I'm opening every door you want to walk through. "
For a long moment, we stare at each other. Wills testing. Boundaries establishing. She's pushing to see how far I'll bend. I'm holding the line to see if she respects it.
"Fair enough," she says finally. "I'll get a warrant if I need one. But refusing access to a building that's been used as a delivery address in a federal investigation looks suspicious."
"And federal agents searching private property without legal justification looks like overreach.
" I close the laptop. "I'm giving you evidence that supports our innocence.
Showing you someone's setting us up. Cooperating with your investigation into who's actually trafficking weapons. That's more than most people would do."
"Most people aren't former military with the kind of training that teaches them exactly how much cooperation keeps federal agents from digging deeper."
There it is. The acknowledgment that she's done her homework. Knows I have a military background. Understands I'm not some civilian shop owner who'll roll over because a badge walks through the door.
She doesn't know the details. She might know or suspect Delta Force, but she can't know about the ops. The classified missions that taught me how to survive in places where mistakes are permanent. But she knows enough to recognize I'm not someone who scares easily.
"Most federal agents don't walk into motorcycle clubs alone without backup," I counter. "It shows either confidence or stupidity. Haven't decided which yet."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I've walked into worse than a motorcycle shop in Oregon."
"I'm sure you have." I lean forward slightly. "But don't mistake professional courtesy for weakness. I'm cooperating because it serves my interests. You push too hard in the wrong directions; you'll find out exactly where my cooperation ends."
The air between us goes taut. It's not quite a threat, not quite a promise.
Shelby stands. The movement is controlled. No fear, but acknowledgment that we've reached the limit of today's productive conversation.
"Someone's setting you up, or someone inside is dirty," she says, tucking her phone away. "Either way, I'll find out." She walks toward the door, then pauses. Looks back at me. "Thank you for the cooperation, Mr. Holloway. I'll be in touch." Then she's gone.
I wait until her car pulls out of the parking lot before pulling out my phone. Make sure she's not circling back. Make sure no one's watching.
Will answers on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Need to call Church. Tonight. We've got problems."
"How bad?"
I look at the laptop showing ghost orders that could destroy everything we've built. At the one delivery address that points directly at The Forge.
"Bad enough that we need every Brother in the room when we figure out how to handle it."
Will's silent for a moment. He's processing. "Tonight. I'll make the calls."
The line goes dead.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling of the shop I helped build. The legitimate business we created to give veterans purpose after the military was done with them.
Monroe's smart. Thorough. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the badge she carries. She'll keep digging until she finds what she's looking for, whether it's there or not.
I still don't know if whoever set this up is inside the Brotherhood or outside it, but I'm going to find out. And when I do, they're going to wish they'd picked a different target.