Chapter 4
COLE
Church convenes after closing. Every Brother is here. Will sits at the head of the table in the back room of the bar, President's position even though this is my show. I stand to his right, VP patch visible, authority clear.
The room smells like leather, motor oil, and the kind of tension that comes before decisions get made.
Brothers settle into chairs around the scarred wooden table that's seen years of these meetings.
Nash to my left, Tate across from me, Shaw next to him.
Mike, Danny, and the rest of the Brothers fill out the remaining seats.
"We've got federal heat," I start without preamble.
No point in softening it. "ATF served a search warrant yesterday.
Agent Shelby Monroe. I ran her credentials last night—years with the bureau, spent years deep cover with the Devils MC in Nevada.
She's good at her job, which means she's dangerous. "
"What's she looking for?" Mike asks.
"Weapons trafficking. I spent last night tearing through our order system after she left.
Found ghost orders—someone's been running them through us.
Custom parts shipped to gun show locations, work logged as complete, but no actual bikes picked up.
" I pull up the spreadsheet on my laptop, turn it so everyone can see.
"Been going on for months. Sophisticated setup, integrated clean enough to pass normal operations.
Multiple confirmed, at least half a dozen, probably more if I dig deeper. "
Mike leans forward. "Who has access to create orders?"
"Anyone working intake and Danny for financial processing." I pause, let that sink in. "And potentially anyone who figured out how to get into our system. We've been sloppy with security protocols."
"So either someone inside is dirty, or someone outside compromised us." Will's tone is neutral, but I catch the edge underneath. President asking for clarity before making decisions.
"That's what we need to figure out." I close the laptop. "Monroe's coming back tomorrow to interview everyone. Standard investigative procedure. Same questions, compare answers, look for inconsistencies."
"What do we tell her?" Nash asks.
"The truth." I hold his gaze, then sweep the room. "Full cooperation. Answer her questions honestly. If you saw something unusual, tell her. If you remember a customer who seemed off, give her details. We've got nothing to hide regarding weapons trafficking because we're not trafficking weapons."
"But someone wants it to look like we are," Tate says.
"Yeah. Someone's setting us up, doing it professionally. Which means we need federal resources to find them." I lean against the table. "Monroe's smart. Thorough. Dangerous. But she's also the best tool we've got right now to prove we're being framed."
"You trust her?" Will asks. The question every Brother is thinking.
"I trust that she wants the truth. Whether that truth helps us or hurts us, she'll find it either way." I don't sugarcoat it. "But I showed her the ghost orders first, before she could find them herself. Proved we're not hiding evidence. That buys us cooperation instead of obstruction charges."
"What about The Forge?" Shaw's eyes narrow. "One of those delivery addresses lists the property."
"She asked about it. Told her it's private property, events and storage.
Said if she wants to search it, she needs a warrant.
" I pause. "She'll probably get one eventually.
But The Forge isn't illegal. Consenting adults, everything documented, safety protocols in place.
Worst case, she finds out we run a BDSM club and decides it's not relevant to weapons trafficking. "
"Best case?" Mike asks.
"Best case, we find who's setting us up before she executes that warrant."
Will drums his fingers on the table once. The gesture I've seen a thousand times before he makes a presidential decision. "Vote. Full cooperation with the federal investigation, answer all questions honestly, help Agent Monroe find who's actually trafficking weapons. All in favor?"
Every hand goes up. No hesitation. Brotherhood consensus.
"Opposed?"
Silence.
"Motion carries." Will's voice carries the weight of finality. "Cole's got point on this. You cooperate with Monroe; you follow her lead on strategy. Anyone has a problem with that, speak now."
No one speaks. The deference isn't fear. It's respect for the VP position, trust in my judgment, and the shared understanding that we protect what's ours by whatever means necessary.
Even if that means working with a federal agent.
"Anything else?" Will asks.
"Yeah." I pull up property records on my laptop. "Running background on known gun runners in the region. Public records, military contractor databases, cross-referencing with people who'd have reason to set us up. Should have something in the next day or two."
"Keep me updated." Will stands, ending the meeting. "Church is closed."
Brothers file out, conversations already shifting to normal shop business and ball-busting. The crisis has been acknowledged, the decision made, and now we're back to the everyday rhythm of Brotherhood life.
Will catches my arm as I'm packing up the laptop. "You good?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you're wound tight. Even for you." He studies me with the same assessing look he's been giving me since we served together. "Is it Gemma and me, or the fed?"
Both. Neither. I don't know. "Gemma's happy. That's what matters."
"But you're struggling with it."
"She's my sister. I want her happy." The protective rage has nowhere to go now that she's with my best friend and President.
The instinct to guard her from threats doesn't disappear just because the threat turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to her.
"I trust you. I know you'll protect her. Doesn't make it easier to let go."
"You don't have to let go. Just have to share the job." Will's tone softens fractionally. "She's still your sister. I'm not replacing you. I'm just adding to the people who give a shit about keeping her safe."
Logically, I know that. Emotionally, the wiring's more complicated. But I nod anyway because Will's right and arguing won't change the fundamental truth.
"And the fed?" Will asks. "Because you've been looking at Agent Monroe like she's a tactical problem you want to solve with your hands."
I should deny it. Should maintain professional distance, keep the investigation clean, avoid complications that could compromise everything we're trying to accomplish.
But Will knows me too well for bullshit. "She's the first woman in years who doesn't bore me. Of course she's a fucking fed."
Will's mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Figures. You always did like things complicated."
"She's not a thing. She's a federal agent investigating us for weapons trafficking. She's also a woman who spent three years undercover with one of the most violent MCs in the country and came out the other side with arrests and RICO charges."
Will leans against the table. "That kind of woman doesn't scare easy.: Leaning back, he grins. “Might be exactly what you need."
What I need and what I should pursue are two different calculations. "I want her in ways that would terrify most people."
"You saying you want to hurt her?"
"No. I'm saying I want to break her control, see what's underneath, make her submit to the bastard I actually am instead of the version I show civilians.
" The honesty tastes like admitting weakness, but Will already knows my darker edges.
Was there for some of them. "Same drive that made me effective in interrogations.
Same instinct that crosses lines most people won't acknowledge exist."
"But you're not going to force anything." Not a question. Will knows where my boundaries are, even if those boundaries exist in places most people wouldn't consider civilized.
"Consent's non-negotiable. Always has been." I close the laptop with more force than necessary. "But that doesn't change what I want. Doesn't make it appropriate. She's a federal agent, and I'm the subject of her investigation."
"For now." Will straightens. "Investigation ends, situation might be different. Unless you're planning on actually trafficking weapons?"
"Fuck you."
"That's what I thought." Will heads for the door, then pauses. "Cole. You know what you are. Question isn't whether you're too dark for someone. Question is whether they're strong enough to handle it. Agent Monroe survived three years deep cover. She might be stronger than you think."
He leaves before I can respond. Leaves me standing in the empty Church room with a laptop full of evidence and the uncomfortable awareness that Will's right about things I'd rather not examine too closely.
Will heads back out to the main bar where Gemma's finishing paperwork. I hear their voices, low conversation, then quiet. The building settles.
I pack up and head back to the shop. Security upgrades won't install themselves, and if someone's compromising our systems, I need better coverage.
The drive takes minutes. Ironside Customs sits dark and quiet, just security lights illuminating the work bays. I let myself in through the front, lock it behind me.
The electrical room in the back of the shop is cramped and hot, smells like copper and old insulation. Perfect for the kind of precise work that requires focus.
I strip wire, test connections, route new camera feeds through upgraded servers. The meditation of electrical work usually quiets the noise. Tonight it's not working.
Stripping wire reminds me of IED work in Afghanistan.
Delta Force taught me electrical systems because someone needed to understand circuits well enough to disarm insurgent bombs.
I was good at it. Better than good. Found beauty in the absolute logic of electrons flowing through copper, following rules that didn't bend for politics or morality or the complexities of human motivation.