Chapter 5
SHELBY
My next visit to Ironside Customs I arrive with a list of names, a body camera clipped to my jacket, and my tablet loaded with investigation materials—gun show vendor photos, shipping manifests, the evidence that brought me to Anchor Bay.
Members of the Iron Brotherhood working at the shop need to be interviewed separately, away from Cole's presence, away from the group dynamic that makes people protect their own.
I know how this works. Same questions for each person, compare the answers, watch for the tells that separate truth from cover story.
Tate Morrison agrees to go first. The Road Captain follows me to a corner table off the shop floor, movements casual but eyes tracking every detail.
He's assessing me the same way I'm assessing him.
Former military, probably special operations based on the controlled stillness and the way he cleared the room before sitting with his back to the wall.
Through the window into the shop, I catch Cole at his desk in the office. He's supposed to be working, but his attention keeps tracking to where Tate and I sit. Surveillance, not supervision. He's monitoring without interfering, but making damn sure I know he's aware of every word exchanged.
I focus back on Tate. "Appreciate your cooperation."
"Cole said to answer your questions." Tate leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's comfortable, assessing me the same way I'm assessing him. "So ask."
"How long have you worked at Ironside Customs?"
"Since we opened."
"What's your role?"
"Road Captain for the club, shop manager for the business. Handle logistics, scheduling, make sure builds get done on time and customers stay happy." His tone stays level, factual. No embellishment.
Before I can ask my next question, Nash walks past carrying engine parts. "Hey Tate, remember Portland when your bike threw a rod doing ninety on I-5?"
Tate doesn't look away from me, but his mouth twitches. "That was Nash's bike. My bike doesn't throw rods because I actually maintain my shit."
"Your bike doesn't go ninety," Nash calls back, grinning.
"My bike goes plenty fast when I'm not hauling your sorry ass out of trouble."
The exchange is easy, familiar. Years of shared history in the casual ball-busting. Nash laughs and disappears into the shop, and Tate returns his full attention to me like the interruption never happened.
I make a note. This casual interaction tells me as much as formal answers would. These men have been through things together. They trust each other. Bonds like that make them either completely loyal or completely complicit.
"In the past six months," I continue, "have you noticed any unusual customer interactions? People asking questions that seemed off, requests that didn't track with normal custom work?"
Tate considers this. Not rushing to answer, actually thinking about it. "We get all types. Guys who want show bikes they'll never ride, rich assholes trying to buy authenticity, collectors looking for specific vintage parts. 'Unusual' is relative."
"Anyone stand out? Someone who seemed more interested in the shop operations than the actual work?"
"Yeah, actually." Tate's eyes narrow slightly. "Couple months back. Guy came in asking about custom work for a bike he was supposedly building for a friend. Asked detailed questions about our capabilities, turnaround times, shipping logistics."
My attention sharpens. "What made him memorable?"
"The questions were too detailed for someone who wasn't doing the work himself. Most guys who commission builds for friends, they care about the end result. This guy wanted to know about our process. How we track orders, how we coordinate with suppliers, where we ship completed work."
I pull up gun show footage on my tablet, scrub to frames showing faces near vendor areas. "Any of these people look familiar?"
Tate studies the images, then taps one. Older guy, weathered face, leather vest. "That's him. Pretty sure that's the guy."
I note the timestamp, then cross-reference with the shop's visitor logs—Cole provided digital access this morning along with the other records I requested. "What date did he come in?"
"Day after Nash's birthday. Early October."
I pull up October's logs. No record of anyone matching that description on that date. "You're sure about the timing?"
"Yeah. We'd all been at the bar the night before. I remember because I was hungover as hell and this guy wouldn't shut up."
Someone scrubbed the records. I make detailed notes, already forming the pattern in my mind.
Through the window, Cole's still watching. Not constantly, but regularly enough that I'm aware of it. The weight of his attention is different from the casual wariness of the other Brothers. More focused. More intense.
After Tate, I interview Shaw. The Sergeant-at-Arms settles into the chair with the same easy stillness. Fire investigator by profession, works at the shop when his schedule allows. A Marine, probably Force Recon based on the focused intensity.
As we're getting started, Axel walks past with tools. Shaw stops him with a look.
"Kutte."
Axel glances down at the prospect vest hanging slightly askew on his shoulders. "Shit. I mean—"
"Fix it." Shaw's tone is flat, but not cruel. Teaching. "You wear it right or you don't wear it at all."
Axel straightens the vest immediately, squares his shoulders. "Yes, sir."
"And stop calling me sir. I work for a living." Shaw watches as Axel adjusts the vest properly, then nods. "Get back to work."
The exchange takes maybe seconds, but it tells me everything about the prospect dynamic. Harsh correction, the teaching kind. Standards being enforced, no room for sloppiness. Axel hustles back to his station without resentment, which means this is normal. This is expected.
Shaw returns his attention to me like nothing happened. "You were asking about unusual customers?"
I walk him through the same questions I asked Tate. His answers match on the basic facts but his perspective is different - he's not at the shop full-time, catches things when he's there between fire department shifts.
"The ghost orders," I say, pulling up the spreadsheet. "Do any of these timeframes stand out to you? Anything that seemed off when you were working at the shop?"
Shaw studies the list. "I'm not here every day - fire department is my primary job.
But when I am here, I pay attention to shop flow.
These completion dates..." His finger traces down the screen.
"Some of these overlap with major builds I know we were focused on.
Shop was running at capacity. Doesn't make sense we'd have bandwidth for this much additional custom work. "
"But it's logged as complete."
"Yeah. It's logged as complete." Shaw's expression goes flat. "Which means someone's falsifying our records to make ghost orders look legitimate."
"Do you remember the customer Tate mentioned? The one asking detailed questions about shipping and logistics?"
Shaw thinks for a moment. "Yeah. I was at the shop that day, working on a build between shifts. Guy kept wandering around, watching people work. Asked a lot of questions about our processes. The kind of questions that seemed more about operations than about getting a custom bike built."
"What date was this?"
"Early October. Day after Nash's birthday party at the bar."
Same date Tate gave me. I check the visitor logs again. Still no record.
Through the office window, Cole's gaze finds mine.
Holds for a beat before he returns to whatever he's working on.
But I feel the echo of that look, the weight of it, like a physical touch.
This is assessment. He's calculating exactly how much force would be required to neutralize a threat, and whether negotiation or elimination serves the mission better.
I force my attention back to Shaw. Professional. Focused. "Anyone else at the shop that day who might remember this customer?"
"Mike was working intake. He'd have interacted with the guy when he first came in."
After Shaw, I take a short break. I need coffee, need to process the pattern emerging from these interviews. I need to create some distance from the awareness that Cole's watching from his office, that I can feel his attention even when I'm not looking at him.
The break room is small but functional. Commercial coffee maker, mini fridge, table with mismatched chairs. Someone's left a box of donuts on the counter with a note scrawled in marker: "Nash's apology for the Vegas incident. We're still not talking about it."
I pour coffee into a mug that says "I void warranties" and turn to find Cole standing in the doorway. Blocking it. His presence fills the frame in a way that makes the exit feel conditional on his permission.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches me with that same focused intensity I've felt all morning.
Delta Force operators don't make casual observations.
Every detail gets cataloged, assessed, filed away for tactical use later.
Right now I'm being read the same way he'd read terrain in hostile territory.
Vulnerabilities identified. Weaknesses noted. Exploitation vectors calculated.
I should step back. Put distance between us. Assert professional boundaries.
I don't.
"Interviews going well?" he asks finally. His voice is level, but there's something underneath it. Something that doesn't need volume to convey authority.
"They're going." I take a sip of coffee. Strong and dark, the way people who work with their hands tend to make it. "Your Brothers are cooperative."