Chapter 6
SHELBY
Dawn comes early, but my feet hit the pavement before my brain fully processes being awake. Muscle memory from years undercover, when routine meant survival and structure kept you from losing yourself completely in the role.
Anchor Bay is quiet at this hour. Fog rolls in from the ocean, muting everything in gray.
My running route takes me along the waterfront, past fishing boats bobbing in the marina, through the downtown strip where Ironside Customs sits dark and silent.
Security cameras cover the parking lot where someone slashed my tires in broad daylight without being seen.
Inside knowledge. That's what it takes to pull that off.
My lungs burn as I push the pace up the hill toward the residential area.
Physical exertion helps process what logic can't solve.
The shipping manifests show a pattern—Ironside Customs deliveries to convention centers where illegal weapons sales happened within hours of arrival.
Same truck visible in vendor photos from multiple shows.
Same delivery windows. Someone's using the Brotherhood's legitimate business as cover.
Either the club knows and profits, or they're being set up by someone with access to their operations.
The evidence points to sophisticated planning. The tire slashing points to desperation. Whoever's running this operation is getting nervous, which means I'm getting close to something they don't want found.
I crest the hill and loop back toward the waterfront, settling into the rhythm that lets my mind work. This case matters more than the paperwork suggests. The modified weapons moving through the gun show circuit aren't just evidence of trafficking. They're personal.
Years ago, my younger brother Ryan was in college.
Business major, worked part-time at a coffee shop near campus in Seattle.
Wrong place, wrong time. Gang shooting in the parking lot, modified AR-15 with an illegal auto sear, dozens of rounds fired in seconds.
Ryan was caught in the crossfire trying to get to his car, dead before the ambulance arrived.
The shooters were never caught. The weapon was never recovered. No closure, no justice, just a college kid who died because someone decided putting full-auto capability on a semi-automatic rifle was worth the money.
That's what drove me to the ATF. That's what kept me going through years undercover with the Devils MC in Nevada, watching violence and pretending not to care. That's what made me specialize in gun trafficking, focusing on the modified weapons that turn street crime into massacres.
The weapons seized from the gun show circuit bear similar modification signatures—professional machining on auto sears, precision threading on suppressors, clean file work on trigger assemblies.
The work comes from someone who knows what they're doing, someone with access to quality tools and the skill to use them.
Someone potentially connected to Anchor Bay.
Blake knew. My partner understood why I took this case personally, why I pushed harder than protocol required. He would have told me to be careful about letting emotion compromise objectivity.
He's not here to tell me that anymore.
I round the corner back onto the main waterfront stretch, breathing hard but controlled. The Ironside Bar sits ahead, lights on in the windows despite the early hour. Several motorcycles are parked out front, unusual for this time of morning.
I slow to a walk, cooling down, and approach the building.
Through the windows I can see Brothers gathering inside.
Not a casual coffee meetup. This has purpose, organization.
Tate stands near the center of the room with what looks like route maps spread across a table.
Several Brothers are checking over their bikes in the parking lot with more attention than casual maintenance requires.
The door opens and Will emerges, carrying coffee. He stops when he sees me, evaluates for a moment, then nods.
"Agent Monroe. You run every morning?"
"Habit from undercover work. Keeps things structured." I gesture toward the gathering inside. "What's happening?"
"Memorial ride. Lost a Brother from a club up in Washington. We're riding to the service." His tone is matter-of-fact, but I hear the weight underneath. "Brothers from multiple clubs will be there."
Tate points at the route map through the window, other Brothers gathered around listening. Formation briefing, probably. Road Captain's job.
"I'd like to observe," I say. "If that's acceptable."
Will studies me for a long moment. Weighing federal agent against rider, suspicion against the fact that I showed up on a Triumph and know formation protocol from my UC days.
"You ride formation, you follow protocol," he says finally. "Road Captain's word is law on the road. You break formation or ignore signals, you get left behind. Understood?"
"Understood."
He gestures toward the bar. "Get coffee. We leave soon."
"I need to get my bike and gear from the motel," I say. "How much time do I have?"
Will checks his watch. "Briefing wraps in fifteen. We stage in thirty. That work?"
Tight, but doable. "I'll be back."
The run back to the motel is faster than the run out, adrenaline and purpose replacing the earlier processing mode.
I shower quickly, pull on riding jeans and boots, grab my jacket and gloves.
The Triumph starts with its familiar growl, and I make the return trip to Ironside Bar with minutes to spare.
The parking lot is filling with bikes when I arrive. Brothers are already checking gear, adjusting mirrors, the organized chaos of a formation preparing to move out.
I'm on my Triumph in the staging area, watching the formation come together.
"You've ridden formation before." Tate appears beside my bike, voice low enough that only I hear. "Devils MC?"
"Years undercover." No point lying to someone who's already figured it out. "They ran tight formations. Learned quick or got left behind."
"This isn't Devils MC," he says. "We run clean, we run disciplined, and we don't tolerate bullshit on the road. Fall back if you can't keep up."
"I can keep up."
He studies me for a moment, then nods and heads to his own bike and takes lead position, Will rides directly behind him as President.
The rest of the Brothers fill in the staggered formation with practiced efficiency.
Cole positions himself at sweep, the last bike in the formation, watching everyone ahead of him.
The Sergeant-at-Arms position, though Cole's the VP. I file that detail away. Shaw must be working today, leaving Cole to ride sweep and watch for threats from the back.
Tate's hand goes up, and the formation moves out as one unit.
The ride north is unlike anything I experienced with the Devils MC.
No showboating, no aggressive lane splitting, no intimidation tactics.
Just precise formation riding with hand signals flowing down the line, fuel stops executed with efficiency, each Brother knowing their position and maintaining it.
I ride near the back, just ahead of Cole in sweep. I'm aware of him the entire ride. Not because he's close, but because his presence registers differently than the others. Control and calculation in every movement, scanning for threats, monitoring the formation with tactical precision.
We're well north of Anchor Bay when Tate signals the turn into a property I recognize from club research. Smaller MC, Washington-based, legitimate operations. Charity toy drives and veteran support networks alongside their brotherhood.
The memorial service happens in their clubhouse yard.
Brothers from multiple clubs fill the space, kutte patches representing different organizations, different territories, all gathered to honor one fallen member.
I stand apart, my observer status clear, but several nod acknowledgment of my presence.
Word travels fast in MC circles. Federal agent who rides her own bike and knows formation protocol gets cautious respect.
The service itself is brief. Stories shared, memories honored, a moment of silence that stretches longer than comfortable.
These men understand loss in ways civilians don't. They've buried Brothers in war zones and home territory, and the ritual matters because it's all that separates grief from chaos.
Cole appears at my shoulder as the crowd begins to disperse. I didn't hear him approach, which bothers me more than it should.
"You ride well," he says, his tone offering observation rather than praise. "Where'd you learn formation?"
"Working undercover with Devils MC." I keep my voice neutral, but something in his expression tells me he's already made the connection. It was necessary."
"Necessary for the job, or necessary for something else?" He shifts his weight slightly, closing the distance between us by inches. Testing my boundaries again. "You don't spend years embedded in an outlaw MC just for career advancement. That's personal motivation."
I should deflect. Should maintain professional distance and refuse to give him ammunition he could use later. But something about the way he's looking at me, recognizing damage he understands, makes deflection feel pointless.
"Modified weapons killed my younger brother. Gang shooting, wrong place wrong time. College junior. I joined ATF to stop that from happening to someone else's family." I hold his gaze. "What's your excuse for going Delta Force?"
His mouth twitches. "Family tradition. Seemed like the logical choice.
" He pauses. "Lost a brother in Afghanistan.
IED. Explosives hidden in a dead dog on the roadside.
" His voice stays flat, reciting facts without the emotion most people would carry.
"Taught me that doing everything right doesn't mean shit when someone wants you dead badly enough. "
It's not grief. Not even anger. Just his assessment of how the world actually works.