Chapter 9 #2
I need to talk to the surviving witness. Portland PD took a preliminary statement at the hospital last night, but I want to hear it directly. Want to see if the description matches what I'm piecing together about professional operators using the Brotherhood as cover.
The witness, Christopher Park, is still at Oregon Health & Science University under observation for shock and minor injuries from the stampede. I flash my credentials at the nursing station and get directed to his room on the third floor.
Park is mid-thirties, software engineer according to his initial statement, attending the gun show to look at antique firearms for a collection he's building.
He's also a Marine Corps veteran—I catch the EGA tattoo on his forearm when he gestures me toward the chair.
Wrong place, wrong time, but he'll know what he saw.
"Mr. Park? Special Agent Monroe, ATF. I know you already gave a statement to Portland PD, but I'd like to ask you a few follow-up questions if you're feeling up to it."
He nods, gesturing to the chair beside his bed. "Yeah. I want to help. Those people who died—" His voice breaks slightly. "I was standing right there. Could've been me."
I sit, pulling out my tablet. "I understand this is difficult. I'm going to show you some surveillance photos. I need your help trying to identify the shooter."
I pull up stills from the convention center footage. Not the van driver—those images are too obscured. Instead, I show him frames from inside the convention hall, the moments before the incident started.
Park studies each photo carefully. "The shooter was wearing tactical gear which made me take notice.
Plate carrier, helmet, gloves. Professional setup, not the kind of stuff casual gun show attendees wear.
And the way he moved—" Park pauses, searching for the right words.
"I spent years in the Corps. I know what combat movement looks like.
This guy cleared corners like he'd done it a thousand times.
Weapon transitions, reloads, managing his sectors—all muscle memory. Professional operative."
"Can you describe his build?"
"Average height, just under six feet. Lean build, moved efficiently.
Nothing wasted." Park looks at me directly.
"This wasn't some random shooter having a breakdown.
This was someone executing a tactical plan.
He knew exactly where the exits were, where security would respond from, how to control the space. Military precision."
The description matches what I'm seeing in the van footage. Professional operator, military training, nothing like the Brotherhood members I've been investigating.
"Did you notice anything else? Any identifying marks, distinguishing features?"
"The gear was all black, no unit patches or identifiers. But there was a tattoo on his wrist when his glove rode up during one of the reloads. Some kind of symbol, military-looking. I couldn't see it clearly enough to identify it."
I make notes, though I'm already convinced.
This wasn't Brotherhood. This was someone with the training and ruthlessness to execute a targeted hit at a crowded gun show—eliminating the vendor and the two buyers who could connect him to the trafficking network, creating chaos that allowed him to escape in the confusion.
"Thank you, Mr. Park. This is very helpful." I hand him my card. "If you remember anything else, please call me directly."
Back in the Bureau sedan I borrowed from the field office, I sit for a moment processing the interview.
The shooter has a spec ops background. Methodical execution.
A tattoo suggesting Special Forces or similar training.
Everything points to someone using a fake Brotherhood van to frame them while eliminating witnesses to a weapons trafficking network.
My phone rings. Cole. I answer.
"Where are you?" His voice is tense, controlled.
"OHSU parking lot. Finishing witness interview."
"We need to talk. Not on the phone. In person." He pauses. "I need to get back to Anchor Bay. There's a rest stop off Highway 101, southbound. How soon can you be there?"
"I'm on my way."
The drive south takes me out of Portland proper and into the coastal highway system. Rest stops along 101 are sparse, designed for travelers needing a break between major towns. This one is nearly empty when I pull in, just Cole's truck parked in the far corner away from the facilities.
I park beside him and get out. He's leaning against the truck bed, arms crossed, watching me approach with that hunting assessment that makes my pulse jump even when I'm exhausted.
"What did you find?"
He pulls out his phone and brings up a file. "Background on Alan Kline. Not the public discharge records, the real story. Pulled from contacts who worked with him during deployment."
I lean in to read the screen as he scrolls through.
Kline's military service reads like a horror show.
Special Forces, deployed to multiple combat zones, allegations of war crimes that the Army buried to avoid public relations disasters.
Torture during interrogations. Civilians killed in operations without authorization.
Weapons trafficking while deployed, using military supply chains to move modified firearms to insurgent groups and criminal organizations.
"Devils MC connection," I say, spotting the reference buried in the intelligence reports. "He worked with them in Nevada. Used their distribution network after his discharge."
"Same network you infiltrated during your undercover assignment." Cole's watching my reaction. "Kline would have known about that investigation. Known you burned their operation, scattered their leadership. He's been operating in the shadows ever since, building new networks, using new fronts."
"Like the Brotherhood. He chose your shop specifically. Veteran-owned, established, trusted in the community. Perfect cover for running modified weapons through the gun show circuit.”
"And when your investigation started closing in, he escalated. Had a van commissioned with our branding, used it to frame us at the Portland shooting. Force ATF to arrest us, shut down the investigation before you follow the trail back to him."
He swipes to another image. Security footage from The Forge, timestamp showing the breach Cole mentioned. "He knows about The Forge."
"Broke in, photographed everything." Cole's jaw tightens.
"You saw the message he left. Not just trying to frame us for gun trafficking.
Trying to destroy us specifically. Make it look like we're running criminal operations out of a private BDSM club, destroy our legitimacy and credibility simultaneously. "
This is bigger than I thought. More calculated.
"He's playing a complex game. Frame the Brotherhood, use The Forge as insurance if the frame doesn't work, eliminate anyone who can connect him to the trafficking network.
All while staying in the shadows, operating through dummy corporations and stolen identities. "
"And he's escalating to murder." Cole swipes to another image.
The Portland vendor, dead at the scene. "Killed his own distributor to tie up loose ends.
Took out the two buyers at the same time—anyone who could connect him to the trafficking network.
Won't hesitate to eliminate anyone else who threatens his operation. "
We stand in silence, processing. This isn't just about stopping weapons trafficking anymore. This is about preventing a calculated operator with military training and no moral boundaries from destroying innocent people while building his criminal empire.
"I bought you time," I say finally. "Convinced my SAC to give me forty-eight hours before issuing arrest warrants. But I need evidence that proves the Brotherhood is innocent. Something concrete I can take to Bureau leadership."
"And I need to find Kline before he makes his next move." Cole's expression goes cold, empty—a Delta Force operative calculating an elimination. "Brotherhood has resources ATF doesn't. Contacts in veteran networks, understanding of how spec ops personnel think and move. We find him, we end this."
The way he says "end this" is final. He's not talking about arrest. Not legal process. An end.
"You're talking about working outside the law."
"You're already violating regulations by meeting me here.
By withholding information about The Forge.
By letting me put my hands on you during an active investigation.
" He says it direct, factual. No judgment, just tactical assessment.
"Question is whether you're committed enough to see this through.
Whether you can handle what happens when the legal options run out. "
I can. I've already made that choice, already crossed lines I can't uncross. Might as well commit completely.
"Work together unofficially," I say. "I'll follow the financial trail, track Kline's shell companies and accounts. You use Brotherhood resources to locate him physically. We share information, coordinate strategy, stay ahead of whatever he's planning next."
Cole nods once, sharp and decisive. Then his hand comes up, fingers closing on my jaw. Not gentle. Possessive. The grip firm enough to make the claim clear. "You need sleep."
The shift from tactical planning to ownership catches me off-guard, but I don't pull away. I can't. Exhaustion wins over better judgment.
"I'm scared," I admit. The words escape before I can stop them. "Not of the case. Not of Kline. Of how far I'm willing to go for this. For you."
"Then you're starting to understand what I already know." His voice drops, cold and certain. "There's no going back from the choices you've made. You picked a side. Now you deal with what that means."
"And what does it mean?"
"Means you're mine to protect. Mine to use in this investigation. Mine to keep when it's over." His thumb traces my jawline, the touch at odds with the possession in his words. "I don't share. Don't compromise. Don't let go. You need to decide if you can handle that before this goes any further."
The possessiveness should bother me. It doesn't. This is honest. No pretending it's just professional cooperation. No games.
I kiss him. Answer without words because I don't have the right ones yet. Just the certainty that I've already made this choice, already crossed lines I can't uncross.
He takes control of the kiss immediately, one hand fisting in my hair, the other pulling me against him hard enough that I feel every inch of the threat he represents.
It's not gentle. Not comforting. It's claiming and demanding and exactly what I need after hours of bureaucratic politics and investigative dead ends.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and more grounded than I've felt since leaving The Forge.
"Forty-eight hours," I say. "Let's find this bastard."
"We'll find him." Cole's expression flattens, dangerous. "Then I'll handle it."
The way he says it leaves no room for legal process or federal authority.
And the terrifying part is I'm not sure I'd stop him.
He reaches into his truck and pulls out my go-bag, hands it over. Then produces a keycard. "Marriott, room 412. It's paid through tonight. You need somewhere to work that's not a federal building. Use it."
I take both, understanding the logic. A hotel room gives me privacy the field office doesn't.
"Thank you."
"Get some rest. You're running on fumes." Not a suggestion. An assessment.
I watch him pull back onto the highway heading south, then get into the Bureau sedan and head back to Portland. The afternoon light is fading by the time I reach the Marriott.
Room 412 is empty—Cole already cleared out his things when he left. I spread my files from the go-bag across the desk, set up my laptop, try to create some semblance of workspace. The exhaustion is real now—I've been running on adrenaline and coffee since the crime scene last night.
I work for two hours, cross-referencing shell company data and financial records, before my stomach forces me to acknowledge I haven't eaten since yesterday. I lock the room and head down to grab food from the lobby restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, I return with a to-go container. The door is slightly ajar.
I didn't leave it that way.
Training kicks in immediately. I draw my service weapon, approach from the side, scan for threats. The room is empty when I clear it, but someone's been inside.
The files from my go-bag are spread across the desk, pages out of order like someone photographed them and replaced them carelessly.
My laptop is in a slightly different position than I left it.
Someone cloned the hard drive, copied my research, took everything I've compiled on Kline and the investigation.
It's professional operational security. They knew what they were looking for, got in and out efficiently, didn't bother trying to hide it.
On the bathroom mirror, written in my own lipstick: "Stop or she's next."
Underneath, taped to the glass: a photograph of Gemma Holloway behind the bar at Ironside, taken recently based on her clothing and the background details.
Gemma. He's threatening Gemma, and Cole will burn the world down for his sister.