Chapter 13
SHELBY
"Copy. ATF moving to support positions." I'm coordinating on another line as Cole's warning comes through. Multiple hostiles, more than we planned for, converging on the Forge.
Martinez and Nielson flank me as we move from our surveillance location a few blocks north. Other ATF teams converge, weapons drawn, federal badges visible. Through my earpiece, Martinez confirms all units are in position.
A sharp crack splits the night—a breaching charge detonating at the east entrance. Metal shrieks, the door frame blows inward. Kline's team pours inside before the smoke clears.
Everything goes to hell.
Gunfire erupts from inside the Forge. Return fire echoes through the building. Armed men pour back out the entrance, some taking cover behind vehicles, others moving to flank the perimeter.
"All units, move in!" I'm running toward the Forge, Martinez and Nielson flanking me and the rest of the teams spreading out to cover the area.
The gunfire continues. Sustained bursts come from inside, controlled fire discipline maintaining the rhythm. The Brotherhood's holding the interior, but Kline's team has breached.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" Martinez's voice cuts through the chaos.
Some of Kline's shooters outside turn toward us, weapons swinging in our direction. I dive behind a parked car as bullets punch through metal and shatter safety glass. Nielson returns fire, controlled three-round bursts that force them into cover.
I look over the car's hood. Cole's truck is empty now, driver's door hanging open. He's already inside, moving through the firefight with Delta Force precision.
More gunfire from inside the Forge. I'm up and running, Martinez covering my advance toward the building.
We reach the east entrance, door frame blackened and twisted from the breaching charge.
Inside, the ground floor is chaos—overturned furniture, bullet holes in walls, spent casings scattered across concrete.
A body lies near the stairs. One of Kline's men, down and not moving.
Gunfire erupts from the second floor. I take the stairs fast, my weapon up, following the sound of combat.
The second-floor hallway is narrow, offices on both sides. The timed lights are still cycling through their programmed sequence, creating shadows that shift and move. One of Kline's men is down near the office entrance, another retreating toward the storage area under fire.
Then I see Kline.
He's in the office doorway, weapon trained on the empty room where timed lights create the illusion of movement. Recognition crosses his face—he's realizing the trap. Pure fury twists his expression. He spins, weapon coming up, scanning for real targets.
Cole appears from the storage area. He moves with lethal silence, closing the distance before Kline fully registers the threat. Cole's weapon is up, trained center mass, finger on the trigger.
"Drop it," Cole says. Emotionless, colder than I've ever heard him.
Kline's weapon swings toward Cole with operative speed, reflexes honed through countless ops, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Cole's faster. His weapon shifts, and his shot takes Kline in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The weapon clatters to the floor. Kline goes down hard, blood spreading from the shoulder wound.
But Cole doesn't stop. He's on Kline in seconds, weapon pressed to his head, knee driving into his injured shoulder with brutal precision.
Kline screams.
"You used my sister as leverage." Cole's voice could cut steel. "Photographed her to threaten a federal agent. Made her a target."
"Fuck you," Kline spits through pain. "It's just business."
Cole shifts his weight, grinding his knee deeper into the gunshot wound. His gaze flicks to me. "Sent your operatives after her in Portland. That was your mistake."
He pulls his weapon back and drives his fist into Kline's face. The strike is precise, brutal, calculated to cause maximum pain without killing. Blood explodes from Kline's nose, splashing across the floor.
"Cole." I move closer, my weapon lowered but ready. "That's enough. ATF needs him alive for prosecution."
Cole doesn't acknowledge me. Doesn't even glance in my direction. All his focus is on Kline, who's now pinned beneath him, blood streaming from his broken nose and shoulder wound.
Another strike, this one to Kline's jaw. His head snaps to the side, his consciousness wavering.
"Cole." I say his name quietly, not a command. Just acknowledgment that I'm here, witnessing this. "I know what he did. I know what he deserves. But I need him alive to make the case stick."
Another strike. Kline's trying to protect his face now, but Cole systematically breaks down his defense with Delta Force precision.
"She's my sister," Cole says. "You put her in your crosshairs to get leverage. Wrong fucking choice."
"Cole, stop." I move closer, within arm's reach. "You've made your point. He's not a threat anymore."
For several seconds, Cole doesn't move. His fist is cocked back, ready to deliver another strike. Kline's barely conscious, blood covering his face, his body gone limp beneath Cole's weight.
Cole's eyes are cold, flat, completely focused on Kline. Delta Force operative assessing a target.
Cole's gaze shifts to me. Something dark and lethal swims in his expression, something never directed at me before.
"I need him alive." I repeat it quietly. "Not because he deserves it. Not because the law requires it. But because I need the case to stick, and that means he has to breathe long enough to go to trial."
The darkness doesn't fade, but something shifts in his expression. Acknowledgment, maybe. Understanding.
He lowers his fist. Slow. Controlled.
"Federal agent wants you breathing," he tells Kline. "Otherwise you'd be dead."
He stands, drags Kline up by his vest, and shoves him toward me. Kline collapses at my feet, groaning through broken teeth and the gunshot wound in his shoulder.
I holster my weapon, pull out flex cuffs. "Alan Kline, you're under arrest for weapons trafficking, assault on federal officers, and about a dozen other charges I'll remember once the adrenaline wears off."
Martinez and Nielson appear with additional ATF agents and a medical kit. They take custody of Kline, apply pressure to his shoulder wound, secure him properly despite his injuries.
Around the Forge, the firefight has ended. Kline's team are either down or in federal custody, weapons secured, evidence being collected. Shaw and the other Brothers emerge from cover, checking each other for injuries, weapons still ready.
Cole stands apart from everyone. ATF processes the scene around him. Blood spatters his hands and jacket. His expression is completely neutral, locked down tight.
I've seen violence in undercover operations. But what I just witnessed—Cole systematically breaking down Kline, the cold control in every strike, understanding that he chose to stop rather than being unable to continue—that's different.
That's something I can't unsee.
Martinez approaches with his tablet, already documenting evidence. "Monroe, we need your statement for the report."
"Give me a minute." I'm still focused on Cole, who hasn't moved from his spot near the office doorway.
"Take your time. We've got plenty to process here." Martinez surveys the scene. "Hell of an operation. The Brotherhood did good work holding the interior."
Shaw joins us, blood on his knuckles but otherwise uninjured. "Everyone accounted for. Minor injuries, nothing serious. Kline's team wasn't as good as they thought."
"They were good enough," I say. "Just not as good as you."
"That's the difference between playing operative and being one." Shaw glances toward Cole. "He going to be okay?"
"I don't know." Honest answer, because I genuinely don't.
Shaw nods slowly. "He crossed lines tonight. We all saw it. But Kline threatened Gemma and came after you, and in the Brotherhood, that means Kline earned everything Cole gave him." He meets my eyes. "You good with that?"
"I'm good with keeping Kline alive for prosecution." I hold his gaze. "What Cole did to get him there is between Cole and his conscience."
"Fair enough." Shaw heads back toward the other Brothers, who are providing statements to ATF agents.
I cross the distance to Cole. He's still motionless, still wearing that neutral expression, still covered in the evidence of tonight.
He looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes, too fast to identify. "You got what you needed. Kline's alive, evidence secured, case made."
"Yeah." I step closer, lowering my voice. "You could have killed him."
"I could have." No denial, no justification. Just acknowledgment.
"But you didn't."
"You asked me not to." He says it simply, factually. "You needed him alive for the case. So I left him alive."
"That's not the only reason." I can see it in his expression, the deliberate choice behind his actions. "You stopped because you chose to stop. Not because you couldn't finish."
"Yeah." He holds my gaze. "I could have kept going. Chose not to."
"I saw what you did tonight. What you can do when someone threatens people you care about. That's not going away, and I won't pretend I didn't see it."
"No." He holds my gaze. "You shouldn't."
Martinez calls my name from across the hallway. I raise a hand in acknowledgment, but don't leave Cole's side yet.
"I need to give my statement, help process evidence. This is going to take hours." I touch his arm. "Martinez is going to want your statement too. About what happened with Kline."
"I'll come in tomorrow with legal counsel," Cole says quietly.
"Good idea." I lean up, kiss him briefly. Tasting blood and violence and the choice he made to stop. "Go home. Clean up. I'll come by when we're done here."
I head back toward Martinez and the evidence processing. Behind me, Cole's boots echo down the stairs.