Chapter 14
SHELBY
Martinez is waiting when I walk into the conference room. His tablet is open, evidence files displayed across the screen, and his expression is carefully neutral. The debriefing I've been driving toward all morning starts now.
"Monroe." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Let's close this case."
I sit and pull out my own tablet. The distance between us is obvious and deliberate. He saw what happened with Cole and Kline at the Forge. He's choosing not to include certain details in his report, but the knowledge creates a wall neither of us will acknowledge.
"Walk me through the ghost orders," Martinez says. "For the AUSA."
I pull up the digital evidence trail. "Ghost orders were placed through encrypted channels using stolen credentials. Kline created shell companies. Orders stayed small enough to avoid immediate red flags but were consistent enough to build stockpiles over eighteen months."
"The van at the Portland shooting?"
"Commissioned through a shell company to match Brotherhood branding. Kline's team used it to frame the Brotherhood at the shooting, then abandoned it. The van was never owned by Ironside Customs."
Martinez makes notes on his tablet. "Financial connections between Kline and the Devils?"
"Payments disguised as equipment rentals and security consulting fees. The Devils were hired muscle, not trafficking partners. Kline paid them to create the appearance of MC involvement while his actual network operated independently through established channels in Seattle and Portland."
"The Iron Brotherhood's cooperation was crucial to this investigation," Martinez says. His tone remains professionally neutral. "Cole Holloway provided intelligence that led directly to Kline's arrest and the dismantling of the trafficking network."
"Correct. Without his cooperation, we wouldn't have had the tactical advantage we needed."
"And the altercation between Holloway and Kline during the arrest?" Martinez meets my eyes. "Your report states you assessed the situation and determined intervention would escalate the conflict."
"That's correct." I hold his gaze without flinching. "Kline posed a continuing threat. Holloway's use of force remained within acceptable parameters given the tactical circumstances. I intervened when necessary to preserve Kline for prosecution."
The lie sits smooth on my tongue. Three years undercover taught me how to sell a story without breaking character.
Martinez studies me for several seconds, then returns to his tablet. "The AUSA is satisfied with the evidence package. Kline is facing multiple life sentences. His network is dismantled. Justice for Special Agent Walsh and your brother."
Blake and Ryan. Their names still hit like bullets, but the grief doesn't consume me the way it used to. Kline will spend the rest of his life in federal prison, and the modified weapons that killed Ryan are documented evidence in a case that will reshape ATF policy on trafficking enforcement.
"SAC Bauman is flying in from Seattle this afternoon," Martinez says. "She wants to personally review the case closure."
I nod. Bauman rarely leaves the Seattle field office unless a case has significant implications. The Kline investigation qualifies.
Martinez closes his tablet and stands. "Good work, Monroe. Despite the complications."
The complications he's referencing include Cole, the Brotherhood, and every choice I made that blurred the line between being a federal agent and being the woman who fell for a man capable of brutal violence.
He leaves without another word. I finish documenting my final evidence notes and forward everything to the AUSA's office. The case is solid. Kline will never see freedom again. The Brotherhood is cleared of all charges.
Everything worked exactly as planned.
My phone buzzes. Text from Cole:
How'd it go?
I text back:
Case is closed. Kline's done.
His response comes immediately:
Good. You okay?
I stare at the message, considering how to answer. I'm an ATF agent who just lied in an official report to protect the man I'm sleeping with. I should feel guilty, conflicted, uncertain about the choices I made.
Instead, I feel settled. Clear. Like I finally chose something that matters instead of just following protocol.
I text back:
Yeah. I'm okay.
Hours later, SAC Bauman walks into the conference room where I've been reviewing case files. She's in her fifties with gray hair cut short and a presence that commands immediate respect. I've worked under her supervision for years, and she's never been anything less than fair.
"Monroe." She sets her briefcase on the table and takes the chair across from me. "Impressive work on the Kline case. Multi-agency coordination, complex evidence trail, network dismantlement. Exactly the kind of investigation that builds careers."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Which brings me to why I'm here." She opens her briefcase and pulls out a folder.
"I'm offering you a promotion. Lead investigator position in our DC office.
Organized crime division. Significant career advancement—running complex multi-agency operations, coordinating with FBI and DEA, building cases against major trafficking networks. "
She slides the folder across the table. I open it and scan the position details. DC office, significant pay raise, supervisory responsibilities, access to resources that field agents never see. Everything I've worked toward for eight years.
Everything that would take me across the country, away from Anchor Bay.
"This is a major opportunity," Bauman continues. "Your work on the Kline case demonstrated exactly the kind of strategic thinking and operational capability we need in DC. You'd be leading investigations, not just executing them. Senior track position."
I study the paperwork. This is a lead investigator position in DC, with a career trajectory that ends in senior management or specialized task force leadership—a position that defines federal law enforcement careers.
It's also a position that requires complete commitment and zero complications.
I close the folder and meet her eyes. "I appreciate the offer, ma'am. But I need to decline."
Bauman's expression doesn't change, but her eyes sharpen slightly. "You're turning down a promotion to DC?"
"Yes, ma'am." I keep my voice steady and professional. "I'd like to request a transfer to the Portland field office instead."
"Portland." Bauman studies me. "That's a lateral move at best."
"I understand. But it keeps me in the region and allows me to continue the kind of field work I'm most effective at. DC would put me behind a desk coordinating other people's operations. Portland lets me stay operational while working complex multi-agency cases."
"And it lets you stay close to Anchor Bay." Bauman says it matter-of-factly, not as an accusation. "This is about Cole Holloway."
I don't flinch. "It's about building a life that includes my career and personal relationships. I'm not choosing one over the other. I'm choosing both."
Bauman is quiet for several seconds. Then she nods slowly.
"I've seen agents sacrifice everything for the job.
Marriage, family, relationships, health.
Some of them make it to senior leadership.
Most of them end up divorced and burned out at fifty, wondering what they gave up everything for.
" She closes her briefcase. "Portland transfer is approved. Don't let this one get away, Monroe."
I maintain my professional composure. "Thank you, ma'am."
"You're a good agent. You'll do solid work in Portland." Bauman stands and extends her hand. "And for what it's worth, I read Martinez's report on the Forge operation. I also read what he didn't write. Sometimes the best tactical decision is knowing when not to intervene."
I shake her hand, understanding the subtext. She knows I lied in my report. She's choosing to accept it anyway.
"Yes, ma'am."
She leaves, and I'm alone in the conference room with the folder containing the DC promotion I just turned down. Years of working toward advancement, and I chose a lateral transfer to stay close to a man who beat a suspect and a motorcycle club that operates in moral gray areas.
But when I think about leaving Anchor Bay, leaving Cole, going back to the isolation and single-minded focus that defined my career before this investigation, the choice becomes clear.
I want both—career and relationship, ATF agent and woman who fell for a dangerous man. I'm not sacrificing who I am, and I'm not asking Cole to be anything other than exactly what he is.
I pull out my phone and text Cole:
Bauman offered DC promotion. Lead investigator, supervisory track. Turned it down. Requested Portland transfer instead. Approved. I'm staying.
His response comes quickly:
Come home.
It's home now, not my motel room, not ATF temporary housing. His place, where my clothes are mixed with his in the closet and my Triumph sits in the garage next to his Harley.
I pack up my tablet and head out to the parking lot. Stow everything in the Triumph's saddlebag before mounting up.
The ride from the field office to Anchor Bay clears my head. Coastal hills rise on either side of the highway, fog rolling in from the ocean as late afternoon shifts toward evening. The wind cuts cold, speed builds, and the Triumph rumbles familiar beneath me.
By the time I reach Anchor Bay, the sun is setting over the Pacific. I head straight for Cole's house. Lights glow in the windows, his truck parked in the driveway.
I pull the Triumph in beside his bike and kill the engine. Pull my go-bag from the saddlebag before heading to the door.
He opens the door before I knock. Still in jeans and a t-shirt, tattoos visible on his forearms, hair slightly damp like he recently showered. The dangerous, controlled man who beat Kline and the careful lover who made me coffee this morning.
"You're staying," he says. It's a statement, not a question.