Chapter 3
SHAW
Mira Vaughn is trouble.
I know it the moment she walks into Ironside Customs at exactly nine in the morning, dressed in dark jeans and a blazer that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. Professional armor. The kind of outfit designed to say, "I'm here on business and you will take me seriously."
She's right to wear armor. Ironside Customs isn't the kind of place that welcomes people who call us criminals.
I'm in the back office reviewing fire reports when Axel appears in the doorway. "Insurance investigator just walked in. Wants to talk to you."
"Tell her I'll be there in a minute."
"You sure? Cole's out front. He looks ready to throw her out."
"I'll handle it." I close the file I'm working on and stand, rolling tension out of my shoulders. "Tell her I'll be right there."
Axel disappears, and I take a moment to lock down the anger that's been building since last night. Mira made her position clear at the fire scene—she thinks Mike torched his own restaurant. Which means she thinks I'm either complicit or incompetent, and I don't appreciate either implication.
But throwing her out won't help Mike. Won't help any of the people whose businesses have burned. So I'll play nice. For now.
I head out to the main shop floor. Ironside Customs takes up a converted warehouse near the waterfront, with high ceilings, exposed beams, and enough space for multiple bike builds at once.
Chrome and custom paint gleam under the overhead lights.
Tools hang in precise arrangements on the walls.
The smell of metal and motor oil saturates everything.
Mira stands near the front entrance, cataloging details. Her gaze moves from the bikes to the brothers working on them to the Iron Brotherhood banners on the walls. Looking for evidence of whatever crime she's already decided we've committed.
Tate leans against a workbench nearby, arms crossed, radiating hostility. Cole stands at the front counter, his VP patch visible on his kutte. Neither of them looks friendly, and I don't blame them. Word spread fast after last night—insurance investigator thinks we're running fraud.
I cross the shop floor, and Mira's attention shifts to me. Professional mask firmly in place, but I catch the slight tension in her shoulders. Good. She should be nervous.
"Ms. Vaughn." I don't offer a handshake. "Wasn't expecting you this early."
"Mr. Riley." She doesn't back down, I'll give her that. "I'm here to review the scene at The Anchor and discuss your investigation. I understand you're the lead investigator, which creates a significant conflict of interest given your position with the Brotherhood."
Behind me, Tate shifts his weight. The temperature in the shop drops several degrees.
"There's no conflict." I keep my voice level, but let her hear the steel underneath. "Mike Barrows is my brother. That means I'm going to find out who did this to him. Question is whether you're going to help or get in my way."
"I'm going to do my job, which is determining whether this fire was arson for profit or a legitimate crime."
"It was arson. Someone torched Mike's restaurant. That's not in question."
"Who set it is very much in question." She holds my gaze. "Four fires over the past several months, all Brotherhood-connected, all resulting in substantial insurance payouts. That's not coincidence."
"You're right. It's not. Someone's targeting us."
"Or you're running a very profitable fraud scheme."
The accusation hangs in the air. I could throw her out. Could make her investigation difficult. Could let the brothers handle this in ways that would send her running back to whatever corporate office she crawled out of.
But that would only confirm what she already believes.
"Scene's still being processed," I say instead. "Fire Marshal Davis is coordinating with the state investigator. You'll need clearance before you access it."
"Can you arrange that?"
"I can make calls."
"Thank you."
I lead her through the shop, aware of every brother tracking her movement. We pass bike builds in various stages, welding stations, paint booths. Everything we've built together—legitimate business, skilled craftsmanship, proof we're not the criminals she thinks we are.
Mira takes it all in with that investigator's attention, looking for cracks in the facade.
The waiting area is small—couch, chairs, coffee maker that produces something barely drinkable. I gesture toward it. "Coffee's terrible. Drink it anyway or don't."
"I'll manage." She takes a seat, already pulling out her phone.
I head to the office and close the door harder than necessary before calling Davis. He answers on the second ring.
"Riley."
"Got the insurance investigator here. Mira Vaughn from Pacific Northwest Casualty. She wants access to The Anchor."
Davis sighs. "Yeah, company's been calling all morning. Let me check with the state investigator. Might take a few hours."
"Fine. I'll babysit until then."
"Shaw." Davis pauses. "This one's complicated. The Brotherhood connection, pattern of fires, substantial claims. She's going to dig deep."
"Let her dig. She won't find fraud because there isn't any."
"You're too close to this. Everyone knows you and Mike are tight. If she decides to push—"
"Then she'll find out pushing the Brotherhood has consequences." I keep my voice level, but the warning is clear.
"That's exactly the kind of thing you can't say to an investigator."
"I'm saying it to you. Get me clearance for the scene."
The call ends, and I sit at my desk, staring at fire reports and trying to control the anger burning in my chest. Four fires, all of them connected through a brother—either owned by or associated with. And some corporate investigator who thinks we're criminals instead of victims.
My phone buzzes. Text from Cole:
Investigator's asking brothers about financials and who does our books. Want me to shut it down?
I type back.
Me: Keep it professional. Don't give her ammunition.
Cole: Hard when she's treating us like criminals.
Me: I'll handle it.
I grab my kutte and head back to the waiting area. Mira is standing, looking at photos on the wall—the Brotherhood at charity rides, toy drives, community events. The legitimate face we show the world.
"Impressive community involvement," she says without turning. "Makes it harder for people to believe you're criminals."
"We're not criminals."
"Four fires say otherwise."
"Four fires say someone's targeting us." I move closer, letting her feel the weight of my presence. "You keep pushing this fraud theory, you're wasting time while whoever's actually responsible plans their next move."
"Or I'm investigating exactly the right people." She turns to face me, and I'll give her credit—she doesn't back down. "You're a fire investigator investigating fires that benefit your own organization. That's textbook conflict of interest."
"It's textbook motivation. Someone burned down my brother's restaurant. You think I'm going to let that slide?"
"I think you might be very good at making fires look like something they're not."
The accusation lands like a physical blow. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I take a breath, forcing control back into place. Getting physical with an insurance investigator would only prove her point.
"You want to accuse me of something, say it directly."
"I'm not accusing. I'm investigating." But her eyes say tell a different story. She's already decided I'm guilty. "Tell me about Pete Garrett."
"Pete's a Marine. Served with several of us overseas. Runs a storage facility that burned three months ago."
"After increasing his insurance policy."
"After planning an expansion. Ask anyone in town—Pete's been talking about growing his business for over a year."
"Or it was preparation for fraud."
"Or someone knew he'd recently increased coverage and made him a target." I hold her gaze. "Think about it. Small business owner, financially stressed, suddenly has a fire that conveniently solves all his problems. That's not just opportunity for fraud—it's opportunity for a predator."
She makes a note. "Beth Crawford."
"Tattoo artist. Her shop burned two months ago."
"After struggling financially for months. Makes fraud look attractive."
"Makes her vulnerable to pressure." I can feel my control slipping, anger bleeding through. "You're so focused on proving fraud, you're not seeing the actual pattern. These fires are attacks, not insurance scams."
"Danny Anderson. Machine shop. Just invested in expensive equipment he couldn't afford, then his shop burns and insurance covers it all."
"Covers his losses. Doesn't make him whole. He lost his business location, his customer base, months of revenue. If this was fraud, he'd be coming out ahead. He's not."
"Unless the plan is long-term profit."
I take a step closer, and satisfaction flickers through me when she tenses. "You really think someone would risk federal charges for arson and insurance fraud? For what? A payout that barely covers his investment?"
"People do desperate things when they're financially stressed."
"Yeah, they do. Like become victims of protection rackets run by people who know they're vulnerable."
She studies me for a long moment. "You're saying someone is extorting Brotherhood businesses?"
"I'm saying someone is burning them. The question is why, and you're not going to find the answer by investigating us for fraud."
My phone buzzes before she can respond. Text from Davis:
Scene cleared. State investigator says she can access with escort. You available?
I show her the message. "Scene's cleared. I'll take you."
"I can drive myself."
"Scene's under investigation. You need an escort." I head toward the exit without waiting for agreement. "And I want to make sure you see everything. All the evidence. Not just the parts that support your theory."
Outside, the morning sun is bright and warm. I unlock my truck and wait while she climbs in, both of us maintaining hostile silence.