Chapter 4
SHAW
The warehouse is already gone by the time we arrive.
Flames punch through the roof in angry orange bursts, and that deep roar hits me first—the sound fire makes when it's found everything it needs to consume.
Engine crews have lines on the building, water arcing through shattered windows, but they're fighting for containment now. The structure is lost.
I pull my truck into the staging area and kill the engine. Captain Jensen stands at the command post, coordinating response with practiced efficiency. Fully involved, smoke pouring from every opening. Total loss.
Mira's hatchback pulls in behind me. I get out of the truck and grab my turnout gear, pulling on the heavy coat and securing the helmet. Muscle memory takes over as I check my breathing apparatus and tools. I'm halfway to the command post when Mira catches up.
"Stay behind the perimeter." I don't break stride. "Cross that tape, you'll be removed by force."
"Understood."
I leave her there and head for Jensen. He's on the radio, coordinating ventilation with the roof crew. When he sees me, he gestures me closer.
"Riley. Thank fuck." Jensen's face is streaked with soot, exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes. "This one's bad. Started fast, spread faster. Building's gone, but we got everyone out."
"Origin point?"
"Ground floor, northwest corner based on witnesses. Someone saw smoke before the fire broke through." He hands me a radio. "Fire marshal's en route. Witnesses heard glass breaking right before ignition."
Forced entry. Someone broke in to set this fire rather than using existing access. Planning, intent, familiarity with the layout.
I move toward the building, staying clear of the crews.
Water meets flame, steam rising. Heat radiates from the street, the kind that comes from multiple fuel sources burning hot.
My eyes catalog burn patterns on the exterior—V-shapes indicating upward travel, smoke color variations suggesting accelerant.
Through broken windows, I see the interior consumed.
Charred debris, structural collapse, methodical destruction.
But the pattern is wrong. Too uniform, too complete.
Natural fires spread organically, following fuel and air currents.
This fire moved with purpose, precision that indicates multiple ignition points.
I pull out my phone and start documenting. Photos of burn patterns, window damage, smoke characteristics. Building the foundation that will prove what I already know.
Someone set this fire. Someone skilled.
Mira stands behind the perimeter tape, watching. I feel her attention tracking my movements, cataloging everything. Observing me as much as the fire, still trying to decide if I'm competent or complicit.
Let her watch. Let her see how this is done.
The fire gets knocked down gradually. Crews work methodically, extinguishing hot spots, ensuring stability. I coordinate with Jensen on evidence preservation—origin area protected from water damage and foot traffic. When the all-clear comes, I'm first through the door.
Interior devastation. Charred walls, collapsed ceiling, debris everywhere.
But underneath the destruction, evidence tells its story.
I move carefully through the space, documenting pour patterns on the concrete floor.
Someone used accelerant here, poured it in deliberate trails connecting multiple ignition points.
Methodology matches the previous fires—spacing, execution, professional precision.
But something's different.
I crouch beside the most intact pour pattern, studying edge characteristics. Accelerant spread is narrower than previous fires, burn pattern shallower. Whoever did this used less accelerant or a different type, changing the signature just enough to create variation.
Evolution. Learning. Adaptation.
The arsonist is refining their technique, and that pisses me off more than anything. This isn't desperation or impulse. This is craft.
Fire Marshal Davis arrives while I'm photographing the origin area. He joins me inside, expression grim.
"Same methodology?"
"Similar. Not identical." I gesture to the pour patterns. "Same approach, multiple ignition points, professional work. But accelerant characteristics are different. Less volume, different spread. Either experimenting or someone's copying."
"Copycat?"
"Or adaptation." I stand, brushing soot from my gloves. "Either way, this doesn't fit the protection racket theory."
"Why not?"
"Building owner isn't Brotherhood-connected. David Sullivan, runs an import business. There’s no real connect to the Brotherhood, but he frequented the bar and has talked about getting a custom bike. He has no relationship with previous victims. Doesn't fit the pattern."
Davis processes this. "So either the arsonist moved beyond Brotherhood targets, or we've been looking at this wrong from the beginning."
"Or someone's muddying the waters." I pull out my notebook, sketching the scene layout. "I'll confirm Sullivan's background. Financial disputes, business conflicts, anything that explains why his warehouse became a target."
We work the scene for hours. Davis handles witness interviews while I document evidence, collecting accelerant samples, photographing burn patterns from multiple angles. Painstaking work. The kind that builds cases.
Mira stays behind the perimeter the entire time, tablet in hand, taking notes. Doesn't try to cross into the scene or interfere. Just watches, professional and patient. Waiting for something—answers, mistakes, proof of whatever theory she's building in that sharp mind of hers.
Davis finds me photographing the northeast corner, his expression telling me he's got something before he even opens his mouth.
"Got something interesting. Sullivan turned down a business proposal a few weeks back.
A Brotherhood member wanted to partner with him, buy into the operation. Sullivan wasn't interested."
I stop mid-photograph. "Brotherhood member?"
"Employee didn't catch a name. Just remembered Sullivan mentioning it was someone from your club. Made Sullivan uncomfortable because the guy got pushy about it." Davis checks his notes. "Sullivan seemed relieved when he finally backed off."
Anger flares hot in my chest. If a Brotherhood member approached Sullivan with a business proposal, I would know about it.
We don't make moves like that without the club knowing—especially not aggressive partnership offers that make people uncomfortable.
That gets discussed in Church, gets vetted, gets approved.
"If one of my brothers was pushing Sullivan for a partnership, I'd know." I finish photographing the corner with more force than necessary. "Either the employee is mistaken, or someone claimed to be Brotherhood when they weren't."
Davis frowns. "Why would someone do that?"
"To create exactly the pattern we've been seeing. Make it look like the club is running protection or targeting businesses." I brush soot from my gloves, hands wanting to curl into fists. "Frame us for arson."
"Or a Brotherhood member went rogue? Decided to retaliate on his own?"
"Fires match too closely in methodology. Same person doing all of them, not different brothers acting independently." I straighten, jaw tight. "Someone's using the Brotherhood as cover. And when I find them, they're going to regret it."
Davis looks at me carefully. "Shaw—"
"I need to talk to the other victims. Pete, Beth, Danny, Mike. Find out if they had similar situations. Business proposals, partnership offers, anything that connects them beyond the club."
When we finally emerge from the building, Davis heads for the command post. I strip off my turnout coat and helmet, cool air hitting sweat-soaked skin. Mira approaches as I'm securing gear in the truck.
"Different pattern," she says without preamble. "I could see what I thought were the accelerant trails. They seemed narrower spread than The Anchor."
She caught the variation from outside, recognized the significance without explanation. Professional competence I can respect even if everything else about her complicates my life.
"Yeah. Same methodology, different execution. Either evolving or we're looking at a copycat."
"Or someone creating confusion by varying the signature." She studies me. "Building owner isn't Brotherhood-connected. I verified property records."
Of course she did. Woman doesn't wait for information to be handed to her. Goes out and finds it herself.
"David Sullivan," I confirm. "Import business, no strong connection to the Brotherhood or previous victims that I know of. Which means either the pattern we thought we saw was wrong, or the arsonist changed targets."
"There's another possibility." Mira crosses her arms, gaze fixed on the smoking building. "What if the Brotherhood connection isn't what we think it is? What if we've been looking at the wrong variable?"
I've been operating on assumptions—someone targeting the Brotherhood or Brotherhood running fraud. But if someone's falsely claiming to be Brotherhood while approaching business owners, that's deliberate misdirection. Using the club as cover.
"Talk to me," I say, turning to face her. "What are you thinking?"
She hesitates, weighing something. When she speaks, her voice is careful.
"Previous fires all involved owners with recent expansion plans or major investments.
Financial stress before incidents, followed by insurance payouts allowing fresh starts.
" She pulls up files on her tablet. "I've been assuming that pattern indicated fraud.
But what if it indicates something else? "
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet." She meets my gaze. "But if Sullivan fits that pattern too, maybe the Brotherhood connection is secondary. Maybe something else links these victims."