Chapter 13
SHAW
Sullivan doesn't know it yet, but he's already lost.
That thought stays with me through the night as Mira sleeps in my arms, as the house settles into the quiet rhythm of armed brothers maintaining watch outside. Cole coordinating surveillance. Will running tactical. Every piece moving into position while Sullivan thinks he's still in control.
My phone wakes me just before dawn. Fire Marshal Davis, his voice rough with exhaustion and smoke.
"Riley. Got another one. Hartley Industrial. Started around two AM. Building's a complete loss, but there's something here you need to see."
"On my way."
Mira's already awake beside me, processing the call.
She doesn't ask questions, just starts getting dressed while I pull on yesterday's clothes and grab my gear.
Within minutes we're on the bike, engines of my brothers' motorcycles rumbling to life behind us as Tate and Cole fall into escort formation.
Dawn breaks gray and cold over Hartley Industrial, or what's left of it.
The building is a gutted shell, walls collapsed inward, roof completely gone.
Smoke still rises from hot spots scattered through the debris, but the main fire burned itself out hours ago.
Engine crews are wrapping up overhaul operations, and the acrid stench of burned chemicals hangs thick enough to taste.
Mira climbs off the bike behind me, taking in the destruction. Her expression shifts from professional assessment to something harder when she processes the scale of damage.
"This wasn't just arson," she says quietly. "This was overkill."
I agree completely. Whoever burned this building wanted nothing left. Complete destruction, total evidence elimination. The kind of fire that says someone was desperate to hide something.
Fire Marshal Davis meets us at the perimeter tape, face drawn with exhaustion. Soot streaks across his turnout coat and fatigue carves lines around his mouth and forehead.
"Riley. Vaughn." Davis nods to both of us. "Fire started around two in the morning. Multiple witnesses reported explosions before the main structure became fully involved. By the time crews arrived, the building was already collapsing. It burned too hot and too fast to save anything."
"Accelerant?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.
"Poured throughout the structure. Same methodology as the previous fires but with escalated intensity.
This wasn't designed to look like an accident.
This was meant to destroy everything inside.
" Davis's jaw tightens. "And it worked. The building's a total loss.
We've been working the scene since it cooled enough for entry. Found something you need to see."
Mira and I follow Davis through the perimeter and into what remains of the main structure. Heat still radiates from the wreckage, and debris litters the ground where interior walls used to stand. Collapsed ceiling sections and twisted metal supports fill the open space.
Davis leads us to the back corner where the main office used to stand. Fire crews have cleared enough debris to reveal a body partially buried under fallen beams and drywall. Even charred and burned, the build and clothing suggest male, middle-aged.
"Jonathan Hartley," Davis confirms. "We'll need dental records for official identification, but his wallet was protected by the angle of his body and debris. Enough of the driver's license survived to make a preliminary ID. The medical examiner and law enforcement are on their way."
I crouch beside the body, studying the positioning and burn patterns.
Marine Recon taught me to read death scenes with detached precision, cataloging details that tell stories victims can't speak anymore.
Hartley's body lies face-down, arms trapped beneath torso, legs bent at unnatural angles from falling debris.
The position suggests collapse rather than deliberate placement—he was already down when the building came apart around him.
The burn patterns on his exposed skin show post-mortem charring.
Skin splits in straight lines rather than the blistering that happens to living tissue.
Blood pooling would have settled differently if his heart was still pumping when flames reached him.
Every indicator points to the same conclusion.
"He was already dead when the fire started," I say, pointing to the area around the skull. "See this? Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Fracture pattern suggests a single heavy blow with a solid object. No defensive wounds on the hands or arms. He didn't see it coming."
Depressed fracture of several inches in diameter, with the impact site just above the occipital bone. Whoever hit him knew where to strike for maximum effect. Single blow, immediate incapacitation, death following within minutes from intracranial bleeding. Quick. Efficient. Deliberate.
Mira moves closer, photographing the body from multiple angles. Her camera clicks rhythmically as she documents the scene, professional and detached despite the subject matter.
"Someone murdered Hartley, left his body here, then burned the building to destroy evidence," she says, lowering the camera. "When we got too close to figuring out the pattern, they killed Hartley to eliminate the connection and tried to destroy all the evidence."
"Which means Hartley wasn't the arsonist," Davis says. "He was being set up as the fall guy from the beginning."
Hartley's company was failing, and that was used as cover.
All the previous fires were designed to look like either accidents or amateur arson, creating a trail pointing toward Hartley Industrial and Brotherhood conflicts.
This was orchestrated from the start, using Hartley's business struggles as a convenient scapegoat while systematically targeting businesses connected to the Brotherhood.
My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number appears. I open it and ice floods through my veins.
Found the body. Now find me before I finish what I started.
I show the text to Mira and Davis. Mira's face goes pale.
"Sullivan's watching us," she says, scanning the perimeter. "He knew we'd find Hartley. He wanted us to find him."
Davis is already on his radio, calling for additional law enforcement presence. I move closer to Mira, every instinct screaming that we're exposed and vulnerable standing in this burned-out shell.
"We're leaving," I tell her. "Now."
"Shaw, we need to process the scene—"
"The scene can wait." I take her arm and start moving toward the exit. "Sullivan is out there watching, and he just threatened you directly. We're not staying here as targets."
We make it to the bike before my phone buzzes again. Another message from the same unknown number arrives, this time with an attachment. The photo shows Mira and me standing beside Hartley's body, taken from outside the building through the collapsed wall sections.
Sullivan is here. Right now. He is close enough to photograph us and send the image in real time.
I pull Mira behind me, scanning the surrounding buildings and vehicles for any sign of movement. Too many places to hide, too many angles of approach. We're exposed with minimal cover and an unknown threat watching our every move.
"Get on the bike," I tell Mira, voice dropping to the command tone that brooks no argument. "We're getting out of the kill zone."
She doesn't question it. She climbs on behind me, arms wrapping around my waist as I start the engine. Davis is still coordinating law enforcement response, too focused on his radio to notice us leaving.
I pull out of the lot and onto the main road, immediately taking a right turn that puts us onto a side street away from the main commercial district. The bike accelerates smoothly as I open the throttle, putting distance between us and the scene.
Eyes constantly scan mirrors—left, right, center-mounted.
I am looking for vehicles that match our turns, headlights that stay a consistent distance behind us, any pattern suggesting deliberate pursuit.
Marine Recon drilled tactical driving into muscle memory until reading traffic flow became second nature.
Spot the tail before they know you've spotted them.
Create situations where followers have to reveal themselves or lose contact.
A couple of blocks down I take another turn, this one sharp enough that Mira's weight shifts against me.
Left onto Morrison, then immediate right onto a residential street where morning commuters haven't started moving yet.
Quiet neighborhood, cars parked along curbs, no traffic to provide cover for anyone following.
I check mirrors again. Empty street behind us.
The third turn puts us back toward the commercial zone but on a parallel route.
Anyone tracking our trajectory would expect us to head straight home or to the Brotherhood bar.
Instead I'm creating a pattern that makes no tactical sense—doubling back, crossing our own path, deliberately choosing routes that force a tail to either close distance or lose visual contact.
Mira's grip around my waist tightens with each turn, but she doesn't ask questions or demand explanations.
She trusts me to know what I'm doing, trusts that these seemingly random direction changes have a purpose.
Her breathing stays controlled against my back, showing no panic, just awareness that we're operating under threat and I'm handling it.
At the fourth intersection, I pause longer than necessary. I scan cross streets, watching for vehicles that pull over or slow down suspiciously. Nothing moves except a delivery truck several blocks over.
The fifth turn takes us through a strip mall parking lot, weaving between rows of parked cars where anyone following would have to commit to entering or lose us completely.
Out the far exit, onto another residential street, then back toward the main road through a route that involves multiple direction changes.