Chapter 14 #2
Everything fits together with the kind of clarity that only comes when you've found the truth.
Richard Sullivan created an elaborate revenge scheme designed to destroy the Brotherhood's reputation, eliminate business competition, and frame Jonathan Hartley for everything.
He used his knowledge of business operations and his understanding of how investigators would trace financial evidence to build a false trail pointing away from himself.
Shaw pulls out his phone and dials Fire Marshal Davis, putting the call on speaker. Davis answers on the second ring, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"Riley. Tell me you've got something, because law enforcement is spinning their wheels trying to identify the arsonist."
"Mira broke it," Shaw says, his voice carrying quiet pride that makes heat pool low in my stomach despite the circumstances.
"The arsonist is Richard Sullivan, David Sullivan's brother.
He owns Cascade Services, the shell company we've been tracking.
His logistics company went bankrupt after losing contracts to Brotherhood-preferred vendors, and he's been systematically burning businesses as revenge while framing Jonathan Hartley. "
Davis is quiet for a moment, processing. "Richard Sullivan. I know that name. His company failed about eighteen months back. He made some accusations about unfair business practices and market manipulation, but nothing ever came of it."
"Because there was nothing to come of it," Shaw says flatly.
"The Brotherhood doesn't control the market or freeze out competition.
Business owners choose their vendors based on quality and reliability, and Richard's company couldn't compete.
But he needed someone to blame for his failure, so he blamed us. "
I lean closer to the phone. "I can send you the complete financial analysis showing how Richard created Cascade Services as a shell company, how he funneled money to create a false paper trail pointing to Hartley, and how the timeline of fires correlates with his business losses.
The evidence is solid enough for a warrant. "
"Send it over," Davis confirms. "I'll coordinate with law enforcement and the prosecutor's office. If the evidence is as strong as you say, we can get a warrant for Sullivan's property and financial records. Good work, both of you."
The call ends. Shaw turns to face me fully. His hands frame my face, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone—touch deliberate and possessive. The look in his eyes mirrors the one from the Forge, from his bedroom. Hunger and pride and something deeper that makes my breath catch.
"You connected the financial trail everyone else missed," he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my pulse kick up. "Richard attacked you, threatened you, and every investigator knew his name. But you're the one who traced the money, proved he's been orchestrating everything."
"We found it," I correct. "I couldn't have done this without your knowledge of the people, the history, who to ask."
"You're brilliant," he says. "Thorough. Analytical. Relentless." His thumb traces my lower lip. "Exactly what I need."
Shaw pulls me to my feet and into his arms. I let myself lean against his solid warmth for a moment, breathing in leather and smoke and the scent that's purely him.
His hand fists in my hair, holding me close, and I feel the tension coiled in his body—the need to act, to hunt, to end the threat against me.
"Soon," I tell him, understanding what he needs. "We'll have him soon."
Shaw's phone buzzes. Will's voice comes through the speaker, the weight of leadership and controlled urgency clear.
"Shaw, I've got the brothers on conference.
Jackson's been coordinating with law enforcement.
They're processing the warrant request for Richard Sullivan and his property now. Should have approval within the hour."
Jackson's voice joins the call. "Local PD is taking this seriously given the murder charge on top of the arson. Fire Marshal Davis shared Mira's financial analysis with the prosecutor, and they're convinced it's solid enough to bring charges."
"What's our next move?" Shaw asks.
Mike's voice adds to the conference. "Richard has been spotted near industrial supply warehouses on the east side. Danny's been asking around—word is Richard has been inquiring about bulk accelerant purchases over the past few days. If he's planning another fire, he'll need to restock supplies."
Ice floods through my veins. Richard isn't done. He killed Hartley to cover his tracks, but the revenge campaign continues. Whatever he's planning next will be bigger, more destructive, meant to finish what he started.
"We need surveillance," Shaw says, tactical mind already working through logistics. "Brotherhood watches the industrial suppliers while law enforcement processes the warrant. If he shows up to buy accelerant, we've got him red-handed with materials and intent."
"I'll coordinate surveillance teams," Tate's voice joins from his position at the front window, having listened to the entire conversation.
"Cole and I can take first rotation, position ourselves where we've got clear sightlines on the main suppliers.
If Richard shows up, we maintain observation and alert law enforcement immediately. "
"Do it," Will confirms. "Shaw, you stay with Mira. She's still the stated target based on those threatening messages. I want her protected until he's in custody."
Shaw's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. "Understood. We'll stay here and continue building the evidence package for the prosecutor."
The call ends with final coordination details and check-in protocols.
Tate and Cole prepare to leave for surveillance duty, grabbing gear and weapons with the efficiency of men who've done this before.
Within minutes, Shaw and I are alone in the house.
Quiet settles around us in a way that feels both peaceful and charged with anticipation.
Hours blur together as we settle into the rhythm of waiting.
The day stretches long as we wait for updates.
I work through the remaining financial evidence, documenting every transaction and connection that ties Richard to the fires and to Jonathan Hartley's murder.
Shaw coordinates with the security rotation, checking in with brothers positioned around the property perimeter, maintaining contact with law enforcement as they process the warrant.
Tension builds with each passing hour. Richard is out there planning something bigger, and every minute feels weighted.
Around noon, Shaw orders me away from the laptop.
Forces me to eat the sandwich he makes—turkey and swiss on sourdough, simple and good.
We eat in silence, both too wired to make conversation, but the proximity helps.
His knee presses against mine under the table.
His hand finds the back of my neck, thumb stroking the tension there until I lean into the touch.
"When this is over," he says quietly, "we're taking a day. No fires, no investigations, no threats. Just you and me figuring out what comes next."
"I'd like that."
His eyes meet mine, dark and intent. "Not talking about a day off, Mira. Talking about permanence. About you staying in Anchor Bay, working cases here, being mine for real instead of just for the duration of this investigation."
Heart pounds against my ribs. "Shaw—"
"Don't answer now. Just think about it." He stands, pulling me with him. "Come on. You're exhausted. You need to rest before tonight."
He's right. Exhaustion pulls at me despite the adrenaline keeping me sharp. Shaw leads me to his bedroom—our bedroom, really, since I haven't slept anywhere else in days—and pulls me down onto the bed. I curl into his side, his arm around me, and let myself drift.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, my mind too active to fully shut down. Shaw stays awake—I can tell by the tension in his body, the way his breathing never deepens into actual rest. He's on guard even here, in his own home, watching over me while I sleep.
Afternoon fades into evening. Shaw's phone buzzes and jerks us both fully awake. He answers, and Tate's voice comes through the speaker, sharp and focused.
"Got him. Richard Sullivan just pulled into Metro Industrial Supply on Route 9. He's inside now, been in there about ten minutes. Looks like he's loading jerrycans into a cart."
Shaw sits up, immediately alert. "Don't spook him. I'll contact Davis and get law enforcement rolling. Maintain observation until they arrive."
"Copy that," Tate confirms. "But Shaw? He's buying enough accelerant to burn down half the town. I count at least eight five-gallon jerrycans in his cart, plus he's got a flatbed dolly. Whatever he's planning, it's not a single building. This is big."
Shaw's hand tightens on the phone, knuckles going white. "Stay on him. If he moves before law enforcement arrives, follow at a distance and maintain contact. Do not engage unless he's an immediate threat to civilians."
"Understood."
Shaw ends the call and looks at me, his expression going hard and focused. "We've got him. Finally."
Relief washes through me, immediate and fierce. All the fires, the threatening messages, the businesses burned and people who lost everything.
Tonight it ends.
Shaw grabs his kutte and checks his weapon with practiced efficiency—a press check on the Glock, spare magazines in his pocket, his knife on his belt. I follow suit, gathering my tablet and camera, everything I'll need to document what comes next.
"Stay close to me," Shaw says. It's a command, not a request. "We're ending this, but I'm not losing you in the process."
"You won't."
Shaw's hand finds mine as we move toward the door. Outside, he swings onto the Harley. The engine roars to life, a deep rumble that vibrates through my bones as I climb on behind him.
Richard Sullivan burned innocent people's businesses. Destroyed their livelihoods. Murdered Jonathan Hartley. Went after people under Brotherhood protection.
Tonight the Brotherhood reminds him why that was a mistake.