Chapter 15
SHAW
Metro Industrial Supply sits on the edge of the commercial district, a sprawling warehouse with loading docks and chain-link fencing.
Cole rides beside me, and Mira presses against my back on the bike with her arms wrapped tight around my waist. The weight of her feels right, grounding, even as adrenaline spikes through my system.
This ends now.
The ride takes fifteen minutes through town, past familiar streets and businesses we've protected for years. Mira's grip tightens around my waist as we get closer, and I cover her hands with one of mine for a moment before returning it to the handlebars.
Tate's already on site, maintaining surveillance from a position across the street where he can watch the main entrance and loading area.
His text came through minutes ago with confirmation that a vehicle matching the description from Cascade Services is parked at the loading dock, and someone is actively loading containers into the bed.
Fire Marshal Davis's SUV pulls into the lot from the south entrance, patrol vehicles following with lights off but officers visible through the windshields. Detective Perez's unmarked SUV pulls in behind them. Law enforcement moves into position with coordination and professionalism.
Richard Sullivan. The bastard who's been burning businesses associated with the Brotherhood for months is right there, loading accelerants into his truck like it's just another workday.
I cut the engine and help Mira off the bike. She's wearing her professional clothes again—pressed jeans and a sweater under her leather jacket. Her insurance investigator armor. Her hand finds mine for just a moment and squeezes once before she steps back.
Cole moves to flank my left side and positions himself where he has clear sightlines to the loading dock and warehouse entrance. Brotherhood kuttes make us visible and identifiable, exactly what we need to be when this goes down. We're not hiding who we are or why we're here.
Detective Perez approaches with Davis beside him, both keeping their voices low.
Perez takes the lead. "We've got enough for the stop based on Sullivan's financial connection to Cascade and the accelerants visible in the truck bed.
Once we secure him, we'll need your eyes on the fire evidence, Davis. "
"Already catalogued the accelerant types from here," Davis says. "Same commercial grade used in at least three of the fires."
"Good." Perez signals to the patrol officers who begin moving into position around the perimeter. "We go in clean, by the book. You boys stay back and let us handle the arrest."
"Understood." I meet his eyes. "But if he runs, we're not letting him get away."
Perez's mouth tightens, but he doesn't argue. After months of burned businesses and one dead body, he's not about to tell us to stand down.
Mira stays close but not in the way with her phone out and recording.
Documentation for her company, evidence for the insurance fraud case that runs parallel to the arson investigation.
All business now, the professional investigator who tracked financial records through shell companies and found the connection everyone else missed.
Sullivan emerges from the warehouse carrying another container clearly labeled with hazard warnings. He’s wearing work clothes that blend into any industrial setting. He's favoring his knee, the same one Mira injured in the parking lot. Nothing about him screams arsonist or killer.
Except the containers he's loading are accelerants. Enough to level every Brotherhood business in Anchor Bay.
Perez steps forward with his badge visible and voice carrying authority without aggression. "Richard Sullivan, I'm Detective Perez with Anchor Bay PD. I need you to stop what you're doing and step away from the vehicle."
Sullivan freezes mid-step, container in his hands tilting dangerously before he sets it down on the loading dock. His gaze sweeps the scene—Perez, Davis, patrol officers—then lands on me and Cole in our Brotherhood kuttes.
Recognition flares in his eyes, followed immediately by rage that's white-hot and uncontrolled. Emotion twists his features into something ugly.
"You." The word comes out strangled, accusatory. "This is your fault. All of it. You destroyed everything I built."
"Sir, I need you to remain calm and step away from the vehicle." Perez moves closer with hand resting on his service weapon but not drawing. "We have questions about your recent purchases and activities."
"Questions?" Sullivan's laugh sounds brittle, breaking at the edges. "You think I'm going to answer questions? You think any of this matters now?"
He bolts.
The move is desperate and stupid, exactly what someone does when they know they're caught and panic overrides sense. Sullivan runs toward the warehouse entrance, probably thinking he can lose himself in the industrial maze of corridors and storage areas.
He doesn't make it past the loading dock.
Cole moves first and cuts off the warehouse entrance with a speed that comes from years of combat training. I'm right behind him, closing the distance before Sullivan can change direction. Patrol officers converge from both sides, and within seconds we have him contained with nowhere left to run.
Sullivan tries to break through anyway and shoves against Cole's chest with both hands.
Bad choice.
Cole absorbs the impact without moving, then grabs Sullivan's wrist and spins him toward me. Sullivan stumbles, off-balance, and I'm there.
I tackle him into the side of his truck. Hard. Metal shudders under the impact, and Sullivan gasps, wind knocked out of him, but he's still fighting. Still trying to get away. Trying to escape after threatening Mira.
My fist connects with his face before conscious thought catches up. Once. Twice. Blood sprays from his nose, hot against my knuckles. He swings wild, catches me across the jaw with enough force to snap my head sideways.
Wrong move.
The leash slips. Not completely—I don't lose control, don't black out—but I feel it fray. Feel the Marine surface, the demolitions expert who learned to be comfortable with violence in ways that should probably concern people but doesn't.
My next punch drives into his solar plexus. Sullivan doubles over, gagging, and I follow with a knee to his face. More blood. His hands come up defensive, but it's too late. I'm on him, fists driving into ribs, face, anywhere I can reach.
"Shaw!" Cole's voice cuts through the haze. "He's done, brother. Stand down."
Hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. Cole's grip is iron, physically restraining me from continuing the beating. I let him pull me away, breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding.
Sullivan crumples to the ground, spitting blood, face already swelling. One eye is closing, nose definitely broken, blood running from a split lip. He's conscious but barely, curled on his side and making sounds that might be crying.
Perez witnessed the whole thing. So did Davis. So did the patrol officers who were supposed to make the clean, by-the-book arrest.
For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then Perez steps forward, face carefully neutral. "Sullivan resisted arrest. Required force to subdue." His eyes meet mine, holding steady. "That's what my report will say."
Understanding passes between us. Sullivan attacked an officer, fought back during arrest, had to be physically restrained. Clean narrative that covers what actually happened without requiring anyone to lie about the specifics.
"Appreciate it," I manage, voice rougher than it should be.
Patrol officers move in to secure Sullivan, hauling him to his feet and zip-tying his hands behind his back. He's not fighting anymore, just swaying on his feet and bleeding. They load him into the back of a patrol car, and Sullivan slumps against the window.
Cole releases my shoulders. "You good?"
"Yeah."
"That was the Marine."
"I know." I flex my hands, feeling split skin pull tight across knuckles. "He threatened her, Cole. Planned to burn my house. With her inside."
"I know," Cole says quietly. "It's done now. He's in custody, he's not a threat anymore."
Mira stands frozen where I left her, phone still recording, face pale. She watched the whole thing. Watched me beat Sullivan bloody while law enforcement looked the other way. Watched the controlled violence I'm capable of when someone threatens what's mine.
I cross to her, blood on my knuckles, jaw throbbing where Sullivan connected. Wait for her to step back, to look at me with fear or disgust or the realization that she's been sleeping with someone who can do that kind of damage without hesitation.
She doesn't step back.
Instead, she reaches up and touches my jaw where it's already swelling. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"Your hands—"
"Will heal." I capture her wrist, holding her hand against my face. "Are we good?"
The question asks more than whether she's okay with watching me beat a man half to death. It asks if she can accept this part of me, the violence I keep controlled but never fully leashed. The Marine who surfaces when threats get too close to what matters.
Mira's eyes search mine. Then: "We're good."
Relief hits harder than Sullivan's punch. I pull her against me, not caring about the blood on my hands or the law enforcement presence watching. She's mine, and she's accepting me as I am—controlled violence and all.
Davis approaches with a paramedic, medical kit in hand. "Let him look at those hands."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding." Davis's tone makes it clear this isn't optional. "Sit."
I sit on the tailgate of a patrol vehicle and let the medic clean the split knuckles, apply antiseptic that stings like hell, and wrap them in gauze. Mira stands close, hand resting on my shoulder, grounding me while he works.
"Sullivan's lucky," Davis says quietly. "You could have done a lot worse."
"I know."