1
SHAW
Anchor Bay, Oregon
The column of smoke rises against the night sky like a signal flare, black and dense, visible from the highway before I reach the turnoff. My Harley rumbles beneath me as I lean into the curve, and the details of the fire register before I'm close enough to feel the heat. The smoke's too dark, which means incomplete combustion from either heavy fuel load or restricted oxygen. The thickness tells me the fire's burning hot and fast, consuming everything in its path.
Harbor Street comes into view, and I assess the scene with the same cold focus I used clearing buildings in Fallujah. Flames punch through the roof of The Anchor, the waterfront restaurant Mike Barrows built from nothing after he came home from the sandbox. The structure is fully involved, fire consuming everything from foundation to roofline. Orange light dances against the darkening sky, and even from here I can hear the roar of it, that deep-throated sound fire makes when it's found enough oxygen to really feed. Every exit maps itself in my head before I kill the engine, every position evaluated for tacticaladvantage the way my Marine Recon training still demands. Old habits. The kind that keep you breathing.
I park the bike in the staging area and swing off, securing my helmet before pulling out my credentials. The kutte stays on. The leather vest with its Iron Brotherhood patches draws eyes, always does, and I stopped caring about that the day I earned my colors. Let people make their assumptions. Makes it easier to identify which ones are problems.
The incident commander waves me through the perimeter. Engine crews have lines on the building, water arcing through broken windows, steam rising where it meets flame. I move through the chaos with the ease of someone who's spent a decade in turnout gear and still pulls shifts on the engine when needed. Captain Jensen meets me halfway, his face streaked with soot.
"Riley. You got here fast."
"I was riding when the call came through." Scanning the building, I take mental notes. The fire pattern is wrong. Too uniform. "Time from ignition to full involvement?"
"Best guess puts us at less than an hour. The building went up faster than it should have." Jensen follows my gaze. "Mike Barrows owns this place. He's one of your Brotherhood members, isn't he?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out flat. "Is he around?"
"Over by the ambulance. He's refusing transport." Jensen shakes his head. "Stubborn bastard."
I head toward the ambulance. Mike sits on the bumper with an oxygen mask hanging loose around his neck, face pale under the soot. Ellen, his wife, has one hand on his shoulder. Both of them straighten when they spot me.
"Shaw." Mike gets to his feet, Ellen steadying him with a hand on his arm. "They're saying it's arson. Someone torched my restaurant."
The defeat in his voice hits harder than the anger would. Mike's one of the strongest men I know, Marine Recon through and through, and right now he looks like someone kicked the legs out from under him. Ellen's eyes are red-rimmed, and her grip on Mike's arm is tight enough that her knuckles show white.
"I don't know anything yet." I gesture for him to sit. "Walk me through your night. What did you do at closing?"
"Same as always. The last customer left around eight. We cleaned up the kitchen, locked the doors, and did the final walk-through. Everything was locked down tight, and all the equipment was off like always." His jaw sets hard. "We'd just left the parking lot, maybe five minutes away, when I looked back and saw smoke coming from the kitchen area. I called nine-one-one, but by the time the first engine arrived, the whole building was going up."
"Kitchen fire?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral. "You're sure about the equipment? Fryer oil, gas lines?"
"Everything was off. I checked twice like I always do. This wasn't an accident, Shaw. This was deliberate." His jaw sets in a hard line, anger cutting through the shock. "Someone wanted to destroy what we built."
I want to tell him he's wrong. Want to find a dozen innocent explanations for how The Anchor went from secure building to inferno in less than an hour. But my gut and my training are both screaming the same thing Mike already knows.
This is arson. And it is not the first.
"Let me work the scene," I tell him. "Get yourself checked out properly, then get Ellen home. I'll call you when I know more."
He starts to argue, but Ellen stops him. Even without catching every word, I can tell she's ordering him to back off and let me do my job. Mike's shoulders sag, and he nods.
I leave them to their argument and head back toward the building. The fire is knocked down to smoldering wreckage now,but heat still radiates in waves. I pull out my phone and snap photos of the exterior. The camera work is automatic, muscle memory from hundreds of scenes, and I document the burn patterns, the collapse points, and the areas of interest while my mind analyzes what I see.
The V-patterns on the exterior wall are textbook upward burn from low origin points. But there are also multiple patterns at the front entrance, south wall near the kitchen, and rear exit.
Multiple origin points mean multiple ignition sources. Multiple ignition sources mean intentional.
I hear footsteps behind me, measured and purposeful. I track the approach without turning.
"You with the fire marshal's office?"
The voice is sharp and professional. I turn and find a woman in business casual, dark hair pulled back, tablet tucked under one arm. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her eyes scan my kutte with open skepticism while I read her in seconds. Five-seven. Curves that fill out her professional clothes in ways that make my jaw tighten. She carries herself like someone who knows how to handle confrontation, with pepper spray on her belt but her hands staying loose at her sides.
Her eyes lock on the Iron Brotherhood patches. I can read the shift in her posture as she makes her assessment. Most people see the kutte and jump to conclusions. Some see outlaw. Some see trouble. This woman sees something else entirely, something calculating behind that professional mask. She's adding up variables, building a case in real time.
