"How many origin points?"
"At least three that we can confirm from external observation. Won't know more until we get inside and dig through debris." Davis pulls off his helmet. "But this is arson. Professional work. Same methodology as the other fires over the past several months."
The pattern is identical across all four fires, the methodology professional, the targets all connected through the Brotherhood.
"Serial arsonist?" Jensen asks.
"Someone has a grudge and is working their way through a list." Davis looks at me. "You need to talk to your club. Find out who they've pissed off recently. Because this isn't stopping until we figure out who's behind it."
I nod. The Brotherhood keeps our business clean, but we are not naive. We know people make assumptions about motorcycle clubs. We have dealt with protests, with neighbors who object to our presence, with competitors who spread rumors. Butarson? That escalates beyond harassment. Beyond intimidation. Someone is trying to destroy us one business at a time, and they're patient enough to space the fires out, professional enough to avoid leaving obvious evidence. This is personal, calculated revenge with resources behind it.
That is war.
"I'll handle it," I tell Davis. "But I need access to the scene as soon as it's safe. I need to document everything."
He glances past me toward where Mira stands near her car. "That the insurance investigator?"
"Yeah. Mira Vaughn, Pacific Northwest Casualty."
"She give you any trouble?"
"Nothing I can't handle." I watch her gesture while talking on her phone. "But she's looking at fraud. Looking at Mike specifically."
"Can't blame her for doing her job." Davis follows my gaze. "But make sure she understands we're running point on the criminal investigation. She wants evidence access, she goes through you."
The woman thinks Mike is an arsonist. And I'm going to have to work with her to prove otherwise.
The scene winds down as darkness settles over the harbor. Crews pack equipment, roll hose, conduct a final walk-through. I stay until the last engine pulls away, documenting everything, building the foundation of the case. The smell of wet ash and accelerant hangs in the air, mixing with the salt from the bay. That scent will be in my clothes for days, embedded in the leather of my kutte, a constant reminder of what we're dealing with.
Mike and Ellen left an hour ago. Will, the President of the Iron Brotherhood, texted asking for an update, and I sent him a brief summary. The club needs to know about this. Needs to understand someone is systematically targeting us. Fourfires over the past several months, all connected through the Brotherhood, all professional work. This isn't random. This is deliberate, calculated, and escalating.
Mira's car is still parked near the perimeter when I walk back to my bike. She is sitting in the driver's seat, working on her laptop, screen glow illuminating her face. She does not look up as I pass, but I feel her awareness of me the same way I'm aware of her. Two predators circling the same territory, neither willing to back down.
She's building a case. Question is whether it's against Mike or against all of us.
The Harley rumbles to life beneath me. I should head home. Should call Will, update the brothers, prepare for tomorrow's scene processing. Instead, I sit on the bike and stare at the ruins of The Anchor, watching smoke curl up from the wreckage. The building Mike built with his own hands, his own money, his own sweat. Gone in less than an hour because someone decided the Brotherhood needed to burn.
Multiple fires. One insurance investigator. And a pattern connecting them all through the Iron Brotherhood.
The insurance investigator thinks my family is behind these fires. Tomorrow night, I sit in Church with my brothers and figure out who wants us destroyed. But right now, all I can do is commit this scene to memory. The smell of it. The devastation. The look on Mike's face when he realized someone had taken his dream and turned it to ash.
Scenes from Yemen hit before I can lock it down. The compound. Fire and screaming. My call coming too late.
I shove it back where it belongs. That was then. This is now. Different variables, different people counting on me to get it right.
I won't fail twice. I pull out onto the highway and open the throttle. Tomorrow I’ll deal with the fallout from these fires. But right now, I memorize the ruins in my rearview mirror.
Multiple fires. One arsonist. I will find the bastard, and put an end to this.
2
MIRA
Four fires. Four Brotherhood-connected businesses. Two insurance claims with my company.
I stare at the spreadsheet on my laptop screen, and the pattern is unmistakable. Insurance fraud always follows patterns—people think they're clever, but desperation makes them predictable. Multiple fires over the past several months, each one involving a different property and a different owner, but the connection between them is obvious once you know where to look.
The Iron Brotherhood is running a protection racket, burning out their own members who need the insurance money. Classic organized crime.
