"Soon as Cole gives the word." His hand settles at my nape, fingers working the tight muscles.
Family.Not just Shaw's claim of possession, but the Brotherhood's collective acceptance. Being part of something bigger than myself, something built on loyalty and protection and chosen bonds.
Something worth fighting for.
My phone screen still glows with Sullivan's threat. I don't bother responding. Whatever game he thinks he's playing, he's already lost. With Shaw watching my back and the Iron Brotherhood providing coverage, Sullivan walked into something he can't handle.
He just doesn't know it yet.
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 scatteredthrough 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 bodypartially 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.
