"Someone murdered Hartley, left his body here, then burned the building to destroy evidence," she says, lowering the camera. "When we got too close to figuring out the pattern, they killed Hartley to eliminate the connection and tried to destroy all the evidence."
"Which means Hartley wasn't the arsonist," Davis says. "He was being set up as the fall guy from the beginning."
Hartley's company was failing, and that was used as cover. All the previous fires were designed to look like either accidents or amateur arson, creating a trail pointing toward Hartley Industrial and Brotherhood conflicts. This was orchestrated from the start, using Hartley's business struggles as a convenient scapegoat while systematically targeting businesses connected to the Brotherhood.
My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number appears. I open it and ice floods through my veins.
Found the body. Now find me before I finish what I started.
I show the text to Mira and Davis. Mira's face goes pale.
"Sullivan's watching us," she says, scanning the perimeter. "He knew we'd find Hartley. He wanted us to find him."
Davis is already on his radio, calling for additional law enforcement presence. I move closer to Mira, every instinct screaming that we're exposed and vulnerable standing in this burned-out shell.
"We're leaving," I tell her. "Now."
"Shaw, we need to process the scene?—"
"The scene can wait." I take her arm and start moving toward the exit. "Sullivan is out there watching, and he just threatened you directly. We're not staying here as targets."
We make it to the bike before my phone buzzes again. Another message from the same unknown number arrives, this time with an attachment. The photo shows Mira and me standing beside Hartley's body, taken from outside the building through the collapsed wall sections.
Sullivan is here. Right now. He is close enough to photograph us and send the image in real time.
I pull Mira behind me, scanning the surrounding buildings and vehicles for any sign of movement. Too many places to hide, too many angles of approach. We're exposed with minimal cover and an unknown threat watching our every move.
"Get on the bike," I tell Mira, voice dropping to the command tone that brooks no argument. "We're getting out of the kill zone."
She doesn't question it. She climbs on behind me, arms wrapping around my waist as I start the engine. Davis is still coordinating law enforcement response, too focused on his radio to notice us leaving.
I pull out of the lot and onto the main road, immediately taking a right turn that puts us onto a side street away from the main commercial district. The bike accelerates smoothly as I open the throttle, putting distance between us and the scene.
Eyes constantly scan mirrors—left, right, center-mounted. I am looking for vehicles that match our turns, headlights that stay a consistent distance behind us, any pattern suggesting deliberate pursuit. Marine Recon drilled tactical driving into muscle memory until reading traffic flow became second nature. Spot the tail before they know you've spotted them. Create situations where followers have to reveal themselves or lose contact.
A couple of blocks down I take another turn, this one sharp enough that Mira's weight shifts against me. Left onto Morrison, then immediate right onto a residential street where morningcommuters haven't started moving yet. Quiet neighborhood, cars parked along curbs, no traffic to provide cover for anyone following.
I check mirrors again. Empty street behind us.
The third turn puts us back toward the commercial zone but on a parallel route. Anyone tracking our trajectory would expect us to head straight home or to the Brotherhood bar. Instead I'm creating a pattern that makes no tactical sense—doubling back, crossing our own path, deliberately choosing routes that force a tail to either close distance or lose visual contact.
Mira's grip around my waist tightens with each turn, but she doesn't ask questions or demand explanations. She trusts me to know what I'm doing, trusts that these seemingly random direction changes have a purpose. Her breathing stays controlled against my back, showing no panic, just awareness that we're operating under threat and I'm handling it.
At the fourth intersection, I pause longer than necessary. I scan cross streets, watching for vehicles that pull over or slow down suspiciously. Nothing moves except a delivery truck several blocks over.
The fifth turn takes us through a strip mall parking lot, weaving between rows of parked cars where anyone following would have to commit to entering or lose us completely. Out the far exit, onto another residential street, then back toward the main road through a route that involves multiple direction changes.
After an extended period of backtracking and misdirection, I'm satisfied we're not being followed. The phone has stayed silent since that last message, which somehow feels worse than active threats. Silence means planning, calculation, patience. Sullivan is confident enough to let us run, secure in his belief that he can find us whenever he chooses to act.
By the time we reach my house, Tate and Cole are already positioned exactly where they're supposed to be. Tate is at the front window with clear sightlines to the street and driveway, positioned so he can see approaching vehicles from multiple directions. Cole is monitoring the back approach from the deck, covering the rear yard and tree line where someone could approach through neighboring properties.
Brotherhood protection protocols activated the moment Will called church a couple of days ago. Every detail was discussed and voted on—rotation schedules, armed response procedures, communication protocols if threat escalates. My brothers have been rotating guard duty in shifts of several hours, with a pair of armed bikers on every rotation, positioned to intercept any threat before it reaches Mira.
Tate nods when we enter but doesn't move from his position. He maintains professional security work, the kind that comes from years of military discipline translated to civilian protection. His hand rests near the Glock on his hip, casual but ready. The radio clipped to his belt crackles occasionally with check-ins from other brothers coordinating the wider security net.
"Anything?" I ask.
"Quiet. One delivery truck, a few neighborhood vehicles, nothing suspicious." Tate's gaze tracks movement outside even while talking to me. "Cole did a perimeter walk earlier. No signs of surveillance or approach."
