She makes a note. "Beth Crawford."
"Tattoo artist. Her shop burned two months ago."
"After struggling financially for months. Makes fraud look attractive."
"Makes her vulnerable to pressure." I can feel my control slipping, anger bleeding through. "You're so focused on proving fraud, you're not seeing the actual pattern. These fires are attacks, not insurance scams."
"Danny Anderson. Machine shop. Just invested in expensive equipment he couldn't afford, then his shop burns and insurance covers it all."
"Covers his losses. Doesn't make him whole. He lost his business location, his customer base, months of revenue. If this was fraud, he'd be coming out ahead. He's not."
"Unless the plan is long-term profit."
I take a step closer, and satisfaction flickers through me when she tenses. "You really think someone would risk federal charges for arson and insurance fraud? For what? A payout that barely covers his investment?"
"People do desperate things when they're financially stressed."
"Yeah, they do. Like become victims of protection rackets run by people who know they're vulnerable."
She studies me for a long moment. "You're saying someone is extorting Brotherhood businesses?"
"I'm saying someone is burning them. The question is why, and you're not going to find the answer by investigating us for fraud."
My phone buzzes before she can respond. Text from Davis:
Scene cleared. State investigator says she can access with escort. You available?
I show her the message. "Scene's cleared. I'll take you."
"I can drive myself."
"Scene's under investigation. You need an escort." I head toward the exit without waiting for agreement. "And I want to make sure you see everything. All the evidence. Not just the parts that support your theory."
Outside, the morning sun is bright and warm. I unlock my truck and wait while she climbs in, both of us maintaining hostile silence.
We're pulling out of the parking lot when I see him.
Local reporter, Jimmy Fitzpatrick, standing on the sidewalk with a camera. The same guy who’s been writing articles about the fires that suggest Brotherhood involvement without stating it outright. He sees my truck and steps into our path, camera raised.
I brake harder than necessary, and Mira grabs the door handle.
"What are you?—"
I'm out of the truck before she finishes the question.
Fitzpatrick is already snapping photos, camera aimed at Mira through the windshield. "Mr. Riley! Is it true the insurance company is investigating the Brotherhood for fraud? Is that why?—"
I move. Fast. Marine training and years of firefighting have made me very good at covering ground quickly.
My hand closes around his wrist, and I adjust the angle—not enough to break anything, but enough that his nervous system registers pain. The camera drops.
"Back up." My voice is flat, empty. The part of me that spent years learning how to hurt people efficiently.
"Jesus, man, I'm just—" He tries to pull away, and I increase the pressure slightly. His knees buckle.
"I said back up."
Fitzpatrick scrambles backward the moment I release him, cradling his wrist. I pick up the camera, remove the memory card, pocket it, and hand the camera back.
