The answer doesn't matter. Can't matter. He's a subject in an active investigation. I'm the federal agent assigned to determine whether he and his Brothers are criminals.
Personal attraction has no place in that equation.
Eyes close. Breathing evens out. Sleep comes eventually, fractured and restless, interrupted by dreams that mix memories of Blake's death with images of Cole's assessment. Those eyes that saw straight through me, calculating threat levels while I was doing the same to him.
The alarm will sound at six. The investigation will continue. The evidence will either prove guilt or innocence.
But lying here in the dark, I can't shake the feeling that Cole Holloway is the kind of man who doesn't fit into neat categories like guilty or innocent. The kind who operates in spaces where federal law doesn't reach and moral certainty doesn't exist.
The kind who'd cross any line to protect what's his and make you question whether he was wrong to do it.
Blake used to say the dangerous criminals aren't the ones who break the law. They're the ones who make you wonder if the law is wrong.
I'm starting to understand what he meant.
3
COLE
This morning, Ironside Customs smells like metal shavings and motor oil before dawn. Good smells. Honest work smells. The kind that make civilians think we're legitimate businessmen in addition to veterans who found brotherhood when the military didn't need us anymore.
Last night, after the search at the bar, I spent several hours here at the shop going through records. Now I spread what I found across my desk in the back office, cross-referencing shipping manifests with work orders. Looking for patterns, for problems, for whatever Agent Monroe will use to build her case when she comes back.
Federal investigators don't serve search warrants and walk away empty-handed.
Better to know what's in our records before she finds it.
I've found several orders that don't track right. Custom parts purchased, paid for through what appear to be legitimate customer accounts. Shipped to convention centers. Work orders logged in our system showing modifications completed. But when I pull the pickup records, there's nothing. No follow-up appointments, no customer contact, no registration paperwork.
Could be clerical errors. Could be customers who changed their minds and never collected their parts. Could be legitimate orders that slipped through the cracks of normal operations.
Or could be something worse.
I pull more records. Go back further. I find more orders with the same pattern. All within the past months. All shipping to convention centers in different cities. All logged as completed work with no actual pickup documentation.
Someone's been running ghost orders through our books.
My first instinct is to destroy anything we didn’t give them the night before—paper records, digital files—eliminate any potential problem before it becomes prosecutable. I've done worse for less important reasons. Delta Force taught me that some problems require permanent solutions, and civilian law is more guideline than gospel when it comes to protecting what's mine.
But destroying evidence proves guilt. Proves we're hiding something. Gives Monroe exactly what she needs to convince a judge we're trafficking weapons through the shop.
Which means I need to get ahead of this instead. Control the narrative before she creates one of her own.
The back door opens. Axel, our prospect, arriving early like he's supposed to. Kid's been doing prospect work for months now, learning what it means to earn the patch instead of just wanting it. He's former Army, good with his hands, keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open.
He's also still learning the basics.
"Morning, Cole." He heads straight for the coffee maker, movements efficient.
I wait until he's poured his cup before I speak. Let him relax first. Let him think everything's normal. "Your kutte."
Axel freezes. He glances at the prospect vest he left draped over a chair near the front workbench last night. "Shit. I mean, sorry. I'll?—"
"Hang it up." I'm not angry, just teaching. But my tone's cold enough that he knows this isn't a suggestion. "You don't leave your kutte lying around like it's a jacket. You don't toss it on furniture. You don't disrespect what it represents."
He moves immediately, grabbing the vest and hanging it properly on the designated hook by the door. "Won't happen again."
"It won't." I return to the financial records, dismissing him. "Start prepping bay three. Oil change and tire rotation on the Softail. Customer picking up mid-morning."
