"And you're just finding this now?"
"Wasn't looking before. Federal search warrant yesterday made me look." Tate's not at fault here. These orders look legitimate during normal operations. Only show up as problems when you cross-reference shipping against pickup records. "Someone's been careful. Made the orders look real enough that they wouldn't raise flags."
"Who has access to create orders in the system?" Tate sets his coffee down, all business now.
"Anyone working intake. Me, you, Axel when he's covering the desk." I pause. "We've never been careful about passwords or security protocols. But the reality is, we don't exactly have a rotating door of employees. It's Brothers and people we trust. Which means either someone we trust is dirty, or someone figured out how to get into our system from outside."
"Should have been more careful," Tate says, jaw tight.
"Yeah. Should have been." I don't argue. He's right. "But we weren't, and now we're dealing with it. Priority is figuring out how the orders are getting created. System might track who logs in, might not. Need to dig into the logs, see if there's a pattern. Then shut down whatever vulnerability they're exploiting."
Shaw speaks up. "And figure out if it's internal betrayal or external compromise."
Silence settles between us. Brothers who've been through enough shit together that we don't have to explain what comes next. If someone inside is setting us up, we handle it. If it's external, we find them. Either way, we protect what's ours.
The front door opens again. Nash this time, already arguing with someone on his phone.
"No, I'm telling you the route through downtown makes more sense. Hits more neighborhoods, gets better visibility for the toy drive." He pauses, listening. "Because families actually live there, not in the industrial district where nobody's going to see a hundred bikers collecting toys for kids." Another pause. "Fine. Bring it up at Church. See if the Brothers agree with your shitty route planning."
He ends the call and looks at us. "What?"
"Toy run route drama?" Tate asks, amused despite everything.
"Mike thinks we should use the waterfront route. I'm telling him that's stupid because it's all businesses and tourists, not families with kids who'd actually participate." Nash pours coffee, movements sharp with irritation. "Christmas toy drive's supposed to help local families. Kind of defeats the purpose if we ride through areas where nobody has kids."
"Bring it to Church," I say, echoing his phone conversation. "Vote on it. Democracy in action."
Nash flips me off good-naturedly and heads to his workstation. Normal morning chaos. Brothers arguing about charity events, prospect learning kutte protocols, Road Captain dealing with shop logistics.
This is what we built. This is what we protect.
And someone's trying to destroy it by making us look like criminals.
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.
Mr. Holloway. Agent Monroe. I'll be at your shop at 8 AM to review records. Please have shipping manifests and work orders available for the past year.
Direct. Professional. No wasted words. I can respect that even as it confirms what I already knew: she's coming back, and she's coming prepared.
I text back:
Records will be ready.
No point in being difficult. Cooperation buys me control over what she sees and when she sees it. Obstruction just makes her more motivated to dig.
I pull up what I found last night. The ghost orders, organized by date and shipping location. It's not comprehensive, not a complete analysis. Just enough to show there's a pattern. Enough to prove I'm not hiding evidence.
Enough to make her think I'm cooperating instead of controlling the narrative.
At exactly the agreed time, Shelby Monroe walks through the front door of Ironside Customs.
She's wearing jeans, boots, a leather jacket over a plain black shirt. No fed suit. No badge on display. Dressed for shop culture instead of asserting federal authority.
Minimizing hostility by adapting to the environment instead of demanding the environment adapt to her. I respect that even if it means keeping my guard up. Respect makes you careless if you're not careful.
She scans the shop floor, taking in the Brothers working on various builds. Nash at his workstation, Tate in bay three with Axel, Shaw leaning against a workbench reviewing something onhis phone. Cataloging faces, matching them to whatever files she compiled before serving the warrant.
Her gaze finds me in the office. Holds.
