"Or someone inside your organization running the operation themselves."
"Possible." I don't deny it. Denying makes you look guilty. "But every person who works here is a veteran. We've got too much to lose to risk federal weapons charges. Someone's either setting us up, or someone's exploiting our shitty security protocols."
She holds my gaze. Weighing my words against whatever profile she's built.
"You could have destroyed this evidence. Wiped the files, burned the records. Why show me instead?"
"Because destroying evidence proves guilt." I don't look away. "I'm not interested in looking guilty. I'm interested in finding whoever's using my shop to traffic weapons and making sure they face consequences."
"Legal consequences?"
"Whatever consequences are appropriate." I don't lie to her. Don't pretend I operate within boundaries that constrain normal people. "But I'd prefer to let the federal government handle this one. You've got resources I don't. Jurisdiction I don't. And unlike me, you can't be accused of vigilante justice."
The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Acknowledgment that we both understand exactly what I'm saying.
She returns her attention to the laptop, scrolling through the shipping records. Takes her time with each order. Looking for patterns, connections, weaknesses in my explanation.
Then she stops. Taps the screen.
"This order here. Parts shipped to the convention center in Seattle. But the delivery address listed isn't the convention center. It's 249 Waterfront Avenue, Anchor Bay."
My jaw tightens. The building behind the bar. The Forge.
"249 Waterfront. That's the building back behind Ironside Bar. But that address shows up in the shop’s records," Shelby continues, watching my reaction. "Why??"
"Storage building. Events space. Not connected to Ironside Customs operations."
"But you own it."
"The Brotherhood owns it. We use it for private events, equipment storage, club business that doesn't require shop access." All technically true. Just not complete truth.
"Private events," she repeats, skepticism clear.
"Birthday parties, anniversary celebrations, Brotherhood gatherings." Also true. We do host those events at The Forge.Just not the events she's imagining. "It's a separate building with separate purpose. Not part of the customs shop, not part of Ironside Bar's public operations."
"But someone listed it as a delivery address for parts allegedly going into custom bike builds."
"Someone who knows our property layout well enough to make it look connected." I keep my expression neutral. "Using that address suggests whoever's setting this up knows our operations intimately."
Shelby makes more notes on her phone. "I'll need access to that building. Verify what you're telling me about its use."
Every instinct I have screams to refuse. To protect The Forge from federal scrutiny. The club's not illegal—consenting adults engaging in consensual activities behind closed doors. But it's not a place that welcomes scrutiny from people who don't understand the lifestyle. Federal agents poking around, asking questions, treating a consent-based community like a criminal enterprise would destroy everything we've built. The privacy. The trust. The safe space people depend on.
But refusing proves I'm hiding something. Gives her exactly the leverage she needs to get a warrant and come back with more agents, more authority, more power.
"It's private property used for private events. We've got nothing illegal there, but we also don't have anything relevant to your weapons investigation. It's storage and event space. That's all."
"Then you won't mind me verifying that." Her tone suggests it's not a request.
"Get a warrant." I hold her gaze. This is the line. The boundary I won't cross without legal force. "You want to search private property not connected to the business you're investigating, go through proper channels. I showed youcooperation on the shop records. Doesn't mean I'm opening every door you want to walk through."
For a long moment, we stare at each other. Wills testing. Boundaries establishing. She's pushing to see how far I'll bend. I'm holding the line to see if she respects it.
"Fair enough," she says finally. "I'll get a warrant if I need one. But refusing access to a building that's been used as a delivery address in a federal investigation looks suspicious."
"And federal agents searching private property without legal justification looks like overreach." I close the laptop. "I'm giving you evidence that supports our innocence. Showing you someone's setting us up. Cooperating with your investigation into who's actually trafficking weapons. That's more than most people would do."
"Most people aren't former military with the kind of training that teaches them exactly how much cooperation keeps federal agents from digging deeper."
