My next visit to Ironside Customs I arrive with a list of names, a body camera clipped to my jacket, and my tablet loaded with investigation materials—gun show vendor photos, shipping manifests, the evidence that brought me to Anchor Bay. Members of the Iron Brotherhood working at the shop need to be interviewed separately, away from Cole's presence, away from the group dynamic that makes people protect their own.
I know how this works. Same questions for each person, compare the answers, watch for the tells that separate truth from cover story.
Tate Morrison agrees to go first. The Road Captain follows me to a corner table off the shop floor, movements casual but eyes tracking every detail. He's assessing me the same way I'm assessing him. Former military, probably special operations based on the controlled stillness and the way he cleared the room before sitting with his back to the wall.
Through the window into the shop, I catch Cole at his desk in the office. He's supposed to be working, but his attention keeps tracking to where Tate and I sit. Surveillance, not supervision.He's monitoring without interfering, but making damn sure I know he's aware of every word exchanged.
I focus back on Tate. "Appreciate your cooperation."
"Cole said to answer your questions." Tate leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's comfortable, assessing me the same way I'm assessing him. "So ask."
"How long have you worked at Ironside Customs?"
"Since we opened."
"What's your role?"
"Road Captain for the club, shop manager for the business. Handle logistics, scheduling, make sure builds get done on time and customers stay happy." His tone stays level, factual. No embellishment.
Before I can ask my next question, Nash walks past carrying engine parts. "Hey Tate, remember Portland when your bike threw a rod doing ninety on I-5?"
Tate doesn't look away from me, but his mouth twitches. "That was Nash's bike. My bike doesn't throw rods because I actually maintain my shit."
"Your bike doesn't go ninety," Nash calls back, grinning.
"My bike goes plenty fast when I'm not hauling your sorry ass out of trouble."
The exchange is easy, familiar. Years of shared history in the casual ball-busting. Nash laughs and disappears into the shop, and Tate returns his full attention to me like the interruption never happened.
I make a note. This casual interaction tells me as much as formal answers would. These men have been through things together. They trust each other. Bonds like that make them either completely loyal or completely complicit.
"In the past six months," I continue, "have you noticed any unusual customer interactions? People asking questionsthat seemed off, requests that didn't track with normal custom work?"
Tate considers this. Not rushing to answer, actually thinking about it. "We get all types. Guys who want show bikes they'll never ride, rich assholes trying to buy authenticity, collectors looking for specific vintage parts. 'Unusual' is relative."
"Anyone stand out? Someone who seemed more interested in the shop operations than the actual work?"
"Yeah, actually." Tate's eyes narrow slightly. "Couple months back. Guy came in asking about custom work for a bike he was supposedly building for a friend. Asked detailed questions about our capabilities, turnaround times, shipping logistics."
My attention sharpens. "What made him memorable?"
"The questions were too detailed for someone who wasn't doing the work himself. Most guys who commission builds for friends, they care about the end result. This guy wanted to know about our process. How we track orders, how we coordinate with suppliers, where we ship completed work."
I pull up gun show footage on my tablet, scrub to frames showing faces near vendor areas. "Any of these people look familiar?"
Tate studies the images, then taps one. Older guy, weathered face, leather vest. "That's him. Pretty sure that's the guy."
I note the timestamp, then cross-reference with the shop's visitor logs—Cole provided digital access this morning along with the other records I requested. "What date did he come in?"
"Day after Nash's birthday. Early October."
I pull up October's logs. No record of anyone matching that description on that date. "You're sure about the timing?"
"Yeah. We'd all been at the bar the night before. I remember because I was hungover as hell and this guy wouldn't shut up."
Someone scrubbed the records. I make detailed notes, already forming the pattern in my mind.
Through the window, Cole's still watching. Not constantly, but regularly enough that I'm aware of it. The weight of his attention is different from the casual wariness of the other Brothers. More focused. More intense.
