"Told them to answer your questions." Cole moves into the room, and I track every step. His movements are economical, precise. Each footfall deliberate, closing distance in a way thatfeels inevitable rather than aggressive. He pours his own coffee, and suddenly he's close. Close enough that I catch motor oil and leather under the coffee smell. Close enough that I'm aware of the space between us, how he commands the room without effort.
This is dangerous territory. Awareness like this has no place in a federal investigation. This gets people compromised, gets cases thrown out, gets careers destroyed.
But I can't make myself step back.
"You don't trust easy," Cole says. Not a question, just observation. The same flat tone he'd use to note weather conditions or enemy positions.
"UC work teaches you not to." I keep my voice level. Professional. "Three years undercover means three years of everyone lying to you, including yourself."
"Devils MC in Nevada." He says it casual, like he's commenting on the weather. Like he hasn't done a deep background check that probably goes further than my official personnel file. "That was a long op. Dangerous one."
I don't ask how he knows. Cole's the type who pulls backgrounds on anyone who poses a potential threat. Former military with enough specialized training to recognize the kind of operational security that comes from classified work. The kind of man who knows exactly how much pressure to apply before something breaks, and whether breaking it serves his purpose.
"It was." I set my mug down, realize his hand is right next to mine on the counter. Close enough to touch. His fingers are scarred, callused. Working hands, but also hands that have done things that don't show up in official records. "But it ended with arrests and RICO charges, so worth it."
"Worth three years of your life pretending to be someone else?"
"Worth taking down people who traffic violence and fear." I meet his eyes. Bad idea. His gaze is dark, focused, unreadable in the way that comes from years of keeping classified thoughts locked down. "Yeah. It was worth it."
For a long moment, neither of us moves. His hand is inches from mine. I'm aware of every point where we're close but not touching. Aware of the tension building in the space between us, and the calculation happening behind those dark eyes. He's deciding something. Whether I'm threat or asset. Whether my professional boundaries are worth respecting or worth testing.
Whether the federal agent in his shop is someone he can work with or someone he needs to neutralize.
Something shifts in his posture, his attention sharpening. He recognizes something in me. Sees that I'm not backing down, not intimidated by the badge or the authority or the three years I spent learning to survive in exactly this violent world.
Delta Force doesn't teach people to follow rules. It teaches them to accomplish the mission by whatever means necessary, and to sleep soundly after.
Then voices in the shop break the moment. Someone calling for Cole about a parts delivery. He steps back, and the tension breaks like a held breath releasing. But something in his eyes tells me the calculation isn't finished. Just paused.
"Let me know if you need anything," he says, and leaves me standing there with my coffee and the acute awareness that Cole Holloway just tested my boundaries without ever actually crossing them. Delta Force precision. Know exactly where the line is, and how close you can get without triggering the response you're measuring.
I take a minute to collect myself before heading back out. I need to maintain my federal authority. The investigation comes first.
Even if some part of me doesn't want it to.
Danny's next. He handles the financial processing and bookkeeping, younger than the others, late twenties. Former Army like Axel but with an accounting degree earned after discharge.
He's nervous in a way the others weren't. He keeps glancing toward the shop, fingers tapping against the table. I read it as discomfort with authority and formal questioning, not guilt.
As I'm setting up my notes, Tate walks past and claps Danny on the shoulder. "Relax, kid. She's not the IRS."
"Could be worse," Shaw adds from across the shop. "Could be your ex-wife's lawyer."
Danny's tension breaks slightly. "Fuck you, Shaw. At least I got married. You're married to the fire department."
"Fire department doesn't leave me for my best friend," Shaw shoots back.
The ball-busting helps Danny relax. By the time the others move on, his shoulders have dropped and the nervous energy has eased. These men use humor to defuse tension, to support each other without getting soft about it.
"The payments for these ghost orders," I pull up the financial records. "They went through your system. Did anything seem off about them?"
"Not at the time." Danny swallows. "They looked like normal payments. Customer accounts with payment history, amounts that matched the work orders. I process a lot of transactions. These didn't raise flags."
"But looking back now?"
"Looking back now, they're too clean." He leans forward, pointing at the screen. "Normal customers have payment variations. They negotiate prices, ask for discounts, change specifications that affect cost. These orders? Exact amounts, paid in full upfront, no modifications or adjustments. That's unusual but not impossible."
"Do you remember the customer who came in asking questions about shipping and operations? October, day after Nash's birthday?"
