The body language expert in me recognizes a dominance display. The UC agent in me recognizes threat assessment. Thewoman in me recognizes something far more dangerous than either.
I'm about to close the file when I remember something from earlier today. After the Mike interview, I'd walked past Cole's office on my way to the restroom. His door was open, and I'd glanced in—automatic surveillance, reading the environment. He was focused on his computer screen, didn't notice me passing.
Building schematics. I'd only caught a glimpse, but the image was clear enough. Floor plans. Not the shop—different structure, different layout.
I pull up property records for Ironside Customs on my laptop. Cross-reference with county assessor data. Find the second property. 249 Waterfront Avenue. The building Cole deflected about during yesterday's interview. The one listed as a delivery address in the ghost orders.
The building he was studying schematics for while I was conducting interviews in his shop.
Different structure. Separate property. Specialized layout from what little I saw—not simple storage, not just an events space.
Whatever's in that building, Cole doesn't want me to know about it.
Which means that's exactly where I need to look next.
I close the laptop, lean back against the headboard. Someone slashed my tires today. Someone altered records and created security blind spots. Someone's running a sophisticated operation using the Brotherhood's shop as cover.
And Cole Holloway is looking at schematics of a building he won't let me search.
The smart play is to get a warrant. Go through proper channels, bring backup, treat the Brotherhood like any other organization under investigation.
But the instinct that kept me alive for three years undercover is telling me something different. Telling me this isn't simple. Telling me Cole's cooperation this morning was genuine, and whatever's in that second building isn't connected to weapons trafficking.
Telling me the real threat isn't the Brotherhood.
It's whoever's trying to make me think it is.
I pull out my phone, start drafting a warrant request for 249 Waterfront Avenue. But before I send it, I pause.
Once I execute that warrant, whatever fragile cooperation exists between me and Cole ends. The investigation becomes adversarial. Any chance of working together to find who's actually setting them up disappears.
And something about the way he looked at me in that break room, the way he arranged protection without being asked, the way his anger focused on whoever slashed my tires rather than on me for bringing federal heat to his door... something tells me Cole might be more valuable as an ally than a target.
I save the warrant request as a draft. Don't send it. Not yet.
Tomorrow I'll return with harder questions. Push deeper into who had system access and opportunity. Figure out what's really happening here.
But tonight, I'm going to trust the instinct that's kept me alive this long.
Cole Holloway is dangerous in every way that matters. Smart enough to run a sophisticated operation without leaving evidence. Trained to eliminate threats with surgical precision. Twelve years in Delta Force taught him exactly where legal lines are and how to operate in the spaces between them.
But the real danger isn't what he could do to my investigation.
It's what he already did in that break room. Moving into my space with absolute certainty. Testing my boundaries with DeltaForce precision. Issuing orders about my protection like he had every right to command me.
And I let him.
Stood there and let him get close enough to touch. Accepted his protection without argument. Felt my pulse kick up watching him on the footage, cataloging the deliberate way he closed distance, the calculation behind every movement.
Three years undercover taught me to survive in violent worlds. Taught me to read dangerous men and know when to run.
The problem is I'm not running... and that should worry me far more than it does.
6
SHELBY
Dawn comes early, but my feet hit the pavement before my brain fully processes being awake. Muscle memory from years undercover, when routine meant survival and structure kept you from losing yourself completely in the role.
