Anchor Bay is quiet at this hour. Fog rolls in from the ocean, muting everything in gray. My running route takes me along the waterfront, past fishing boats bobbing in the marina, through the downtown strip where Ironside Customs sits dark and silent. Security cameras cover the parking lot where someone slashed my tires in broad daylight without being seen.
Inside knowledge. That's what it takes to pull that off.
My lungs burn as I push the pace up the hill toward the residential area. Physical exertion helps process what logic can't solve. The shipping manifests show a pattern—Ironside Customs deliveries to convention centers where illegal weapons sales happened within hours of arrival. Same truck visible in vendor photos from multiple shows. Same delivery windows. Someone's using the Brotherhood's legitimate business as cover.
Either the club knows and profits, or they're being set up by someone with access to their operations.
The evidence points to sophisticated planning. The tire slashing points to desperation. Whoever's running this operation is getting nervous, which means I'm getting close to something they don't want found.
I crest the hill and loop back toward the waterfront, settling into the rhythm that lets my mind work. This case matters more than the paperwork suggests. The modified weapons moving through the gun show circuit aren't just evidence of trafficking. They're personal.
Years ago, my younger brother Ryan was in college. Business major, worked part-time at a coffee shop near campus in Seattle. Wrong place, wrong time. Gang shooting in the parking lot, modified AR-15 with an illegal auto sear, dozens of rounds fired in seconds. Ryan was caught in the crossfire trying to get to his car, dead before the ambulance arrived.
The shooters were never caught. The weapon was never recovered. No closure, no justice, just a college kid who died because someone decided putting full-auto capability on a semi-automatic rifle was worth the money.
That's what drove me to the ATF. That's what kept me going through years undercover with the Devils MC in Nevada, watching violence and pretending not to care. That's what made me specialize in gun trafficking, focusing on the modified weapons that turn street crime into massacres.
The weapons seized from the gun show circuit bear similar modification signatures—professional machining on auto sears, precision threading on suppressors, clean file work on trigger assemblies. The work comes from someone who knows what they're doing, someone with access to quality tools and the skill to use them.
Someone potentially connected to Anchor Bay.
Blake knew. My partner understood why I took this case personally, why I pushed harder than protocol required. Hewould have told me to be careful about letting emotion compromise objectivity.
He's not here to tell me that anymore.
I round the corner back onto the main waterfront stretch, breathing hard but controlled. The Ironside Bar sits ahead, lights on in the windows despite the early hour. Several motorcycles are parked out front, unusual for this time of morning.
I slow to a walk, cooling down, and approach the building. Through the windows I can see Brothers gathering inside. Not a casual coffee meetup. This has purpose, organization. Tate stands near the center of the room with what looks like route maps spread across a table. Several Brothers are checking over their bikes in the parking lot with more attention than casual maintenance requires.
The door opens and Will emerges, carrying coffee. He stops when he sees me, evaluates for a moment, then nods.
"Agent Monroe. You run every morning?"
"Habit from undercover work. Keeps things structured." I gesture toward the gathering inside. "What's happening?"
"Memorial ride. Lost a Brother from a club up in Washington. We're riding to the service." His tone is matter-of-fact, but I hear the weight underneath. "Brothers from multiple clubs will be there."
Tate points at the route map through the window, other Brothers gathered around listening. Formation briefing, probably. Road Captain's job.
"I'd like to observe," I say. "If that's acceptable."
Will studies me for a long moment. Weighing federal agent against rider, suspicion against the fact that I showed up on a Triumph and know formation protocol from my UC days.
"You ride formation, you follow protocol," he says finally. "Road Captain's word is law on the road. You break formation or ignore signals, you get left behind. Understood?"
"Understood."
He gestures toward the bar. "Get coffee. We leave soon."
"I need to get my bike and gear from the motel," I say. "How much time do I have?"
Will checks his watch. "Briefing wraps in fifteen. We stage in thirty. That work?"
Tight, but doable. "I'll be back."
The run back to the motel is faster than the run out, adrenaline and purpose replacing the earlier processing mode. I shower quickly, pull on riding jeans and boots, grab my jacket and gloves. The Triumph starts with its familiar growl, and I make the return trip to Ironside Bar with minutes to spare.
The parking lot is filling with bikes when I arrive. Brothers are already checking gear, adjusting mirrors, the organized chaos of a formation preparing to move out.
