His mouth curves, but it's not quite a smile. "I tell myself my sister's safe because I made sure she is. My Brothers are alive because I taught them how to stay that way. The club runs clean because I eliminate problems before they become threats." He leans in slightly, close enough that I can see the ice in his eyes. "And I sleep fine at night, Agent Monroe. Better than most."
"Should I be concerned about that answer?"
"Depends." His voice drops lower. "You planning to become a problem I need to eliminate?"
The charged silence that follows tells me more than words would. Cole Holloway is dangerous in ways that have nothing todo with weapons trafficking. He sees through my federal agent mask to the woman underneath who lost her brother and never found justice. Who spent years pretending to be someone else and isn't entirely sure who she is anymore.
And I see through his VP polish to the Delta Force operative who's done things that don't keep him awake at night—and that might be the most dangerous thing about him. Who carries violence like a second skin and wears control the way other men wear wedding rings. A promise and a threat in equal measure.
We're circling each other, testing boundaries we're not sure we want maintained.
Tate's signal cuts through the moment. Formation's gathering for the ride back. Cole steps away without another word, heading to his position at sweep.
The return ride stretches long and tense. I'm hyperaware of Cole behind me, watching the formation but also watching me. Every hand signal I execute, every lane change I make, registers under his assessment—calculation rather than judgment.
Glimpses of him appear in my mirrors. The controlled way he rides, precision in every movement. But there are moments when he thinks no one's watching, when his expression goes flat and dead. Delta Force operative assessing threats, planning responses, running tactical scenarios that have nothing to do with memorial rides and everything to do with whatever darkness he keeps locked down.
The miles pass, highway stretching south back toward Anchor Bay. Formation holds tight and disciplined the entire way.
By the time we roll back into Ironside Bar's parking lot, tension coils tight in my shoulders. Something shifted during that ride. Recognition became awareness, and awareness is becoming something more complicated.
I kill my engine and remove my helmet, aware of Cole doing the same several bikes away. The formation disperses, Brothers heading inside for post-ride decompression, but I linger by my Triumph, trying to process what just happened. Trying to separate professional observation from personal reaction and failing completely.
Cole approaches, helmet tucked under one arm. "You handled formation well. Better than some prospects do their first ride."
"I had good training." I meet his eyes. "Even if it was with the wrong club."
"Devils MC runs tight formations because they're criminals who need discipline to avoid arrests." His voice goes colder. "We run tight formations because we're veterans who understand that precision saves lives. And because I don't tolerate sloppiness in anything under my control."
The possessive edge in that last word isn't accidental.
"I'm starting to see that."
His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and everything about him changes. Expression goes dead flat, shoulders set, that earlier calculation sharpening into something lethal. This is what Delta Force operatives look like right before they eliminate a problem.
"Security breach." He pockets the phone. No explanation, no apology. "We're done here."
Not a polite exit. A dismissal.
He's already moving toward the bar before I can respond, every line of his body radiating controlled violence. Not panicked—Cole Holloway doesn't panic. But focused in a way that makes every instinct I developed undercover screamthreat assessment in progress.
I watch him disappear through the bar to the back door, the one that leads to the pathway toward the separate building at 249 Waterfront.
The same building he deflected questions about when I reviewed shipping records with him.
Professional curiosity tells me to let it go. Wait for proper warrants, build the case through legal channels, maintain the fragile cooperation that exists between us.
But I've spent years reading dangerous situations and trusting my gut to keep me alive.
Right now, my gut says whatever Cole's protecting in that building matters.
I give him a head start, then follow.
The pathway between buildings is narrow, shrouded by landscaping that provides privacy from the street. I move quietly, years of UC work making silence automatic. Ahead, Cole enters the separate building, door closing behind him with the solid click of a security lock engaging.
I stop at the corner, watching. Brick structure, industrial architecture softened by deliberate design. No windows on the ground floor. Security cameras covering the entrance. Whatever's inside requires serious protection.
This is the building listed on one of the shipping manifests I reviewed. This is what Cole was careful not to give me access to during our meeting. This is what matters enough to make a Delta Force operator go lethal at the mention of a security breach.
