The building sits quiet. No movement visible through the cameras' fields of view. No sound except distant traffic and ocean wind through the landscaping.
Cole's inside. Handling whatever security issue triggered that transformation from conversational to combat-ready in seconds.
And I'm standing outside a private building I have no legal right to enter, no warrant to search, no justification for approaching beyond instinct and the certainty that answers live behind that locked door.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. One call gets me backup, gets me a team, gets me the resources to do this right.
But backup also gets me questions about why I followed a suspect without authorization. Gets me pulled from the case for compromising objectivity. Gets me reassigned to desk work while someone else finishes what I started.
I stay where I am. Watching. Waiting. Learning what I can from the outside while my gut screams that everything I need to know is on the other side of that door.
7
COLE
The security footage plays across multiple monitors in The Forge's surveillance room, timestamp showing the breach happened hours ago while we were riding north to the memorial. Someone bypassed the upgraded cameras, disabled the motion sensors at the rear entrance, and spent time photographing the main floor before leaving a message I'm still processing.
The main floor sits empty now in the dim security lighting. A St. Andrew's cross stands against the far wall, suspension rigging overhead, padded benches and equipment arranged with the precision that comes from years of establishing a safe space. The lower level holds private rooms, each designed for privacy and consent, each equipped with its own safety protocols and emergency releases.
All of it utterly damning if it goes public during a federal investigation.
I rewind the footage again, studying the intruder's movement. Efficient and tactical. How they clear corners and check sight lines speaks to training most civilians don't have. They knew exactly what they were looking for, exactly what would cause maximum damage if exposed.
The message left on the St. Andrew's cross is photographed clearly: "Back off or this goes public."
This isn't random vandalism or opportunistic theft. Someone knows what The Forge is, knows the vulnerability it represents, and is using it as leverage to stop the investigation.
Which means whoever's running the weapons operation understands exactly how to apply pressure where it hurts most.
The back door opens, and I register Will's presence before he speaks. Years of operating together means I recognize his footsteps, how he moves through space.
"How bad?" he asks.
I pull up the photograph of the message. "They got everything. Main floor equipment, the crosses, the rigging. Enough to make it look like something criminal instead of what it actually is."
Will leans against the desk, studying the monitors. His jaw tightens as he processes what this means. "If ATF finds out during an active investigation, they'll assume the worst. Think we're running something illegal here, that the weapons trafficking and The Forge are connected."
"Destroys our legitimacy overnight," I say. "Everything we've built, every veteran we've helped find purpose after service, every person who uses this space safely—all of it gets painted with the same criminal brush."
"Options?" Will's voice stays level, but I hear the edge underneath. President mode, assessing threats and planning responses.
"Shut it down temporarily. Looks guilty, admits vulnerability, but removes the immediate leverage." I pull up the next set of footage, watching the intruder's exit route. "Increase security beyond what we've already done. Might slow them down, but if they got through once, they can do it again." I pause,weighing the option I've been avoiding. "Or we trust Monroe with the truth before someone else controls the narrative."
Will's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his tone is careful. "Some feds can be worked with. If she understands what this actually is, understands the difference between legitimate lifestyle and criminal operation, she might be the ally we need."
"Or she uses it against us. Adds it to her case file as evidence of moral corruption, leverage for pressuring cooperation, proof that we're exactly what she suspects." I zoom in on the intruder's face, but they're wearing a balaclava and avoiding direct camera angles. Professional work. "I don't trust anyone outside the Brotherhood."
"You trusted your Delta Force teams."
"That was different. Shared objectives, mutual survival, chain of command." I close the footage window and pull up the operator's movement pattern mapped against the floor plan. "This is federal law enforcement investigating whether we're criminals. Different stakes."
Will studies the pattern, recognition crossing his expression. "That movement. How they clear corners, check angles, position themselves. That's not civilian training."
"Military background, probably spec ops level." I've been trying not to see it, but the evidence is clear. "Confirms whoever's running this operation has serious training."
"Any leads on who?"
"I've been digging into the gun show circuit, cross-referencing vendors with military backgrounds." I pull up the notes I compiled last night. "Found a name that keeps appearing in the background chatter. Alan Kline—or someone using that name. Supposed dishonorable discharge from Special Forces, but I can't verify if the rumors are real or just a fabricated cover story. Disappeared into private security work, then dropped off the grid about two years ago."
