I read her in seconds the way I learned to read targets in hostile territory. Threat assessment automatic. She's fit, moves like someone who trains regularly. Weapon sits comfortable on her hip. Eyes scan the environment with practiced precision. Federal agent with field experience, not a desk analyst playing investigator.
In Delta Force, I'd have assessed her three different ways by now. Interrogation subject. Tactical threat. Potential asset to flip.
The part of me I keep caged adds a fourth option I'm not supposed to consider.
I move toward the front door before Will can, positioning myself as the first point of contact. VP duties include running interference when authority comes calling. I step outside into the cool morning air, pulling the door shut behind me to keep the conversation away from the rest of the Brothers.
"Gentlemen." The woman's voice is crisp and professional, carrying the kind of authority that doesn't need volume. "I'm Special Agent Shelby Monroe, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. We have a warrant to search these premises in connection with an ongoing investigation into illegal weapons modifications."
She holds out the paperwork with one hand while her other rests casually near her sidearm. Not threatening, just aware. I take the warrant and scan it quickly, reading past the legal language to understand what we're dealing with.
Search warrant for Ironside Bar, 247 Waterfront Avenue, Anchor Bay, Oregon. Specific items listed: firearms, ammunition, evidence of weapons modifications, tools and equipment used in firearms work, records of sales or transfers,surveillance footage. Judge's signature looks legitimate. Date is current.
The address is specific to the bar building only. Good. The Forge sits behind the bar, accessed through the back door and across a small courtyard. Two-story brick building, nondescript from the outside, different address, nothing that would draw attention unless you knew what to look for. The warrant doesn't cover it. Yet.
"Warrant appears to be in order," I say, keeping my voice level and professional. "We'll cooperate fully. Just tell us what you need."
Agent Monroe's gaze sharpens on me, taking in my kutte with visible assessment. VP patch, Iron Brotherhood colors, the various pins and markers that tell the story of my service and my position in the club. She's reading me the same way I'm reading her, both of us trained to assess threats and gather intelligence in seconds.
"We'll need access to all areas of the property," she says. "Business records, surveillance systems, any storage areas where weapons or related materials might be kept."
I notice the subtle emphasis on 'all areas' and my shoulders tense. She's fishing, testing boundaries, seeing how much access we'll grant beyond what the warrant specifically requires.
"Ironside Bar is a legitimate business," I tell her. "Restaurant and bar service, open to the public. We've got nothing to hide. My Brothers will show you around, provide whatever records you need, cooperate completely with your investigation."
"Appreciate that." Her eyes haven't left mine, and I'm reading calculation behind that professional mask. "You're the Vice President?"
"Cole Holloway. I handle day-to-day operations for the Iron Brotherhood."
"And the Iron Brotherhood is?"
"Motorcycle club. All veterans and first responders. We run two legitimate businesses in Anchor Bay. Ironside Customs is our custom motorcycle shop down on Harbor Street. This is our clubhouse and bar. Everything is licensed, taxed, and above board."
Agent Monroe nods slowly, processing information and filing it away for later analysis. "Mr. Holloway, we've received information suggesting that weapons modifications are being performed at one of your locations. Modifications that would constitute federal firearms violations. You understand why we need to investigate that thoroughly."
"I understand you have a job to do. I'm telling you that you won't find any illegal weapons or modifications on this property. We're a motorcycle club, not a gun-running operation."
"Then you won't mind us taking a look around."
"Be my guest. Just try to minimize disruption to our Sunday breakfast."
Will meets us inside, his presidential presence commanding immediate respect even from federal agents who probably deal with club presidents regularly. He introduces himself, shakes Agent Monroe's hand with professional courtesy, and assigns Danny to escort the ATF team through the property while documenting everything they search.
I position myself near the back hallway, the one that leads to the rear exit and the pathway to the brick building beyond. Not blocking it, exactly, but making it clear that I'm aware of the access point and paying attention to who goes where. Agent Monroe notices. Her gaze flicks to me, then to the hallway, then back to her team as they spread out to begin their systematic search.
It's about territory and control. The hallway is mine to monitor, and she knows it. In the field, we called this defensivepositioning—guard the critical access point, make sure the enemy knows you're watching.
Except she's not the enemy. She's federal law enforcement doing her job.
I need to remember that. The part of me that defaults to threat assessment and tactical response needs to stay caged.
"Records are kept in the office," Will tells her, leading the way with Danny at his side. "Surveillance system is digital, cloud-based backup. You'll have full access to everything."
Shaw appears at my shoulder, his presence solid and grounding. "They're thorough," he murmurs, watching the agents work with professional efficiency.
"Federal training." I keep my voice low. "They know what they're looking for. Question is whether someone fed them bad intel or if there's something real behind this warrant."
"We don't have anything illegal here."
