"Shooting at a gun show in Portland," she says. "Modified weapons, multiple casualties including the vendor who was selling them. Witnesses saw someone confront the vendor about the modifications before shots were fired."
The tactical part of my brain shifts into threat assessment mode. "Related to the investigation?"
"Unknown. Could be our operation falling apart, could be unrelated gang violence, could be a buyer who got cheated." She meets my eyes, and I see the calculation happening. "But the timing's suspicious. If someone's cleaning house, eliminating connections before we can follow the trail, this fits the pattern. Or it could be exactly what it looks like—wrong place, wrong time. I need to verify before I jump to conclusions."
"Either way, you need to check it out."
"That vendor might have been one of the people receiving your ghost orders. If this is connected—and that's a big if—whoever's running the operation is escalating faster than I expected." She pauses. "But it could also be completely unrelated. Gang violence at gun shows isn't uncommon. I can't afford tunnel vision on this."
"Which means the shop could be next. The Brotherhood." I'm already running scenarios, defensive positions, threat assessments. "If this is connected, and if someone's eliminating witnesses and cutting ties, we're a liability. But if it's not connected, we're working ourselves up over nothing."
"That's why I need to get to Portland now." She finishes getting dressed. "The crime scene is fresh. If I can identify that vendor, trace the weapons back through the supply chain, I might be able to confirm whether this is connected to your ghost orders before whoever's responsible disappears completely."
"You're not going alone."
"Cole—"
"Not negotiable. If someone's eliminating people who can connect them to the operation, you're a target too. You've been investigating this for months, you're closing in, and whoever's running this knows it." I stand, already planning logistics. "I'm coming with you. You need someone watching your back, and I'm not letting you walk into a potential ambush without backup."
She studies me for a moment, weighing professional protocol against tactical reality. Then she nods. "Okay. I need to stop and pick up some things. But we keep it professional at the crime scene. You're there as consultant. Brotherhood security. Not as my..."
"Understood." I don't need her to finish that sentence. "Boundaries in public. But I'm not letting you face this alone."
We head for the exit, the intimacy of minutes ago already compartmentalized into something we'll deal with later. Portland might be connected, might be coincidence, might be someone forcing our hand. But whether it's Kline, someone else, or we're chasing shadows entirely, one thing's certain: if someone comes for the Brotherhood, they'll find out exactly what happens when you threaten what's mine.
The drive to Portland takes hours. I drive my truck while Monroe rides passenger, focused and professional as she reviews case files on her phone. The intimacy from The Forge sits between us like a third presence, acknowledged but not discussed. We both understand what just happened. We both know it changes things. But right now, we compartmentalize. Focus on the threat.
"Tell me about the vendor," I say, breaking the silence as we merge onto the highway.
She glances at her phone, reviewing the brief she received. "Male, late thirties, known in the gun show circuit as someone who deals in modifications. Goes by 'Mitch' but that's probably not his real name. Portland PD responded to shots fired, found him and two others dead. Modified weapons on scene, witness statements about an argument over quality of modifications before the shooting."
"Could be a business dispute."
"Could be." She says as I change lanes to pass a semi. "Or it could be someone eliminating a connection to the trafficking network. Won't know until we process the scene."
I keep my eyes on the road ahead as the landscape blurs past. Anchor Bay to Portland, coastal highway giving way to urban sprawl. "You trust Portland PD to preserve the scene?"
"They know ATF is incoming. They'll hold it." She pauses. "But if this is connected to our investigation, I need to verify the weapon signatures match what we've been tracking. That's theonly way to confirm whether Portland and Anchor Bay are part of the same operation or completely separate incidents."
The rest of the drive passes in focused silence. Monroe's mind is already at the crime scene, processing variables, planning her approach. I recognize the shift because I do the same thing—operator mode, where everything else falls away except the mission.
We arrive at the convention center just after midnight. Portland PD has the perimeter secured, crime scene tape marking off the vendor area, patrol cars blocking access. Monroe flashes her credentials at the checkpoint, and a uniformed officer waves us through to the secured lot.
The convention center is massive, modern glass and steel architecture that hosts everything from trade shows to entertainment events. Tonight it's a crime scene, the normal bustle of vendors and buyers replaced with forensic techs and law enforcement processing evidence.
Monroe leads the way through the checkpoint, showing her badge to the officer logging entries. I follow close, staying quiet, letting her establish authority. Inside, the vendor floor stretches out like a warehouse—rows of tables and booths, most empty now, a few still set up with merchandise abandoned mid-sale when the shooting started.
Crime scene techs work under harsh portable lighting, cameras flashing as they document everything. Blood pools mark where bodies fell. Shell casings flagged with yellow markers. The metallic scent of blood mixing with gun oil and something acrid—burned powder from discharged weapons.
A detective approaches, older guy with tired eyes and a Portland PD jacket. "You Monroe? ATF?"
"Special Agent Shelby Monroe. This is Cole Holloway, security consultant." She gestures to me without breaking stride. "What do we have?"
The detective pulls out a notebook. "Three dead. Vendor—goes by “Mitch” but no official identification yet, no wallet, no ID, probably operating under an alias. Two buyers, both locals with priors for weapon violations. Looks like an argument over merchandise quality escalated. Vendor pulled first, buyers returned fire. All three went down. Witnesses scattered, we've got maybe six statements so far, all saying roughly the same thing."
"Modified weapons?" Monroe asks.
"Yeah. All three victims were armed, all three weapons show custom work. Suppressors, modified trigger assemblies, illegal auto-sear conversions." The detective gestures toward an evidence table where tagged weapons lie in clear bags. "Your kind of case, not ours."
