Monroe moves to the evidence table, and I follow. She examines the weapons without touching them, eyes sharp and focused. I recognize the look. She's reading signatures, comparing what she sees to patterns she's been tracking.
"These match," she says quietly, more to herself than me. Then louder, to the detective: "I need forensics to prioritize the ballistics and tool mark analysis on these modifications. Rush processing. And I need to see the vendor's booth."
"This way."
The detective leads us to a booth near the back corner, still cordoned off with crime scene tape. The table is covered with weapon parts—barrels, triggers, magazines, various components laid out for display. Professional setup, organized, the kind of display that says the vendor knew what they were doing.
Monroe photographs everything with her phone, documenting the layout. Then she kneels beside the table, examining something underneath. "Cole. Look at this."
I crouch beside her. She's pointing to a shipping label partially visible under the table edge, mostly torn away but with enough detail visible to read a partial address.
Anchor Bay.
She meets my eyes, and I see the confirmation there. This isn't coincidence. This is connected.
"Portland PD needs to know this ties to an ongoing federal investigation," Monroe says, standing. She turns to the detective. "I'm taking lead on this case. All evidence gets routed through ATF Portland office for processing. I need your witness statements, security footage from the convention center, and full backgrounds on the two buyers."
"You got it." The detective makes notes. "Your field office called while you were en route. Said you should report to FBI headquarters when you're done here. They've got a multi-agency task force spinning up—ATF, FBI, Portland PD. You're the case agent, so they want you in the room."
Monroe nods, processing. "I'll head there after I finish the preliminary assessment here."
The detective leaves us to continue documenting the scene. Monroe works methodically, photographing the weapons, the booth setup, the blood spatter patterns. I stay close, watching her work, scanning for threats out of habit.
After she finishes with the vendor booth, she moves to where the bodies were found. The victims have been removed, but the blood remains, stark against the convention center floor. Monroe photographs the positions, the trajectories, building a mental model of how the shooting unfolded.
"Three shooters, close range, mutual combat," she says, thinking aloud. "Vendor pulled first based on witness statements, but the buyers were faster or had better positioning. Vendor went down but managed to hit both buyers before he died. Everyone lost."
"Vendor was eliminating a threat," I say, reading the scene the way I was trained. "Buyers confronted him about modifications, probably threatened to expose him or go to authorities. He tried to solve the problem permanently but underestimated his opposition."
"Or," Monroe says, straightening, "the buyers were sent by whoever's running the trafficking network. Eliminating a connection before law enforcement could question him. Make it look like a business dispute instead of a targeted hit."
Both scenarios fit the evidence. We won't know which until forensics and witness statements provide more detail.
Monroe's phone buzzes. She reads the message, expression tightening. "ATF Portland. They want me at headquarters now. Task force is convening in an hour."
She looks at me, and I see the calculation happening. Professional boundaries reasserting themselves. "You can't come to the headquarters briefing. Bureau personnel only."
"I know." I do. I'm here as backup, not as official law enforcement. "I'll find a hotel nearby. Wait for you to finish."
She hesitates, then nods. "There's a Marriott not far from headquarters. Text me when you're checked in."
We head back to my truck, walking through the crime scene in silence. The drive to FBI headquarters is short, downtown Portland at this hour nearly empty. I pull up to the visitor lot.
"Cole." She turns to face me, and for a moment the federal agent mask drops. "Thank you. For coming with me. For watching my back."
"Not leaving you unprotected." Direct truth, no sentiment.
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then the mask is back. "I'll text you when the briefing ends. Could be hours."
"I'll be waiting."
She gets out, and I watch her walk into the federal building—professional, controlled, every inch the ATF agent. The womanwho surrendered completely to me hours ago is hidden again behind the badge and the authority.
But I know she's still there. And when this is over, we'll deal with what that means.
I pull out of the visitor lot and head for the hotel. Portland might confirm what we suspected—that someone's running a sophisticated trafficking operation using the Brotherhood as cover. Or it might reveal something else entirely.
Either way, the game just escalated. And I need to be ready for whatever comes next.
