9
SHELBY
The Portland FBI field office smells like burned coffee and exhaustion. Early morning, and the task force meeting that started in the middle of the night finally broke up an hour ago. Most of the agents went home. I'm still here, staring at crime scene photos spread across a conference room table, cross-referencing what I saw at the convention center with what surveillance caught before the incident.
Three dead at a Portland gun show. A vendor and two buyers, killed in what witnesses initially described as a business dispute that turned into a shootout. But the modified weapons on scene match the signatures I've been tracking for months, and the vendor booth is one I'd flagged in my investigation just days ago.
And now, reviewing the security footage Portland PD pulled overnight, I see something that changes everything: an Iron Brotherhood Customs van in the convention center parking lot during the incident window.
Too obvious. That's what keeps nagging at me as I review the footage for the third time.
The weapons modifications are professional—I confirmed that at the scene. Clean tool marks, precise machining,exactly the signatures I've been tracking across multiple states. Whoever's doing this work has advanced training and expensive equipment. Tactical precision doesn't advertise with branded company vans at crime scenes.
I zoom in on the surveillance still. The van is positioned perfectly for the camera angle, license plate visible, and the Iron Brotherhood logo clear on the side panel. Like someone wanted it documented. Wanted law enforcement to make the connection.
My phone buzzes. SAC Jenkins requesting my presence in his office. I gather the files and head down the hallway.
I haven't seen Cole since we separated in Portland in the early morning hours. I haven't processed what happened at The Forge the night before beyond compartmentalizing it into a box labeled "deal with later." Right now, I need to focus on the evidence. On building a case that doesn't send innocent people to prison while the actual trafficker keeps operating.
Jenkins waves me into his office without looking up from his computer. Special Agent in Charge of the Portland field office, career Bureau, the kind of administrator who sees cases as statistics that either help or hurt his advancement.
"Monroe. Sit." He closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. "I've reviewed the evidence from last night. We're moving forward with arrest warrants for Iron Brotherhood leadership. Cole Holloway, Will Lawson. Conspiracy to traffic illegal weapons, multiple counts."
My stomach drops. "Sir, I don't think we have enough for warrants. There are significant inconsistencies in the evidence."
"Inconsistencies?" Jenkins pulls up a file on his screen. "Their van at the crime scene. Weapons modified using parts that trace back to their shop. Shell company connected to vendor booth space purchased through an account with financial ties to Anchor Bay. That's not inconsistent. That's a pattern."
"The shop doesn't own a van." I'd verified this during the overnight hours while waiting for the task force to convene, pulling their business tax returns and vehicle registrations through federal databases—nothing. "Ironside Customs operates out of a fixed location. They don't have delivery vehicles, don't do mobile service calls. That van in the surveillance footage? Someone commissioned it specifically to frame them."
Jenkins dismisses this with a wave. "Could be an unreported vehicle. Off the books. The point is, their operation is at the center of this trafficking network. We shut them down, we shut down the pipeline."
"Or we arrest the wrong people while the actual trafficker keeps operating." I keep my voice level and professional. "Sir, I've been tracking these modification signatures for months. Whoever's doing this work is sophisticated, careful, methodical. This van placement is sloppy. It's either a massive operational security failure, or it's deliberate. A frame."
"You've been spending a lot of time with these bikers, Monroe." Jenkins leans forward, studying me. "Riding with them. Meeting with Holloway privately. I'm starting to wonder if your judgment is clouded here."
The accusation stings. He's not wrong. My judgment is clouded. I let a subject in my investigation tie my wrists and take me apart in ways that felt like freedom instead of submission. Trusted him with parts of myself I keep locked down.
But I'm also certain the Brotherhood didn't commit these crimes. Certain enough to stake my career on it.
"My judgment is based on evidence and investigative methodology," I say. "The Brotherhood has been operating legitimate businesses for over a decade. No prior criminal history, no flags in any system, strong community ties. Then suddenly they're running a multi-state weapons traffickingoperation using their own branded van at crime scenes? It doesn't track."
"What tracks is the pressure I'm getting from Washington." Jenkins pulls up another file. "ATF needs results on gun trafficking. High-profile cases, good press. Motorcycle club with veteran leadership running illegal weapons? That plays well. Shows we're tough on crime, supporting law enforcement, all the optics the director wants."
It's all politics. Statistics. Optics for the director. Not actual justice.
"I need more time," I say. "Forty-eight hours to verify the inconsistencies, follow up on the shell company connections, interview witnesses. If the evidence still points to the Brotherhood after that, I'll support the warrants. But rushing this could blow the entire investigation if we're targeting the wrong people."
Jenkins considers this, weighing career advancement against the risk of a botched prosecution. Finally, he nods. "Forty-eight hours. But if you can't make a case for their innocence by then, warrants get issued. And Monroe? If I find out your judgment really is compromised here, you're off this case and facing an OPR investigation. Clear?"
"Clear."
I leave his office, hands shaking. Forty-eight hours to prove the Brotherhood is innocent while hiding the fact that I gave my word to keep The Forge confidential. I can't explain how I know Cole isn't capable of sloppy operational security that gets people caught. I can't reveal that I've seen the documentation proving The Forge is a legitimate private club, not a criminal enterprise. And I've already chosen sides—another truth I can't admit.
I grab a Bureau sedan from the motor pool and head back to the field office. My go-bag is still in Cole's truck from thedrive up, but I've got my phone and can access everything I need through federal databases. I'll retrieve my gear later.
The surveillance footage from the convention center is already loaded on the conference room system. The van arrives at the convention center parking lot late afternoon. Driver exits wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, face obscured. His build is average height, lean, moves with the controlled economy that suggests military training.
I compare the driver's build to photos of Brotherhood members in my case file. Cole is taller, broader through the shoulders. Will Lawson similar build. Tate Morrison is the right height but stockier. None of them match the lean, controlled movement pattern I'm seeing in the footage.
