Agent Monroe takes the flash drive and tucks it into a tactical pouch on her vest. She glances once more toward the back hallway, then pulls out her phone. Two addresses. Same waterfront location. VP who positioned himself to monitor that hallway throughout the entire search. A separate building that the club claims isn't theirs, but sits steps from their clubhouse.
She's not satisfied, and she shouldn't be. All the pieces are there. She just needs to connect them.
"Mr. Holloway." She turns to me as her team begins packing up their equipment. "You mentioned Ironside Customs is on Harbor Street. We'll be visiting that location next."
"Tate runs the shop. He'll give you full access, same as we did here. You won't find anything illegal there either."
"We'll see." She pulls out a business card and hands it to me. "If you think of anything relevant to our investigation, I'd appreciate a call. We're looking for whoever's running illegal weapons modifications through the gun show circuit. If that's not you or your club, helping us find the real criminals serves everyone's interests."
I take the card, noting the embossed ATF seal and her direct phone number. "Appreciate the professional approach, Agent Monroe. We'll cooperate however we can."
"Good." Her gaze holds mine for a beat longer than strictly necessary, and I catch something flickering behind that professional mask. Assessment. Interest. Challenge. "One more thing. You ride?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Why?"
"Just curious. Saw the bikes in the lot. Nice collection." Her attention shifts to the parking area where my Harley sits alongside my Brothers' rides. "You ever get out on the coast roads? Highway 101 is beautiful this time of year."
"Sometimes. When time permits."
"I ride a Triumph. Bonneville T120. Love taking it out on the weekends when I'm not working cases." She says it casually, like she's making conversation, but I read the subtext. She's telling me she's not just a federal agent. She's part of the riding community. She understands the culture.
I take the business card she extends, and my Delta Force-trained eye spots details most people would miss. Calluses on her right hand at the base of her fingers and along her palm. Not the soft hands of someone who rides occasionally for fun. These are the calluses of someone who wrenches her own bike, changes her own oil, handles tools with the same familiarity I do. Her stance is solid, weight balanced, feet shoulder-width apart. Combat stance, but also the stance of someone who knows how to plant herself on a bike and handle it in any conditions.
Not what I expected. Not some desk agent playing investigator. This woman knows motorcycles, knows riding culture, probably knows more about MC operations than she's letting on.
The predator in me recognizes a worthy opponent. The part I keep locked down recognizes something else entirely.
Underestimating her would be a mistake.
"Triumph's a solid bike," I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. "British engineering. Classic design."
"Very classic." Agent Monroe's smile is professional but genuine. "Maybe I'll see you out on the road sometime, Mr. Holloway."
She walks away before I can respond, her team falling into formation around her as they return to their vehicles. I watch them pull out of the parking lot with the same precision they used to arrive, and something cold settles in my gut.
This isn't over. She's too smart, too thorough, too interested in things that don't quite add up in her investigation. She couldn't find what she was looking for today, but that just means she'll keep digging.
Will appears at my shoulder as the last SUV disappears down the street. "That went about as well as it could have."
"Yeah."
"But?"
"But she's not done. She saw the building. She knows we're not showing her everything. She'll dig into the LLC, figure out we own it, and come back with questions we don't want to answer."
Will's quiet for a moment, watching the empty street. Then he turns to me with the kind of serious expression that means orders are coming. "She's going to run those county records. When she finds out we own both properties, she'll come back with a warrant for the Forge. We've got maybe a week, two at most. Keep her away from it until we figure out our next move."
I nod slowly, already running scenarios. Keeping Agent Shelby Monroe away from anything is going to be a challenge. She's sharp, trained, motivated, and now she has concrete leads to follow. Once she connects the dots on ownership, she'll have probable cause for another warrant.
Protecting the Forge means protecting everything we've built. The legitimate businesses. The Brotherhood. The one place where the darker parts of who we are get channeled into something consensual and controlled instead of destructive.
The place that keeps me from becoming what I was in Delta Force.
Keeping her from discovering what the Forge really is might be the hardest op I've run since I came home. Back then, I had authorization to do whatever was necessary to complete the mission—interrogation, elimination, whatever it took.
Different rules now. Different methods.
Orders are orders. And I've never failed a mission yet.
