Or it could be completely unrelated and I'm seeing patterns where none exist.
The laptop screen dims to black. I lean back against the headboard, rubbing tired eyes. Long day. Started with serving a warrant on the Iron Brotherhood, followed by thorough search that yielded nothing conclusive, ended with hours of evidence review that raises more questions than answers.
My phone buzzes. SAC Bauman. I consider letting it go to voicemail, then answer on the third ring because avoiding my Special Agent in Charge never ends well.
"Monroe."
"Shelby. Status update on the Iron Brotherhood investigation."
I glance at the files spread across the bed. "Executed the search warrant this morning. Found no evidence of illegal weapons or modifications on the premises. Club was cooperative, provided all requested documentation. Currently reviewing surveillance footage and financial records."
"Cooperative as in genuinely helpful or cooperative as in professionally obstructive?"
"Latter. They know how to handle federal investigations without giving us ammunition to expand the case."
Bauman's sigh carries through the phone. "Any probable cause to pursue additional warrants?"
"Not yet. I've got leads on a separate property that may be connected, but I need county records to confirm ownership. Should have that within a few days."
"Days we don't have." Bauman's voice sharpens. "Portland field office is pushing back on resource allocation. Anchor Bay falls in their jurisdiction, and they want to know why Seattle ATF is running point on a local case. They want results or they want to take it over with someone who can dedicate full time instead of having you drive down from Seattle."
Frustration tightens my shoulders. "Ma’am, this case connects to the weapons that killed Blake Walsh. Same modification signature, same distribution channels, same?—"
"I'm aware of the connection. That's why I've kept you on it this long despite the lack of concrete evidence." Bauman pauses. "But we can't run investigations on revenge, Monroe. We need prosecutable cases built on solid evidence. Right now, you've got patterns and suspicions. That's not enough."
"Give me two weeks. I can build this case."
"You've got two weeks to either find evidence that justifies federal resources or we hand it off to local ATF and you come back to Seattle for reassignment."
The deadline lands like a punch. Two weeks to either prove the Iron Brotherhood is trafficking illegal weapons or watch someone else take over the investigation that might finally lead to Blake's killer.
"Understood, ma’am. I'll have something concrete within two weeks."
"See that you do. And Monroe? Don't let this get personal. Blake was a good agent and a good man, but you can't let his death cloud your judgment on this investigation."
"It won't, ma’am."
"Good. Check in with progress updates every forty-eight hours. Bauman out."
The call ends. Phone goes back on the nightstand. Evidence files scattered across cheap motel bedding stare back at me. Two weeks to find proof that the Iron Brotherhood is running illegal weapons through their legitimate business operations, or proof that they're being set up by someone else using their shipping logistics.
Either way, I need more than patterns and suspicions.
Cole Holloway's military photo sits on top of the stack. I study the image, then compare it to my observations from this morning. Same man, but the civilian version carries weight the soldier didn't. Weight that comes from choosing who lives and who dies, and living with those choices.
As VP, he protects the club's interests. Guards their operations. Maintains security systems sophisticated enough to require encrypted communications and rotating access codes—I noted the keypad system and camera coverage during today's search.
He positioned himself between me and that back hallway like a man protecting something he values, defensive rather than offensive. But special operations veterans excel at tactical deception.
Cole assessed me the moment I walked in: threat level, capabilities, potential for violence. I saw it in his eyes, the same calculation I've seen in men who've killed up close. If he wanted to appear protective rather than guilty, he'd know exactly which mask to wear.
Which leaves me unable to determine what I'm actually dealing with. He could be running a weapons trafficking operation with the same ruthless efficiency he brought to military operations. Could be the only thing standing between his club and whoever's using them.
Or he could be something darker than either option. A man who operates in the gray spaces between legal and illegal, who knows exactly where the lines are and crosses them when it serves his Brotherhood. Who'd eliminate threats without hesitation or remorse, and sleep soundly after.
Files go back into organized stacks. Evidence goes in one pile, background information in another. Blake's photos and reports go back in my bag where they belong instead of cluttering my workspace.
Tomorrow I'll follow up at their shop, Ironside Customs and check on the property records for that building behind their bar. Standard investigative work building toward probable cause for additional warrants.
