Page 19 of Tater
Engines answered before voices did—growling, hungry, ready.
Tater climbed on his bike. The seat was still damp from the rain. The chain he’d found sat wrapped around the handlebars, a promise glinting gold in the weak light.
“Let’s ride.”
CHAPTER 8
Scar Across the Hills
The highway opened like a scar across the hills. They rode tight, the line of them cutting through morning fog, engines hammering in sync. Wind whipped through his jacket; the weight of the cut sat warm on his back. Eagle’s bike stayed just off to his right side—always close, always watching, always waiting.
They hit the old gas station stop outside Ada County by noon. Place had been dead since the interstate reroute, only thing left was a row of busted pumps and the shell of a diner. Perfect ground for a meet.
Ghost and Mouse swept the perimeter while he checked the map again. The Hades Hellhounds’ clubhouse sat another twenty miles south. Word from the locals said they’d been stockpiling. Word from one of our own said nothing—because no one wanted to name the leak yet.
Ren should’ve been here.
He could almost hear her voice, teasing, sharp. You planning to scowl them to death, Prez?
Eagle broke the thought. “You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
He handed him a thermos. “Coffee. You look like hell.”
“I feel worse.”
He leaned against the post, watching the horizon. “You really believe it’s one of ours?”
“I believe nobody else knew she was taking that road, and some mother fucker has eyes on my woman.”
He didn’t answer.
By afternoon, the clouds broke. Sunlight hit the road hard and flat. They rode again, this time toward a stretch of scrubland known for bodies that never got found. The plan was simple: send a message, mark a border, make the Hades Hellhounds think twice.
It should’ve been clean.
It wasn’t.
They were half a mile from the turnoff when the first shot rang out. A bullet clipped the mirror off Mouse’s bike, spun him sideways. Another burst cracked the asphalt near Tater’s front tire.
“Cover!” Eagle barked, voice cutting through the chaos. Bikes split, engines screaming. Dust exploded off the road. Shots came from the ridge—high ground, well-planned.
Too well.
Tater dumped the bike behind an old drainage ditch, drew his pistol, and scanned. Shadows moved up there—four, maybe five shapes. Hades Hellhounds, maybe, but their formation looked wrong. Not wild. Military.
Eagle crawled up beside him, breathing hard. “How the hell they know the route?”
“Because somebody gave it to them,” he said.
He cursed under his breath.
Bullets tore the dirt inches from his head. He counted three mags before the return fire started slowing. Then the ridge went quiet.
Tater motioned to Brick. “Flank ‘em.”
