Page 50 of Tater
“You feel that?” Eagle asked.
Brick squinted into the distance. “Yeah. Road’s too clean. No rigs, no locals, nothin’.”
Eagle nodded. “Hades Hellhounds’ve been here. They’re movin’ supplies somewhere close.”
They rolled off the highway onto a side road—gravel crunching under their tires, trees pressing in tight. About a mile down, they found what they were looking for.
An old grain warehouse, long abandoned. Faded lettering on the side read Lewiston Milling Co. The doors were chained, but fresh tire tracks scored the mud out front.
Eagle killed his engine and dismounted. The heat hit him hard, thick, and buzzing with flies. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Brick nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. “If Shadow had half a brain, this is where he was funnelin’ their stash.”
“Yeah, well, now it’s whoever took over.”
They circled the building, keeping low. Through a cracked window, Eagle spotted movement—two men, unpatched but armed. The smell of fuel and gun oil drifted out into the heat.
Brick leaned close. “You wanna call it in?”
“Not yet,” Eagle said. “I wanna see who’s signin’ the checks.”
They crouched behind a rusted truck, watching. Another man came out of the shadows inside—older, cleaner. Not a Hellhound. No patch, no cuts, just a pressed shirt and expensive boots that had no business in a warehouse like this.
He handed one of the bikers a thick envelope. “Shipment goes north tonight,” the man said, his accent not local. “The Bastards need to feel the pressure before the weekend.”
Eagle’s jaw tightened. Brick mouthed it silently beside him. “Bastards.”
The man continued, voice sharp. “And tell your president—what’s his name? ‘Fang’? —that the deal holds. The Mexicans expect results. No delays.”
Brick’s eyes went wide. “Cartel. Son of a bitch.”
Eagle pulled out his phone, snapping two quick shots through the window before sliding it back into his vest.
Then, a shout from inside. One of the guards had stepped out, eyes sweeping the yard. “Hey! You hear that?”
“Move,” Eagle hissed.
They sprinted for the bikes, gravel flying underfoot. Engines roared to life just as the first bullet cracked through the air, pinging off the rear fender.
Eagle gunned the throttle, Brick right behind him. The warehouse vanished in the dust as they hit the highway again, tires screaming.
When they were finally clear, Brick let out a breath. “They’re runnin’ with the damn cartel, Eagle. That’s suicide.”
“Yeah,” Eagle said, voice grim. “And they just put the Bastards at the top of the hit list.”
He twisted the throttle harder. “Let’s get home.”
The afternoon heat had turned the compound into a shimmer. The boys who weren’t on recon were working on bikes or cleaning weapons, anything to keep their hands busy.
Tater sat at the workbench out back, sharpening his knife in slow, steady strokes. The sound of steel on stone was rhythmic, grounding. Ren leaned against the doorway behind him, the chain dangling loosely from her fingers.
“Feels wrong, waitin’ like this,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “Recon’s part of the fight. You know that.”
“I do,” she said, “but it doesn’t make the air any lighter.”
He set the knife down, wiped the blade with a rag. “You don’t like sittin’ still.”
