Page 52 of Tater
Lines in the Dirt
They showed up like thunder—two bikes cutting through the thin afternoon light, engines coughing to a stop in a spray of mud. The yard went quiet the way it always did when bad news rode up; heads turned, tools were set down, cigarettes paused mid-air.
Eagle kicked his helmet off first, face shaded by a scowl that didn’t need words. Brick stayed mounted a beat longer, then clambered down, shoulders wide, jaw tight. They came to the porch straight to the door—no small talk, no bullshit.
Tater was already at the head of the church table, Ren to his right. The room smelled of coffee gone cold and oil. The patch on the wall seemed smaller today, or maybe it was just heavier.
Eagle dropped a small case on the table and pushed it open. Inside were the pics and the quick video Brick had grabbed—frames of men unloading crates, a black van with a cartel sigil half-seen in shadow, and that clean-dressed liaison barking orders like he owned the place.
Brick didn’t wait for anyone to ask. “Got what we needed. That warehouse out Lewiston’s hot—guns, fuel, crates with foreign stamps. People in suits movin’ with the Hade Hellhounds. Not a local job.” He spat on the floor. “They’re tied in deep.”
Eagle’s voice was flat. “Cartel money buys muscle and silence. That suit’s the one callin’ the shots. He’s the new face—Fang, or Hector Sanchez, if the kid in the vid’s right. He’s move-in ready.” He slid a photo forward—Sanchez mid-gesture, sleeves rolled, envelope in hand. “That’s your liaison.”
Ren studied the image, jaw working. “Sanchez’s people don’t play small. If he’s stake holding the Hades Hellhounds, this isn’t a turf scrape. It’s supply and route control. They want leverage.” She tapped the picture. “They wanted us blamed for Shadow. Now they’re setting the table for a bigger push.”
Silence sat heavy for a second—every man at the table felt the scope of it.
Tater’s hands went flat on the wood. “Names, faces, times. Give them to me.” He looked around the circle. “Eagle, Brick—who’s with you on the run tonight? We don’t poke the hornet’s nest blind.”
Eagle met his eye. “We can hit recon again. Get numbers on men, guards, what nights they move. But we should call in a prod: cut their cash flows first—drivers, drop points, anything tied to that suit’s paperwork. Without fuel and weapons, they’re nothing.”
Patch leaned in. “We burn their supply and ghost out. No big fights, no looks. Ren—this your field?”
Ren’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I’ll take a ghost team. Quiet in, quiet out. I know how they move. I want two, Smoke, and Billy. Tater, I want you to run point on the distracters. Open the road if we need to push out fast.”
Tater glanced at her, then the rest. “You run that clean. I’ll keep the muscle ready. If it blows, we close ranks. No one goes solo, no one gets left.”
Brick nodded, dark and certain. “We got a list. We cut one tendon and watch the rest fold.”
Eagle folded his arms. “We hit tonight. If Sanchez’s men move supplies before dawn, we cripple him before his network wakes up. If we wait, he buries deeper.”
Tater rubbed his jaw, eyes sharp. “Alright. Split it like this: Eagle and Brick take the north route—jack points, trap cameras, watch the van routes. Ren’s team goes silent into the warehouse corridors at dark. I’ll have two intercept teams ready outside, and we’ll keep a pickup team on the highway if things get hot.”
He looked at each of them in turn, slow and certain. “No glory runs. Smart hits. Kill the money, choke the routes, then—if he don’t fall—we make sure he can’t stand.”
Ren’s gaze met his. “We do it together.” She tapped the photo of Sanchez. “Then we make his world small.”
Eagle cracked his knuckles, the men around the table settling into the plan like wolves drawing a line. The phones buzzed as riders confirmed positions, helmets came up, maps got thumbed. Outside, the bikes were already rolling.
Tater left the final word hanging over them as the room emptied and boots hit the porch: “Bring proof. Bring the heads. Bring him down.”
They moved out—quiet, practiced, a machine that had been welded by nights like this. The war had widened, but the Bastards had a plan. And in that dark, cramped church with photos on the table and the weight of revenge in the air, they all felt the certainty: whatever came next, they’d face it together.
CHAPTER 29
Long Reach
He stepped out of the church into the cold afternoon air, phone already warm in his palm. The yard hummed behind him—bikes idling, boys moving like shadows—but this call was for a different kind of muscle.
He thumbed Sac’s number, waited through the ring. When Sac picked up, his voice came all gravel and readiness. “You callin’ to talk or you complainin’ about the weather?”
“Tater,” he said, blunt and fast. “We got movement. Need Cleveland eyes on some lanes.”
Sac—Tater’s brother, the road captain in the Cleveland chapter didn’t waste breath. “Talk.”
Tater ran through it: the ambush, Shadow, the ridge, the burned patch left at their gate, the photos from Eagle and Brick. He sent the packet while he spoke, each image pushing the weight of it further into Sac’s hands.
Silence, then Sac’s low whistle. “Hector Sanchez?” he said after a second. “Cartel fuckin’ liaison. That’s city heat and federal eyes, man. Not small-time.”
