Page 53 of Tater
“Exactly.” Tater kept it tight. “They’re moving supplies out of Lewiston. Hades Hellhounds got fresh backing. If we let that stand, they choke all of our routes.”
Sac’s laugh was short, hard. “You pickin’ a fight with the wrong folks, brother.”
“I’m not pickin.’ We’re stoppin’ them.” Tater could feel the map in his head, the distance between Boise and Cleveland folding into coordinates and phone calls. “Eagle and Brick have eyes south. Ren’s set for a ghost team tonight. I need docks, rigs, anything on the I-84 flagged. I need long-haul eyes on black vans and courier numbers.”
Sac snapped into operator mode. “Odin from St. Lewis has got guys at the ports and two old favors at the terminal. Luis at the docks owes me and he’ll watch container manifests and flag anything off. Hef and Junior can check the rigs on the I-84 runs. If a black van hits a transfer point, I’ll have pics and plates. No firefights unless they force it. Let me make some calls.”
Tater nodded though Sac couldn’t see it. “Good. If they move on the Riverfront, call it loud. We can’t have cartel money hiding in plain sight.”
“Copy.” Sac promised the feed. “I’ll hook you into the dock watch and the long-haul reports. If that suit’s moving product, he’s got a face somewhere—hotel, warehouse, a contact who likes being seen.”
“How fast?” Tater asked.
“An hour for docks, two for rigs. If I don’t call back assume I’m leaning men to the yard,” Sac said. “Cleveland and St. Lewis will choke the flow where we can. We can’t ride down, but we can starve his routes.”
Tater let out a breath that was half relief. “Keep us keyed. If Sanchez shows up at a yard or a drop, we need proof—names, plates, paperwork.”
“And if they push on the Bastards?” Sac’s voice hardened. “You want a fight or cover?”
“Cover. Cut the legs first.” Tater’s answer was steady. “Then we close the noose.”
Sac softened for a second—blood and brother, not club business. “You see her, Tater?”
His thumb found the dent in the chain at his belt. “Yeah.”
“Keep her close,” Sac said flatly. “Bring her back if you can.”
“You too,” Tater replied. “Keep Cleveland tight.”
They ended quick—plans, feeds, favors traded like currency. Tater hung up and looked at the clubhouse spread: maps, faces, radios coming alive. Boise to Cleveland, a hundred and fifty degrees of country between them, and yet the line between the chapters felt shorter for the first time since the ambush.
“Sac’s on the docks and rigs,” he told Ren when he went back inside. “Cleveland’s feeding us manifests and plate reads. They’ll choke Sanchez’s lanes if he tries to push north.”
She watched him, then nodded. “Then we hit the heart while their hands are tied.”
Tater set his jaw. “We do it clean.”
Outside, the Bastards readied—the war was about to widen, and now they had reach in the right places.
CHAPTER 30
The Net Tightens
Sac’s phone buzzed in his hand like a live thing. He was in the back room of the Cleveland hangout, lonely light over a scarred table, a spread of manifests and sticky notes that smelled like diesel and takeout. He’d already pulled the dockfeed Luis sent—timestamps, container numbers, the one rig Rook flagged with a new driver last night—and he was stitching it into something Tater could use.
He hit the line to Eagle first, then Brick on the three-way. The road noise came through faint; they were moving, still—eyes on the south run. Sac didn’t waste seconds.
“Eagle, Brick—got you a deck,” he said. “Listen up.”
He dropped the manifests into the chat and talked fast, precise.
“Luis at Pier 7 flagged a container off manifest at 02:10 this morning. It left on a black Ford Transit, plate C4V-9J2 (Ohio reg). Video from the dock cam shows a man in a pressed shirt—same suit from Tater’s packet—loading two sealed crates. Time stamp matches the receipt.”
He let that sit half a beat, then continued. “Junior messaged back: rig ID Horizon-17 took a reroute at 03:45, driver name’son the manifest as Marcos R.—not on any usual run lists. Hef flagged two transfer points on I-84 same van GPS ping and then ghosted. That’s your route.”
Brick swore low. Eagle’s voice tightened. “Can you get plates moving?”
“Already done.” Sac transferred a cropped frame—grainy but clear enough. “That van’s black, matte—no commercial markings. Plate’s been run through a burner—clean through normal checks but the VIN’s been swapped. That’s cartel-level. I’ve put Luis on watch for the van’s return window; he’ll message you live if it shows.”
