Page 55 of Tater
Ren found the crate Sac had flagged—its label matched the manifest: Horizon-17. A lock. A sticker. Her knife made shortwork of both. Inside lay layers of paper and plastic sleeves full of numbers, signatures, and destinations that linked Idaho to Cleveland to ports farther south.
“That’s our proof,” she said. “Bag it.”
They did.
Then came the shouts.
The camera feed must’ve jumped live again. Boots hit concrete, heavy, fast.
“Move!”
Smoke laid a small charge on a forklift to distract, light flashing white in the dark. They slipped through smoke and noise, hearts in their throats, Ren’s pocket heavy with the papers and the old chain that never stopped reminding her of what waited back home.
Outside, the air tasted clean again. For a heartbeat they thought they’d made it.
Then gunfire cracked the night.
Eagle and Brick were already in position when the shots started.
They saw the van roll from the side gate—black, unmarked, plates gleaming in the floodlight.
“Transit,” Eagle muttered, reading the license plate number into his mic. “That’s our ride.”
Brick laid the strip across the gravel road. The van hit it hard, tires blowing in twin bursts. Metal screamed. The vehicle lurched sideways and stopped dead.
Men spilled out—unpatched, armed, efficient. Not Hades Hellhounds Hounds, not street. Cartel muscle.
Eagle fired a warning round; Brick moved wide, flanking.
Through the noise, Ren’s team emerged from the dark carrying the rucksack. Her eyes met Eagle’s—brief, sharp, just enough.
Then everything erupted: muzzle flashes, the stink of gunpowder, the whine of a ricochet off steel. Ren stayed low, returning fire only when she had a clean mark. Smoke dragged Billy behind a crate.
The dragon wanted loose. She felt its breath under her skin, hot and demanding. She kept it caged. Not tonight. Not for this.
When the echo finally died, three cartel men were down, and two others cuffed. The van’s cargo was intact, its GPS blinking coordinates.
Eagle kicked a weapon away and nodded to Brick. “Get the plates. Get the faces.”
They did—photos, serials, proof.
Ren looked down at her hands, streaked with someone else’s blood, and whispered to herself, “This isn’t over. It’s just started.”
CHAPTER 33
The Call Back Home
Boise’s dawn came pale and raw.
Sac’s feed flickered to life on the projector—a grainy dock cam showing the same van, same men, loading new crates onto a barge two states away.
“They’re fast,” Sac said over the speaker. “Too fast. They had a backup ready.”
Tater leaned forward on his elbows. “You get faces?”
“One clean shot of the suit—Hector Sanchez himself. You were right, brother. He’s running the money.”
A low curse rolled through the room.
