Page 58 of Tater
One, blow past and pretend she hadn’t seen them.
Two, Slow assess, and keep rolling.
Finally, three, stop and invite the devil into the conversation.
The old Ren, Shadow’s Ren, might’ve gone straight to three. The new one knew better.
She chose two.
She eased off the throttle as she approached, dropping speed without killing her momentum. As the headlight washed over the turnout, one of the men turned his head. Something caught in the beam—metal, worn and familiar.
A patch.
Hades Hellhounds.
Her stomach went cold, not with fear but with clarity.
The man closest to the road stepped forward, hand up—not threatening, not quite friendly either. The universal signal: we see you. You see us. Your move.
Ren’s grip tightened.
The dragon rumbled, low and eager. “Let me burn the fuckers.”
“Not yet,” she breathed.
Then she saw the second man leaning against the truck, boot propped on the bumper, cigarette glowing at his mouth. Younger. Leaner. Eyes too bright.
He wasn’t wearing a patch yet. Just a rocker. Prospect.
She made the call.
She didn’t stop, but she did slow enough to let them get a good look at her. She let her head turn just enough for them to see the scars, the tattoo curling up her neck, the way her eyes didn’t flinch from theirs.
The patched man frowned, like a dog sniffing something it couldn’t place. The prospect’s eyes widened. He straightened up, half-step forward, as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“Boss—” he said, voice barely reaching her over the roar, “that’s?—”
She was past them before he finished.
In her mirror, she saw the older one grab his arm, holding him back. No guns. No rush for bikes. No immediate chase. Just recognition sharpening the dark.
“Good. Let them wonder.”
Ren rolled her shoulders, breathing in a slow exhale.
“You run, the dragon”said. Not accusing, just observing.
“No,” she answered. “I choose when and where we fight. That’s not the spot.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” she agreed.
The next stretch of road felt like a different world. The sky opened wider, and the air shifted cleaner. But she could still feel their eyes on her back, miles later—those Hades Hellhounds, camped out on a turnout like a bad omen.
It meant the feeds were right. The Hounds weren’t just in Lewiston. They were spreading. Prospects on the corridor, patched men watching the routes.
Sanchez was building something.
