Page 60 of Tater
Tater’s laugh was low and humorless. “Something like that.”
Sac grunted. “You two sound more married than half the men I know.”
“Hell,” Tater said, “we might be worse.”
There was a pause — just breathing and the faint hum of the line.
“Look,” Sac said finally, “we traced Sanchez’s money back to three depots on the I-84 corridor. You’re sitting on one of ‘em. He’s testing your ground, seeing what you’ll defend.”
“And the other two?”
“Already hot. Cleveland and Phoenix both saw movement. He’s sending crews west — not for cargo. For people.”
Tater’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning us.”
“Meaning you, brother.”
He let the silence settle. Out the window, early sunlight hit the yard, and the bikes gleamed dull and patient.
“Alright,” Tater said. “Then we’ll get ready to greet ‘em.”
Sac’s sigh came through the speaker like gravel dragged on pavement. “You always did have a bad idea of hospitality.”
“Appreciate the concern.”
“Keep me posted. And Tater?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let her burn out there alone.”
The line went dead.
Tater stared at the silent phone, thumb tapping the screen like he could will it to ring again.
Outside, Brick knocked once on the doorframe. “Feed’s quiet,” he said. “Eagle thinks the Hounds are still licking their wounds.”
“Good,” Tater said. “That means they’re thinking. Thinking men make mistakes.”
Brick nodded. “What about her?”
“She’ll check in when she’s ready.”
Brick hesitated, the kind of pause that had weight. “You sure about that?”
Tater’s jaw flexed. “Ren always comes back.”
He didn’t add the part that followed — she just might not come back the same.
When Brick left, Tater sat down, elbows on knees, eyes tracing the lines on the map again. Every pin, every route, every mark was a war in miniature. He wondered how many more before the road took one of them for good.
The clubhouse door creaked open. Eagle stepped in, holding a folded scrap of paper.
“This just came in through the outer gate,” he said, voice low. “Kid from the station dropped it off. Said it was taped to the back of the supply truck that rolled through last night.”
Tater took it. The paper smelled faintly of diesel and smoke. Inside, one line scrawled in ink that bled at the edges. — S.
Tater’s lip curled. “Sanchez.”
