Page 63 of Tater
The mug filled. Steam rose. Ren leaned back, mind already sorting through the intel—black vans, golden gate, human cargo. Sanchez was moving something dirtier than guns now.
She sent a quick coded text to Tater through the secure channel Sac had rigged:
No response yet. Probably asleep or pretending.
Outside, a rig engine growled to life, deep and heavy. Ren looked out the window. Headlights flared, then died. The truck didn’t move.
Her fingers twitched toward the pistol under her jacket. The dragon stirred.
“They are watching.”
She took a last swallow of coffee, set cash on the table, and stood. The waitress barely looked up.
When she pushed through the door, the night was too quiet. The three rigs hadn’t moved.
But the pickup across the lot had shifted angles, its headlights off, its windows dark.
Ren pretended not to notice. She walked to her bike, keys ready, heartbeat calm.
A cigarette ember flared inside the pickup’s cab. A man’s face lit for a split second.
She knew that face.
Not a cartel man.
Hellhound prospect.
Her stomach went cold.
She swung onto the bike, thumbed the starter, and the Harley roared alive.
The pickup’s door opened.
“Hey! Ren!” someone shouted.
She didn’t wait.
Gravel spat from under the rear tire, the headlight carving a path through the dark. The truck followed, engine snarling behind her.
“Let me burn them,”the dragon hissed.
“Not yet,” she said through clenched teeth.
The highway rushed back up to meet her, and the chase began.
CHAPTER 38
The Line Lights Up
Tater was halfway through rolling a cigarette when the phone on the table buzzed once—just once.
Not a call.
A code.
He straightened, thumb hovering over the screen as the encrypted message unfolded:
His throat went tight. The single word at the bottom of the message—Following—was Ren’s tell. It meant she was already in motion, already close to whatever trouble she’d just found.
