Page 65 of Tater
Brick stepped into his path. “Hold up. You go after her now, you run right into the same blackout. You can’t protect her if you can’t talk to her.”
“I’m not going after her,” Tater said. “Not yet. I’m going to meet her halfway.”
Eagle rose too. “Boise to Golden gate’s near two hours at best. If she’s being chased?—”
“I know.”
Brick sighed, tossed the rag onto the table. “Then we ride.”
Tater hesitated at the threshold, eyes sweeping the room. Maps. Pins. Coffee. The quiet hum of men pretending not to worry.
He looked at Eagle. “Leave two here. Rest of you gas up. We take the north road and cut east around the pass. If she’s moving fast, we’ll see her headlight before sunrise.”
Eagle nodded. “And if we don’t?”
Tater’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then we follow the smoke.”
Outside, the air was cold enough to bite. Engines fired one after another, filling the yard with the low thunder that meant the Bastards were moving again.
Tater swung onto his bike, the seat slick with dew. For a second, he just sat there, staring at the horizon. Somewhere out there, Ren was running toward the kind of fight that didn’t end clean.
He reached up, touched the bare spot on his wrist where the chain used to hang. The skin there felt lighter, but not empty.
“She’s got it,” he muttered. “That means she’s still breathing.”
He gunned the throttle, the sound ripping through the morning.
Behind him, Eagle’s voice carried over the engines. “What’s the plan if we hit heat?”
Tater didn’t look back. “Same as always.”
“And that is?”
“Don’t die stupid.”
Then they rode.
Back inside the clubhouse, the phone on the table buzzed once more.
Not a message.
A warning alert from Sac’s feed: I-84 corridor activity spike — three vehicles, no plates. 2:17 AM.
The screen froze on a grainy frame: a black pickup, headlights off, dust trailing behind.
A woman’s silhouette reflected in the side mirror for just a breath before the feed cut out.
Behind me, thunder rolls—and somewhere through the rain, I can feel movement on the ridge. Heavy. Familiar.”
CHAPTER 39
Fire in the Rearview
The night stretched thin around Ren as the highway blurred into a streak of silver and black.
Wind clawed at her jacket, the roar of her engine swallowing every sound except the one she didn’t want to hear—tires behind her, closing fast.
The pickup’s headlights stayed dark, but she could feel it back there, a predator’s patience.
