Chapter Five
The motor home was parked at the Big Rig Rest Stop like it belonged there, which meant it didn't.
Striker lowered the binoculars and leaned back against the Mother Road Motel's roofline, the sun-baked tar paper radiating heat through his jeans.
From the flat roof, he had a clean sight line to the truck stop a mile north—three pumps, a diner, a motel with hourly rates, and now a forty-foot Winnebago with blacked-out windows and a satellite dish that hadn't been there yesterday.
White with a tan stripe. Texas plates. Satellite antenna on the roof and a generator humming on the back bumper.
Fenton's rig. Had to be.
He pulled his phone. "Ridge."
"Go."
"I'm on the motel roof. Got eyes on a motor home at the Big Rig matching Fenton's description.
White and tan, Texas tags, sat dish, generator running.
" Striker brought the binoculars back up, scanning the lot.
"Two men outside. One at the diner window, one walking the pump islands like he's checking sight lines. "
"They're not the only ones." Ridge's voice carried the flat calm of a man who'd already done the math.
"I'm parked on the eastbound shoulder two miles out.
Jessup's got six men staged in two trucks on the highway approaches.
Gray Dodge dually running the westbound loop, blue Chevy flatbed covering the east. They're alternating—twenty-minute rotations, switching positions so they don't sit still long enough to draw attention. "
"Surveillance pattern."
"Textbook. Somebody taught these boys, or they've been doing it long enough to figure it out." A pause. "They're watching the motel, brother. Specifically the motel."
Striker felt his jaw tighten. They'd been at the Mother Road less than eight hours, and Pollard's crew had already found them. Which meant either someone had talked, or Fenton's logistics operation was better than he'd given it credit for.
He was betting on the latter. A man who could coordinate a mobile racket across five counties knew how to track a horse trailer.
"Hold your position," Striker said. "I'm coming down."
He swung off the roof, dropped to the gravel behind the motel, and walked around to Room 6. The door was propped open with a boot—Teagan's boot, scuffed and worn and sitting on the threshold like a challenge.
She was inside, cross-legged on the bed, cleaning Ginger's bridle with saddle soap and a rag. She'd changed into jeans and one of her own shirts since the predawn rescue, but her hair was still loose, still catching copper when the light hit it. She looked up when he filled the doorway.
"You've got a look," she said.
"I've got a motor home parked a mile north that matches the description of Pollard's command post." Striker stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. "And six men on the highway running surveillance on this motel."
Teagan's hands stilled on the bridle. Her expression didn't change—no panic, no fear, just that same hard calculation he'd seen in the parking lot.
"How long?"
"Don't know when they set up. I spotted the motor home twenty minutes ago.
Ridge has eyes on the trucks." He moved to the window, twitching the curtain back an inch.
The parking lot was quiet—his bike, the club truck, Teagan's trailer backed against the fence.
Ginger stood in the temporary corral, dozing in the afternoon heat.
"They followed us," Teagan said. Not a question.
"Or they tracked the trailer. Fenton's the logistics man—he's got contacts on the circuit, access to competitor registrations, probably knows your truck and rig by sight." Striker let the curtain fall. "Doesn't matter how. What matters is they're here, and they're setting up."
Teagan was already moving, stepping past him to the window and pulling the curtain back just enough to look. She studied the highway for a long moment, then let the fabric drop.
"The gray Dodge," she said. "I've seen it. Lubbock, three weeks ago. It was parked outside the vendor entrance, and I watched a concession operator hand an envelope through the window." Her jaw tightened. "That's Pollard's truck. Or one of them."
"You're sure?"
"Aftermarket brush guard, Texas flag decal on the tailgate, dent in the rear quarter panel. Yeah, I'm sure." She turned from the window. "I watched that man pay protection money and I didn't do a damn thing about it. I'm sure."
"Setting up for what?"
"An assault." He said it the way he'd say it's Tuesday. "Jessup's pulling in men, staging them on the approaches, running surveillance to map our movements. The motor home is command and control. They're going to hit this motel, probably tonight."
Teagan set the bridle down. "Then we move."
"No." Striker shook his head. "We let them come."
Her eyes narrowed. "You want them to attack?"
"I want them to attack a position I've prepared. There's a difference." He pulled the curtain rod off the window—a thin aluminum tube—and used it to point at the motel room wall. "You got tape in that tack box? Markers?"
"Electrical tape and livestock markers."
"Get them."
Teagan moved to the tack box she'd hauled in from the trailer, the one that held everything from hoof picks to horse medication. She came back with a roll of black electrical tape and a fistful of thick-tipped markers in yellow, red, and blue.
Striker took the tape and started building.
The motel took shape on the wall in clean black lines—twelve rooms in a row, the parking lot, the fence line, the gravel lot behind the building where Teagan's trailer sat.
He added the road, the highway approaches, the truck stop to the north.
The yellow marker became the motor home.
Red dots for Jessup's men on the highway. Blue for the brothers.
"Three approaches." He tapped the wall with a red marker. "Highway from the east, highway from the west, and the service road that runs behind the property. The fence blocks vehicle access from the south, which means they'll come from the front and sides."
Teagan was watching his hands move, her arms crossed, her expression sharp. "You've done this before."
"I've been doing this since Mosul." He drew three arrows converging on the motel.
"They'll send the trucks first—gate crashers, meant to pin us inside.
The motor home will hang back as command, probably a quarter mile on the highway.
Jessup likes to lead from the front, so he'll be in the first vehicle. "
"How many men?"
"Six right now. But—" His phone buzzed. Ridge. "Yeah."
"Jessup just pulled in four more from the south. Another truck, this one a black Ford crew cab. They're staging at an abandoned gas station about three miles out."
Striker grinned. He couldn't help it—the math was finally working.
"Good. Let them stack up." He ended the call and added four more red dots to the wall. "Ten men, plus however many are in the motor home with Fenton. Call it twelve, maybe thirteen."
"And on our side?"
"Me, Ridge, Hatchet. Three more brothers riding in from the compound within the hour." He marked the blue positions. "Six against twelve or thirteen. I've worked worse odds."
"Seven." Teagan's voice was flat. "I can shoot."
Striker turned to look at her. She was standing with her feet planted, her chin up, her eyes daring him to argue.
"You know how to handle a rifle?"
"I grew up in a bar in Abilene. My mama kept a twelve-gauge under the register and a thirty-thirty in the back office. I could shoot the head off a rattlesnake at fifty yards before I had my driver's license." She uncrossed her arms. "I'm not hiding in a bathroom while men try to hurt my horse."
Striker studied her—the set of her jaw, the steadiness of her hands, the way she held his gaze without flinching.
He thought about the parking lot, the lead rope, the way she'd cracked Jessup open.
He thought about four hours ago, the way she'd broken free of a man twice her size with an elbow strike that would've made his old Ranger instructor proud.
"Hatchet will give you a rifle," he said. "You hold the room. Anyone who gets past us and reaches this door, you put them down."
"Done."
He turned back to the wall and kept building.
The service road became a choke point—he'd put Ridge and a brother there with spike strips and a truck blocking the lane.
The parking lot entrance got the same treatment.
Hatchet and two brothers on the east flank, positioned behind the ice machine and the dumpster enclosure where they'd have cover and a crossfire angle on anyone coming through the gate.
And Striker himself, front and center, right where the first truck would hit the lot.
"You're putting yourself in the kill zone," Teagan said.
"I'm putting myself where Jessup will be." He capped the marker. "He leads from the front. Always has. I take him out of the fight first, and the rest of them lose their nerve."
"And if they don't?"
"Then Ridge and Hatchet clean up what's left." He looked at her. "This is what I do, Teagan. I plan assaults and I execute them. The Army trained me, and the club turned me loose. I haven't lost an operation yet."
"There's always a first time."
"Not tonight."
She held his gaze for a long beat. He could see something working behind her eyes—not fear, not quite. Something closer to the look a rider gets before a rank horse comes out of the chute. The knowledge that the next eight seconds could go either way, and the decision to ride anyway.
"Where do I put Ginger?" she asked.
"Behind the building, against the back fence. The trailer between her and the road. If shooting starts, she'll be shielded by the rig."
Teagan nodded once, sharp and final. "I'll move her now. And I want thirty minutes with that rifle before dark. I haven't shot in two months, and I'm not missing when it counts."
She grabbed her boots from the doorway, shoved her feet into them, and walked out into the afternoon sun without looking back.
Striker watched her go. Then he turned to the wall—his wall, his plan, his battlefield drawn in electrical tape and livestock markers on motel drywall—and started running the numbers again.
Ten men confirmed. Probably more coming. Three trucks on the approaches, a motor home running command. Jessup leading the charge because Jessup was stupid-brave, the most dangerous kind of brave there was.
His phone buzzed again. Ridge.
"Four more just pulled in from the circuit, brother. Black Ford's got a full crew cab now."
Striker looked at the red dots on his wall. Counted them. Added four more in his head.
The grin spread slow and certain.
"Good," he said. "I was starting to worry this wouldn't be worth the ammunition."