Chapter 14 Gage
FOURTEEN
GAGE
We roll up to Keller Salvage as the sun bleeds orange across the horizon.
The road narrows from four lanes to two, then to cracked asphalt that makes Bishop’s suspension groan.
No more boutiques selling overpriced shell jewelry.
No more valet stands. Just a ten-foot chain-link topped with rusted barbed wire, stacks of crushed cars, shipping containers tagged with sun-faded graffiti, and enough sharp metal to turn one wrong step into a tetanus shot.
Ron’s been around for as long as I can remember. He’s the guy who’ll get rid of your car at three in the morning and pretend he didn’t notice the blood in the backseat as long as the money’s good. He’s also the guy who knows better than to double-cross us.
Which means either Ron got stupid, or someone paid him enough to pretend he did.
Bishop doesn’t slow at the gate. Gravel pops under the tires as we pass a forklift with one broken prong, a Camry with its hood peeled back like a sardine can, and a pit bull that barely lifts its head from the oil-stained dirt.
The office door bangs open before we even stop.
Ron’s already there, wiping blackened hands on a rag that was probably white once.
His work shirt has a tear at the elbow, and his gray hair sticks up where he’s been running his fingers through it.
When he spots us, his shoulders hunch forward an inch.
Bishop kills the engine. We unfold from the car in perfect synchronization, like a three-headed creature rising. Ron’s false smile flickers, then fades.
“Calloway?” he calls, forcing a smile that lands wrong. “What can I do ya for?”
Bishop’s keys disappear into his pocket with a soft jingle. “Just checking in, making sure we’re still good.”
Ron’s forehead creases. “Course we are.”
Cruz drifts right, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the yard like he’s considering buying the place. Nothing about him suggests danger—not the loose shoulders or the casual pace. But I’ve seen him break a man’s arm with that same relaxed posture, that same mild expression.
I position myself at Bishop’s left flank, close enough that Ron would have to go through one of us to get anywhere. Not that he’s ever tried to run before. But these days, I’m learning that what people have never done before doesn’t mean shit about what they’ll do next.
Ron’s gaze darts between us, his fingers tightening around the grease-blackened rag. “Something wrong?”
Bishop shifts his weight forward, just enough to make Ron step back. “That’s what we came to ask you.”
Ron forces a laugh that dies halfway. “Everything’s good—great.”
“You sure?” Cruz asks.
“Your ma and I have been working together for some twenty-odd years now.” He wipes his palms on the rag again.
I shift my weight, gravel crunching under my boot. “Then why are we hearing you’re working with another crew?”
The rag twists between his fingers, winding tighter until his knuckles pale. “You must’ve heard wrong.”
Cruz takes a single step to the right, blocking Ron’s sightline to the office. “You calling my brother a liar?”
“No—Christ—” Ron’s shoulders hunch. “No. No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not—I’m not working with another crew.”
I scan the yard. “Heard you got a Mack truck from some new faces.”
Ron’s throat works. A bead of sweat traces his temple despite the cool air. “Yeah. Walked in the yard with cash.”
“How much?” Bishop asks. The question hangs between us.
“Twenty-five,” Ron mutters, his gaze darting to the dirt.
I rock back on my heels with a low whistle. “Twenty-five grand.” That’s more than twice what we’ve paid him to take care of something for us. I meet Bishop’s gaze and arch a brow.
“That didn’t raise any red flags for you, Ron?” Cruz drawls.
Ron’s gaze skitters away, landing on the pit bull still sprawled in the dirt. His silence stretches thin.
“You in bad shape, Ron?” I tilt my head, studying the expression on his face and trying to see what he’s hiding.
Bishop steps closer, hands in pockets like we’re just catching up. His shadow swallows Ron whole. “If you needed help, all you had to do was ask. Isn’t that what a twenty-year friendship means?”
Ron’s throat works visibly, his gaze darting between the three of us like a cornered animal searching for escape. His fingers rake across three days of stubble. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?” Cruz’s voice is velvet-soft.
“Like I was working with a new crew.” Ron’s words tumble out faster now, pitch climbing. “Truck had damage, yeah. Front end was chewed up some, paint scuffed. But it ran fine.”
Cruz’s lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. The sound that escapes him reminds me of a rattlesnake’s warning. “Oh, Ron.”
Silence stretches between us. The unspoken rule hangs in the air as heavy as the smell of motor oil and rust.
Ron’s fingers dig into the back of his neck. Red blotches creep up from his collar, spreading across his face like a rash. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
Cruz exhales through his teeth.
I step forward, gravel crunching under my boot. “Who?”
“One of the long-haulers bought it two days ago.” Ron’s eyes fix on a point somewhere over my shoulder, then dart to the ground, then to the crushed Camry. Anywhere but at us. “I’d bet he’s halfway to Idaho by now.”
I shake my head. “I thought you were smarter than that, man.” No one’s gonna do business with him now that he sold something he was supposed to crush and bury, least of all Coco.
“Who’d you buy it from?” Bishop’s words slice through the air.
Ron shifts his weight to the other foot. “I don’t have names. They didn’t give any.”
“What did they look like?” I press.
Ron’s Adam’s apple bobs again. “I don’t know—I’m not good with that shit. Twenties, maybe. Didn’t recognize them.”
Cruz drifts back toward us, fingers loose at his sides. Nothing in his posture suggests tension, but I can feel it radiating off him in waves. “How many?”
“Four I saw,” Ron says, his eyes darting between us. “Could’ve been more. They had another car waiting outside the gate. Dark SUV. Didn’t catch plates.”
Cruz’s lips curve upward, barely a millimeter. “Convenient.”
Ron’s shoulders hunch forward. “I’m telling you what I know.”
“No,” Bishop says, taking a half-step closer until his shadow falls across Ron’s face. “You’re telling us what you think keeps you breathing.”
The air between us crackles like static before a lightning strike. Ron’s throat works visibly as he swallows.
“They said they might have something else for me in a couple weeks.”
Cruz goes perfectly still. His fingers, which had been tapping against his thigh, freeze mid-motion.
“And when were you planning on telling us of this little arrangement?” Bishop asks, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
Ron rolls his head from side to side, the vertebrae in his neck popping audibly. “A man’s got a right to provide for his family, Bishop. Coco knows that better than anyone.”
Bishop nods, his expression softening into something worse than anger—a mockery of understanding. “I get it, Ron. Just like I know you’ll get it when we have to terminate our arrangement permanently.”
The ruddy color drains from Ron’s face, leaving behind a sickly gray. His mouth hangs open, working silently for several seconds. “Now hold on a second. It wasn’t an arrangement like you and I have. It was jus—just a one-time thing.”
I step closer, my boot heel grinding into the gravel. “But you just said they’re gonna bring you something else? So which is it?”
“If they come back, I’ll call you,” Ron says, the words tumbling out so fast they blur together. “I don’t need to know the details.”
Cruz hums, wandering past a stack of tires. “That was quick.”
Bishop steps closer to Ron, voice dropping. “When they show up—not if—you call us first. Before they even cut the engine.” He claps Ron’s shoulder, a touch that might be mistaken for friendly if not for how Ron flinches.
Ron’s face goes pale around the mouth. “I will.”
“If you don’t, we’ll know. And it won’t be our faces you’ll see. It’ll be our brother’s.” Cruz delivers the line with such casualness, it makes the threat even worse.
We move in unison back to Bishop’s car, Cruz taking the passenger seat again.
“Think it’s them?” Cruz asks as we pull onto the main road, dust billowing behind us.
Bishop’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “Maybe.”
I slide into the backseat and try to tune my brothers out, but their voices keep pulling me back in.
Bishop only asked for backup for my physicality—not my brain—though I’ve got ideas burning holes in my thoughts.
Cruz is his right-hand when it comes to scheming and shit.
Always has been. I exhale quietly, fingers hesitating before I swipe open my phone.
I shouldn’t check the app again. I promised myself I’d stop.
But my thumb finds the tracking icon anyway.
“First solid lead we’ve had,” Cruz says, tapping his fingers against the dashboard. “How’d you catch it?”
Bellamy’s blue dot blinks at me. It feels like an accusation. The itch to show up wherever she is sits just underneath my skin, a constant companion.
Bishop rolls one shoulder. “Dorsey mentioned someone tried to offload a Mack to his kid. Kid had enough sense to pass. Made a few calls, figured out Ron didn’t.”
“If Ron was telling the truth, then they’ll be back in a few weeks. Which means they’ve got another job,” Cruz says.
“Or they’re planning another hit,” Bishop says on an exhale.
My thumb hovers over her blue dot. Three centimeters of movement and I could disable it, turn it off completely.
Instead, I just watch it pulse, steady as a heartbeat I’ve got no right to monitor.