Chapter 27
South Route Recon
The highway stretched long and empty beneath the midday sun, heat miraging off the road.
Eagle rode point, his patch dark against the glare, Brick running tight on his flank. They’d ridden this stretch of road a hundred times, but it felt different now—every turn heavy, every mile humming with the promise of trouble.
The south route took them through the lowlands first—flat, quiet, broken by stretches of pine and water. The air smelled of diesel, swamp, and something faintly burnt that neither of them mentioned.
A few miles past the old bridge, Eagle lifted a hand and slowed. Brick pulled up beside him, engine idling low.
“You feel that?” Eagle asked.
Brick squinted into the distance. “Yeah. Road’s too clean. No rigs, no locals, nothin’.”
Eagle nodded. “Hades Hellhounds’ve been here. They’re movin’ supplies somewhere close.”
They rolled off the highway onto a side road—gravel crunching under their tires, trees pressing in tight. About a mile down, they found what they were looking for.
An old grain warehouse, long abandoned. Faded lettering on the side read Lewiston Milling Co. The doors were chained, but fresh tire tracks scored the mud out front.
Eagle killed his engine and dismounted. The heat hit him hard, thick, and buzzing with flies. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Brick nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. “If Shadow had half a brain, this is where he was funnelin’ their stash.”
“Yeah, well, now it’s whoever took over.”
They circled the building, keeping low. Through a cracked window, Eagle spotted movement—two men, unpatched but armed. The smell of fuel and gun oil drifted out into the heat.
Brick leaned close. “You wanna call it in?”
“Not yet,” Eagle said. “I wanna see who’s signin’ the checks.”
They crouched behind a rusted truck, watching. Another man came out of the shadows inside—older, cleaner. Not a Hellhound. No patch, no cuts, just a pressed shirt and expensive boots that had no business in a warehouse like this.
He handed one of the bikers a thick envelope. “Shipment goes north tonight,” the man said, his accent not local. “The Bastards need to feel the pressure before the weekend.”
Eagle’s jaw tightened. Brick mouthed it silently beside him. “Bastards.”
The man continued, voice sharp. “And tell your president—what’s his name? ‘Fang’? —that the deal holds. The Mexicans expect results. No delays.”
Brick’s eyes went wide. “Cartel. Son of a bitch.”
Eagle pulled out his phone, snapping two quick shots through the window before sliding it back into his vest.
Then, a shout from inside. One of the guards had stepped out, eyes sweeping the yard. “Hey! You hear that?”
“Move,” Eagle hissed.
They sprinted for the bikes, gravel flying underfoot. Engines roared to life just as the first bullet cracked through the air, pinging off the rear fender.
Eagle gunned the throttle, Brick right behind him. The warehouse vanished in the dust as they hit the highway again, tires screaming.
When they were finally clear, Brick let out a breath. “They’re runnin’ with the damn cartel, Eagle. That’s suicide.”
“Yeah,” Eagle said, voice grim. “And they just put the Bastards at the top of the hit list.”
He twisted the throttle harder. “Let’s get home.”
The afternoon heat had turned the compound into a shimmer. The boys who weren’t on recon were working on bikes or cleaning weapons, anything to keep their hands busy.
Tater sat at the workbench out back, sharpening his knife in slow, steady strokes. The sound of steel on stone was rhythmic, grounding. Ren leaned against the doorway behind him, the chain dangling loosely from her fingers.
“Feels wrong, waitin’ like this,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “Recon’s part of the fight. You know that.”
“I do,” she said, “but it doesn’t make the air any lighter.”
He set the knife down, wiped the blade with a rag. “You don’t like sittin’ still.”
She gave me a small laugh. “Never have.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Ain’t a bad thing. But this time, we play it smart. Let Eagle and Brick bring back something solid before we move.”
She walked over, setting the chain beside the knife. “You think they’re ready for this war?”
Tater looked at her for a long second. “Ready or not, it’s comin.’ Shadow’s gone, but that don’t mean the fire dies with him.”
Before she could answer, his burner phone buzzed on the table. A single vibration—Eagle’s code for urgent.
Tater grabbed it. “Talk.”
Eagle’s voice was rough, wind cutting across it. “We found their base, Prez. Old warehouse off Lewiston. Hounds are stockpiling heavy—guns, fuel, maybe more.”
“Any leadership?”
“Yeah. And you ain’t gonna like it. They got new backing. Cartel money. Some slick bastard in a suit givin’ orders. Called one of ‘em ‘Fang.’ Looks like he’s the new Prez.”
Ren froze, eyes narrowing. “Fang?” she mouthed.
Tater’s expression darkened. “They mention us?”
“They did more than mention,” Eagle said. “Said the Bastards need to ‘feel the pressure before the weekend.’ They’re comin’ for us, Tater. This ain’t just revenge—it’s a contract.”
Tater’s jaw worked tight. “You boys get clear?”
“Barely. Got proof, got faces. Sendin’ pics now.”
The line crackled, then went dead. Seconds later, the phone vibrated again—a file drop.
Tater opened it, thumb scrolling through blurred photos until one stopped him cold.
Ren leaned in beside him.
Three Hades Hellhounds in front of a black van, crates behind them. And the man giving the orders—pressed shirt, clean boots, slick smile—someone she’d seen once before.
Her breath caught. “Hector Sanchez.”
Tater frowned. “You know him?”
“Cartel liaison,” she said quietly. “Shadow met him once when we were still runnin’ jobs down south. If Sanchez is in bed with the Hounds, this isn’t just a club war. It’s expansion.”
Tater’s hand closed into a fist. “Then we cut it off before it spreads.”
Ren nodded. “We take out their funding, their link to the cartel, and Fang falls with it.”
He looked at her, that quiet fire back in his eyes. “You got somethin’ in mind?”
She smiled faintly. “Always.”
He leaned back, watching her—the set of her jaw, the light in her eyes, the dragon just barely shimmering beneath her skin.
“Alright,” he said finally. “Then we do it your way first. Quiet. Clean. Then if they don’t listen…”
Her voice finished his thought for him. “We burn it down.”
He grinned. “Now you’re speakin’ my language.”