Chapter 29
Long Reach
He stepped out of the church into the cold afternoon air, phone already warm in his palm. The yard hummed behind him—bikes idling, boys moving like shadows—but this call was for a different kind of muscle.
He thumbed Sac’s number, waited through the ring. When Sac picked up, his voice came all gravel and readiness. “You callin’ to talk or you complainin’ about the weather?”
“Tater,” he said, blunt and fast. “We got movement. Need Cleveland eyes on some lanes.”
Sac—Tater’s brother, the road captain in the Cleveland chapter didn’t waste breath. “Talk.”
Tater ran through it: the ambush, Shadow, the ridge, the burned patch left at their gate, the photos from Eagle and Brick. He sent the packet while he spoke, each image pushing the weight of it further into Sac’s hands.
Silence, then Sac’s low whistle. “Hector Sanchez?” he said after a second. “Cartel fuckin’ liaison. That’s city heat and federal eyes, man. Not small-time.”
“Exactly.” Tater kept it tight. “They’re moving supplies out of Lewiston. Hades Hellhounds got fresh backing. If we let that stand, they choke all of our routes.”
Sac’s laugh was short, hard. “You pickin’ a fight with the wrong folks, brother.”
“I’m not pickin.’ We’re stoppin’ them.” Tater could feel the map in his head, the distance between Boise and Cleveland folding into coordinates and phone calls.
“Eagle and Brick have eyes south. Ren’s set for a ghost team tonight.
I need docks, rigs, anything on the I-84 flagged.
I need long-haul eyes on black vans and courier numbers. ”
Sac snapped into operator mode. “Odin from St. Lewis has got guys at the ports and two old favors at the terminal. Luis at the docks owes me and he’ll watch container manifests and flag anything off.
Hef and Junior can check the rigs on the I-84 runs.
If a black van hits a transfer point, I’ll have pics and plates.
No firefights unless they force it. Let me make some calls. ”
Tater nodded though Sac couldn’t see it. “Good. If they move on the Riverfront, call it loud. We can’t have cartel money hiding in plain sight.”
“Copy.” Sac promised the feed. “I’ll hook you into the dock watch and the long-haul reports. If that suit’s moving product, he’s got a face somewhere—hotel, warehouse, a contact who likes being seen.”
“How fast?” Tater asked.
“An hour for docks, two for rigs. If I don’t call back assume I’m leaning men to the yard,” Sac said. “Cleveland and St. Lewis will choke the flow where we can. We can’t ride down, but we can starve his routes.”
Tater let out a breath that was half relief. “Keep us keyed. If Sanchez shows up at a yard or a drop, we need proof—names, plates, paperwork.”
“And if they push on the Bastards?” Sac’s voice hardened. “You want a fight or cover?”
“Cover. Cut the legs first.” Tater’s answer was steady. “Then we close the noose.”
Sac softened for a second—blood and brother, not club business. “You see her, Tater?”
His thumb found the dent in the chain at his belt. “Yeah.”
“Keep her close,” Sac said flatly. “Bring her back if you can.”
“You too,” Tater replied. “Keep Cleveland tight.”
They ended quick—plans, feeds, favors traded like currency.
Tater hung up and looked at the clubhouse spread: maps, faces, radios coming alive.
Boise to Cleveland, a hundred and fifty degrees of country between them, and yet the line between the chapters felt shorter for the first time since the ambush.
“Sac’s on the docks and rigs,” he told Ren when he went back inside. “Cleveland’s feeding us manifests and plate reads. They’ll choke Sanchez’s lanes if he tries to push north.”
She watched him, then nodded. “Then we hit the heart while their hands are tied.”
Tater set his jaw. “We do it clean.”
Outside, the Bastards readied—the war was about to widen, and now they had reach in the right places.