Chapter 30
The Net Tightens
Sac’s phone buzzed in his hand like a live thing.
He was in the back room of the Cleveland hangout, lonely light over a scarred table, a spread of manifests and sticky notes that smelled like diesel and takeout.
He’d already pulled the dockfeed Luis sent—timestamps, container numbers, the one rig Rook flagged with a new driver last night—and he was stitching it into something Tater could use.
He hit the line to Eagle first, then Brick on the three-way. The road noise came through faint; they were moving, still—eyes on the south run. Sac didn’t waste seconds.
“Eagle, Brick—got you a deck,” he said. “Listen up.”
He dropped the manifests into the chat and talked fast, precise.
“Luis at Pier 7 flagged a container off manifest at 02:10 this morning. It left on a black Ford Transit, plate C4V-9J2 (Ohio reg). Video from the dock cam shows a man in a pressed shirt—same suit from Tater’s packet—loading two sealed crates. Time stamp matches the receipt.”
He let that sit half a beat, then continued. “Junior messaged back: rig ID Horizon-17 took a reroute at 03:45, driver name’s on the manifest as Marcos R.—not on any usual run lists. Hef flagged two transfer points on I-84 same van GPS ping and then ghosted. That’s your route.”
Brick swore low. Eagle’s voice tightened. “Can you get plates moving?”
“Already done.” Sac transferred a cropped frame—grainy but clear enough.
“That van’s black, matte—no commercial markings.
Plate’s been run through a burner—clean through normal checks but the VIN’s been swapped.
That’s cartel-level. I’ve put Luis on watch for the van’s return window; he’ll message you live if it shows. ”
He switched channels and sent the files to Tater too, thumbing a short message: Pier 7 hit. reroute. Junior the warmap updated. Boise, Cleveland, and the south route had lines now, and Sac would keep those lines hot until someone brought him what he wanted: the suit’s face, his receipts, and a direct route to Sanchez’s money.