Chapter 37 The Truck Stop Gospel
The Truck Stop Gospel
The place was the kind of nowhere that bred stories.
A single flickering neon sign—UCK STOP—buzzed against the night.
The parking lot held three rigs, a mud-stained pickup, and a rust-bitten Coke machine that hadn’t worked in years.
Ren parked close to the windows, back tire angled toward the exit. Always ready to leave.
The dragon inside her went still, waiting.
It understood places like this—thin places, where trouble wore a human face.
She stepped inside. Bells on the door rattled tiredly.
The diner smelled of coffee burned twice and bacon that had died for the wrong cause.
Vinyl booths cracked at the seams; a jukebox hummed a song from twenty years back.
The waitress behind the counter looked up once, eyes glazed with the kind of disinterest that meant she’d seen worse than a woman in leathers.
Ren took the corner booth, back to the wall, view of the door. Old habits.
A trucker two tables over glanced her way, then back to his pie. Another—older, with a beard that looked carved from asphalt—kept looking. Not leering, just studying.
When the waitress came over, Ren ordered coffee. Black. No sugar.
“Where you headed?” the waitress asked, voice rough with smoke.
Ren met her eyes. “Nowhere that matters.”
The woman snorted, poured, walked away. That was fine. Silence served her better.
She wrapped her hands around the mug. Warm. Solid. Real.
The chain in her pocket clinked softly as she shifted. That sound grounded her—metal and memory.
The door opened again. Cold air slid in with a man wearing a denim jacket and the look of someone who slept in the cab of his truck more than a bed. His eyes skimmed the room, landed on her, then dropped quick. Respect or fear—hard to tell. He took the stool two seats down and waved for coffee.
Ren let the quiet fill the room.
The dragon whispered. One of Sac’s lines knows this place.
She lifted her gaze to the trucker. “You run I-84 often?”
He paused mid-sip. “Who’s asking?”
“Just another driver looking for clear roads.”
He studied her for a moment, then leaned closer. “Roads ain’t clear. Not lately. Got vans ridin’ without plates, same black every time. Locals call ’em Ghost Runners. Heard they ain’t moving freight—just people.”
Ren’s stomach tightened. “Boise to where?”
“Down to the border, far as I can tell. Seen ’em gas up outside Nampa, full crew, clean suits. Not biker business—too neat for that. Smells like money.”
“Fuckin’ Sanchez,” Ren muttered.
The trucker frowned. “What?”
“Nothin’. Go on.”
He scratched his beard. “One of ’em asked me directions last week. Said he was lookin’ for ‘the golden gate.’ I told him I didn’t know about no gate. He didn’t like that answer.”
“Golden gate,” she echoed. “That’s not a town?”
“Nope. Not that I know of.”
The dragon hummed low. “A codename.”
Ren nodded once. “Appreciate it.”
The man studied her again, something cautious flickering in his eyes. “You one of them Bastards? Royal colors?”
She didn’t flinch. “You askin’ to make friends or enemies?”
“Neither. Just want to know which way to stay outta the crossfire.”
That earned him a real smile, small, dangerous. “Then keep to the slow lane.”
He laughed, low and nervous. “Yeah. Thought so.”
The waitress drifted by again. “Coffee refill?”
“Please.”
The mug filled. Steam rose. Ren leaned back, mind already sorting through the intel—black vans, golden gate, human cargo. Sanchez was moving something dirtier than guns now.
She sent a quick coded text to Tater through the secure channel Sac had rigged:
No response yet. Probably asleep or pretending.
Outside, a rig engine growled to life, deep and heavy. Ren looked out the window. Headlights flared, then died. The truck didn’t move.
Her fingers twitched toward the pistol under her jacket. The dragon stirred.
“They are watching.”
She took a last swallow of coffee, set cash on the table, and stood. The waitress barely looked up.
When she pushed through the door, the night was too quiet. The three rigs hadn’t moved.
But the pickup across the lot had shifted angles, its headlights off, its windows dark.
Ren pretended not to notice. She walked to her bike, keys ready, heartbeat calm.
A cigarette ember flared inside the pickup’s cab. A man’s face lit for a split second.
She knew that face.
Not a cartel man.
Hellhound prospect.
Her stomach went cold.
She swung onto the bike, thumbed the starter, and the Harley roared alive.
The pickup’s door opened.
“Hey! Ren!” someone shouted.
She didn’t wait.
Gravel spat from under the rear tire, the headlight carving a path through the dark. The truck followed, engine snarling behind her.
“Let me burn them,” the dragon hissed.
“Not yet,” she said through clenched teeth.
The highway rushed back up to meet her, and the chase began.