Chapter 38 The Line Lights Up
The Line Lights Up
Tater was halfway through rolling a cigarette when the phone on the table buzzed once—just once.
Not a call.
A code.
He straightened, thumb hovering over the screen as the encrypted message unfolded:
His throat went tight. The single word at the bottom of the message—Following—was Ren’s tell. It meant she was already in motion, already close to whatever trouble she’d just found.
Brick was across the room, rebuilding a carburetor that didn’t need rebuilding. Eagle sat near the door, cleaning his pistol slow, the way men did when they didn’t want to think.
Tater read the message twice before speaking. “She’s found them.”
Brick looked up. “Found who?”
“The Ghost Runners Sac and Junior flagged. Sanchez’s freight on I-84. She’s tailing a lead.”
Eagle’s brows drew together. “Alone?”
Tater didn’t answer right away. He scrolled through the old codes Sac had set up, tapped out a short return message—Eyes up. Copy Golden gate. Check in.—and hit send. The little icon spun, then went dead gray. No delivery confirmation.
Eagle stood. “No signal?”
“None.”
Brick wiped his hands on a rag. “You tellin’ me she’s out there alone in cartel country with a dead feed?”
“I’m tellin’ you she’s Ren,” Tater said quietly. “And she doesn’t wait for permission.”
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. Smoke from the ashtray curled toward the ceiling like a ghost of last night’s war.
“Sac still online?” Eagle asked.
Tater nodded, pulled up the secure line, and hit call. The screen blinked, fuzzed, then filled with Sac’s tired face and a cheap motel lamp behind him.
“Tater,” Sac said, voice rough. “You look like hell.”
“Got a message from Ren. She’s on I-84, near Golden gate. Said she’s following a lead on Ghost Runners—human freight.”
Sac swore under his breath. “That’s not a town. That’s a route code. Old cartel slang. Used to mark border shipments before they started running west. You’re tellin’ me she’s ridin’ into that?”
“Already did.”
Sac scrubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus. Sanchez is running bodies now? That means the freight’s live. No stopping it without heat.”
Tater’s jaw set. “We’ve been stopping worse without it.”
Sac looked up, meeting his eyes through the screen. “Then you better move, brother. Because if she’s found their convoy, she ain’t chasing it long. Those Ghost Runners don’t slow for anyone.”
The connection stuttered, broke into static.
“Sac?” Tater barked.
Nothing.
Brick cursed. “Damn it.”
Eagle grabbed the tablet from the desk, pulled up Sac’s live GPS grid. “Feed’s dying. Looks like a blackout. Could be weather.”
Tater shook his head. “Could be a jammer.”
“Cartel tech?”
He nodded. “Same as they used in Utah. Sanchez is cutting signals before they move loads. If Ren’s in that radius, she’s dark until she’s out or dead.”
The room went still.
Tater pushed back from the table, grabbed his cut, and started toward the door.
Brick stepped into his path. “Hold up. You go after her now, you run right into the same blackout. You can’t protect her if you can’t talk to her.”
“I’m not going after her,” Tater said. “Not yet. I’m going to meet her halfway.”
Eagle rose too. “Boise to Golden gate’s near two hours at best. If she’s being chased—”
“I know.”
Brick sighed, tossed the rag onto the table. “Then we ride.”
Tater hesitated at the threshold, eyes sweeping the room. Maps. Pins. Coffee. The quiet hum of men pretending not to worry.
He looked at Eagle. “Leave two here. Rest of you gas up. We take the north road and cut east around the pass. If she’s moving fast, we’ll see her headlight before sunrise.”
Eagle nodded. “And if we don’t?”
Tater’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then we follow the smoke.”
Outside, the air was cold enough to bite. Engines fired one after another, filling the yard with the low thunder that meant the Bastards were moving again.
Tater swung onto his bike, the seat slick with dew. For a second, he just sat there, staring at the horizon. Somewhere out there, Ren was running toward the kind of fight that didn’t end clean.
He reached up, touched the bare spot on his wrist where the chain used to hang. The skin there felt lighter, but not empty.
“She’s got it,” he muttered. “That means she’s still breathing.”
He gunned the throttle, the sound ripping through the morning.
Behind him, Eagle’s voice carried over the engines. “What’s the plan if we hit heat?”
Tater didn’t look back. “Same as always.”
“And that is?”
“Don’t die stupid.”
Then they rode.
Back inside the clubhouse, the phone on the table buzzed once more.
Not a message.
A warning alert from Sac’s feed: I-84 corridor activity spike — three vehicles, no plates. 2:17 AM.
The screen froze on a grainy frame: a black pickup, headlights off, dust trailing behind.
A woman’s silhouette reflected in the side mirror for just a breath before the feed cut out.
Behind me, thunder rolls—and somewhere through the rain, I can feel movement on the ridge. Heavy. Familiar.”