“Like I was working with a new crew.” Ron’s words tumble out faster now, pitch climbing. “Truck had damage, yeah. Front end was chewed up some, paint scuffed. But it ran fine.”
Cruz’s lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. The sound that escapes him reminds me of a rattlesnake’s warning. “Oh, Ron.”
Silence stretches between us. The unspoken rule hangs in the air as heavy as the smell of motor oil and rust.
Ron’s fingers dig into the back of his neck. Red blotches creep up from his collar, spreading across his face like a rash. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
Cruz exhales through his teeth.
I step forward, gravel crunching under my boot. “Who?”
“One of the long-haulers bought it two days ago.” Ron’s eyes fix on a point somewhere over my shoulder, then dart to the ground, then to the crushed Camry. Anywhere but at us. “I’d bet he’s halfway to Idaho by now.”
I shake my head. “I thought you were smarter than that, man.” No one’s gonna do business with him now that he sold something he was supposed to crush and bury, least of all Coco.
“Who’d you buy it from?” Bishop’s words slice through the air.
Ron shifts his weight to the other foot. “I don’t have names. They didn’t give any.”
“What did they look like?” I press.
Ron’s Adam’s apple bobs again. “I don’t know—I’m not good with that shit. Twenties, maybe. Didn’t recognize them.”
Cruz drifts back toward us, fingers loose at his sides. Nothing in his posture suggests tension, but I can feel it radiating off him in waves. “How many?”
“Four I saw,” Ron says, his eyes darting between us. “Could’ve been more. They had another car waiting outside the gate. Dark SUV. Didn’t catch plates.”
Cruz’s lips curve upward, barely a millimeter. “Convenient.”
Ron’s shoulders hunch forward. “I’m telling you what I know.”
“No,” Bishop says, taking a half-step closer until his shadow falls across Ron’s face. “You’re telling us what you think keeps you breathing.”
The air between us crackles like static before a lightning strike. Ron’s throat works visibly as he swallows.
“They said they might have something else for me in a couple weeks.”
Cruz goes perfectly still. His fingers, which had been tapping against his thigh, freeze mid-motion.
“And when were you planning on telling us of this little arrangement?” Bishop asks, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
Ron rolls his head from side to side, the vertebrae in his neck popping audibly. “A man’s got a right to provide for his family, Bishop. Coco knows that better than anyone.”
Bishop nods, his expression softening into something worse than anger—a mockery of understanding. “I get it, Ron. Just like I know you’ll get it when we have to terminate our arrangement permanently.”
The ruddy color drains from Ron’s face, leaving behind a sickly gray. His mouth hangs open, working silently for several seconds. “Now hold on a second. It wasn’t an arrangement like you and I have. It was jus—just a one-time thing.”
I step closer, my boot heel grinding into the gravel. “But you just said they’re gonna bring you something else? So which is it?”
“If they come back, I’ll call you,” Ron says, the words tumbling out so fast they blur together. “I don’t need to know the details.”
Cruz hums, wandering past a stack of tires. “That was quick.”
Bishop steps closer to Ron, voice dropping. “Whenthey show up—not if—you call us first. Before they even cut the engine.” He claps Ron’s shoulder, a touch that might be mistaken for friendly if not for how Ron flinches.
Ron’s face goes pale around the mouth. “I will.”
“If you don’t, we’ll know. And it won’t beourfaces you’ll see. It’ll be our brother’s.” Cruz delivers the line with such casualness, it makes the threat even worse.
