Lachlan stayed on the ridge until the first Saint trucks rolled out.
Dust lifted in straight lines from the southern yard, then spread into a low sheet across the flats.
Engines were stacked in layers—two pickups with flamer rigs, one flatbed with a cage welded to its bed, six bikes fanning out in a staggered wedge.
The horn call had done its job.
Three long, one short.
South Gate moved like it had drilled the formation a hundred times.
He slid along the rock to a better angle and glassed the approach.
The false fuel line lay buried under crushed gravel and bent scrub.
Zubair had laced it tight, clean angles, clear run. Elias ran the tail, careful hands, tidy clamps. The leak shimmered as heat worked up through the topcoat.
A thin ribbon of vapor ran with the wind and vanished. From up here, it looked like nothing more than bad air.
His comm clicked twice and opened to Zubair. "Position two set. Wind holds east. Echo status."
