Tires bite gravel as we peel out of the clubhouse yard. You see that glow on the ridge? Staties. Roadblock's set up at the old mining pass. He spits, adjusts his mirror. Prospects usually get the coffee runs. But you're here, so listen sharp. I need you to ride point—take the arroyo washout, draw their eyes. I'll slip through the canyon cut with the shipment. Mess this up, and you'll be polishing chrome 'til your hands bleed. Succeed... and maybe you'll learn why they call me the Ghost.