Page 16 of Brick's Retribution

The canyon narrows as we push deeper, the walls rising like silent sentinels on either side.

The terrain grows treacherous—loose gravel, sudden drops, patches of sand that could send the bike sliding if I misjudge by an inch.

I slow our pace, hyper-focused on every inch of ground ahead.

Imani shouts over the engine and the echo of the canyon walls. "Where are we going?"

"Safe house," I call back. "One Diego doesn't know about."

I feel her nod against my shoulder, her body relaxing slightly at the news.

We continue in silence, the bike's engine the only sound echoing off the ancient rock.

Twenty minutes later, the canyon widens again, opening into a hidden valley ringed by steep cliffs.

I follow what barely qualifies as a trail to a small structure nestled against the far wall—a stone cabin, weathered by decades of desert wind but still standing.

It's one of the club's emergency shelters, off all official records.

Only patched members know about this place, and even then, only those Amara trusts completely.

I learned about it during my search for Lashes, when Boulder took pity on me after finding me half-dead from heat exhaustion.

"What is this place?" Imani asks as I cut the engine.

"Club safe house. Not on any maps Diego, your father, or even Alejandro have seen."

She dismounts first, stretching cramped muscles with a wince that betrays how uncomfortable the long ride was for her, despite her stoic silence throughout.

I follow, my own muscles protesting after hours of tension.

"Water first," I say, pulling bottles from my saddlebag. "Then we figure out our next move."

She accepts the water gratefully, draining half the bottle in one go.

I use the moment to really look at her for the first time since we left El Paso.

Even though we were riding hard, she still manages to look composed—dusty and wind-blown, but somehow still has that regal bearing—the one that marks her as cartel royalty.

But there's more to her than that.

The way she spotted Diego's betrayal.

The way she handled herself on the bike.

The intelligence in those dark eyes.

This woman is more than just a pampered princess.

"You're staring," she says without looking at me, recapping her water bottle.

"Assessing," I correct her. "There's a difference."

Now she does look at me, one eyebrow raised. "And what's your assessment, prospect?"

The challenge in her voice triggers something primal in me, but I push it aside. "That you're not what I expected."

"Meaning?"

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