Page 17 of Brick's Retribution

"Meaning most cartel princesses I've met would be falling apart by now. Demanding luxury accommodations. Complaining about the dust." I gesture to the stark landscape around us. "Not spotting who could be the one behind this whole mess."

Something flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe.

Like she's not used to being seen as anything more than Mateo Torres' daughter.

"Most degenerate bikers I've met wouldn't know the difference between a Harvard MBA and a high school dropout," she counters. "Yet you noticed I was pre-med before business school."

Touché.

I didn't realize I filed away that detail from her file.

I turn toward the cabin, slinging my medical bag over my shoulder. "We can't stay here long. Just need to regroup, figure out our next move."

The door creaks as I push it open, revealing a sparse interior—a small kitchenette, a table with two chairs, a worn couch, and a door leading to what I assume is a bedroom.

Basic, but it has what we need: shelter, supplies, and most importantly, a secure place to figure this shit out.

"Cozy," Imani comments dryly, running a finger along the dusty table.

"It's not the Ritz, but it's off the grid." I drop my bag on the table and start checking the place.

The generator out back still has fuel.

The pantry holds canned goods and bottled water.

The first aid kit is well-stocked, though not as comprehensive as my own.

"Any way to contact your father?" I ask, turning back to Imani.

She shakes her head. "He was explicit—no contact until he reaches out. And with Diego compromised..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.

"What about your club? Can we trust them?" she asks, her voice careful.

"With my life," I answer without hesitation. "But any communication is a risk right now. We need to assume everything digital can be tracked."

She nods, understanding the gravity of our situation.

We're truly on our own.

I pull out a map from the emergency supplies and spread it across the table. "We have two options. Wait here for a few days, see if things cool down, or push straight through to Chihuahua using back roads."

Imani studies the map, her finger tracing potential routes. "Waiting makes us sitting ducks if they find this place. Moving keeps us exposed but unpredictable."

"My thoughts exactly."

Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts between us—a mutual understanding we're in this together now, partners by necessity if nothing else.

She breaks the connection first, turning back to the map. "These routes here," she points to several unmarked trails. "My father's men used them to move product before we established more legitimate shipping lines. They're dangerous—steep drops, flash flood zones—but they're virtually unknown."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're well-informed for someone who runs the legitimate side of the business."

A bitter smile touches her lips. "I wasn't always the suit-wearing Harvard graduate. Before my father decided I was more valuable in boardrooms, I learnedeveryaspect of the family business."

There's a story there, something deeper than she's letting on, but now isn't the time to dig.

"We'll need supplies," I say, running through mental calculations. "Food, water, extra fuel."

"There's a small town about twenty miles east," she says, her finger finding it on the map with surprising accuracy. "Off the main roads. We could?—"

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