Page 19 of Brick's Retribution

The question hangs between us as we watch the men systematically clear the cabin, their movements coordinated and efficient.

Whoever's bankrolling this operation has serious resources.

This isn't just about a cartel power play—this is something bigger.

"We need to move before they start sweeping the perimeter," I say, my lips close to her ear.

She nods, and I feel her take a steadying breath. "How far to the town you mentioned?"

"On back trails? Maybe an hour." I check my watch. "Sun sets in about two hours. If we can stay ahead of them until dark, we'll have a better chance."

"Then let's go."

I kickstart the bike as quietly as possible, the wash muffling the sound just enough.

We roll down the dry streambed until we're well clear of the cabin, then I open the throttle, sending us racing across the desert floor.

In the side mirror, I see men pouring out of the cabin, pointing in our direction.

They've spotted us.

I shout over the engine, "Hold on!"

Imani's arms tighten around me as I push the Harley to its limits, racing toward a ridge line that will temporarily shield us from view.

Behind us, engines roar to life as they start coming for us.

The next hour becomes a blur of adrenaline and instinct.

I navigate terrain that would challenge professional off-road riders, pushing both the bike and ourselves to the breaking point.

The SUVs fall behind in the rougher sections but reappear whenever we're forced onto more open ground.

These guys are good.

Too good to be just hired guns.

They know these back routes almost as well as I do.

As the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert, I spot the small cluster of buildings that marks our destination—Agua Seca, a town barely worthy of the name.

Population eighty-seven, according to the weathered sign we pass.

I slow the bike as we approach, trying to appear casual rather than like fugitives.

The town consists of little more than a main street with a gas station, a small grocery, and what looks like a bar doubling as the local gathering spot.

"Cover story," I say quietly as I pull up to the gas station. "Couple on a road trip. Got lost exploring back roads. Need fuel, supplies, and a place to crash for the night."

"Will they buy that?" Imani gestures to herself, then me.

Even dusty and disheveled, we don't exactly look like typical tourists.

I strip off my prospect cut, stowing it in the saddlebag.

Without it, in just my t-shirt, I look less like an outlaw biker and more like any other guy on a road trip.

"Better," she admits, then hesitates. "My clothes still scream money."

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