Page 20 of Brick's Retribution

She's right. Her designer outfit, even covered in desert dust, is obviously expensive.

"Here." I pull out a flannel shirt from my bag, offering it to her. "Put this over your blouse. And maybe lose some of the fancy jewelry."

She takes the shirt without argument, slipping it on over her blouse.

It swallows her, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips, but the effect is good—she looks like a girlfriend on a weekend getaway.

She removes her earrings and an expensive-looking bracelet, tucking them into her pocket.

Only a gold chain disappears beneath her collar, something she apparently won't part with.

"How do I look?" she asks, spreading her arms.

Something shifts in my chest at the sight of her in my shirt, something I don't have time to examine right now.

"You'll do," I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be.

The moment stretches between us, charged with something beyond the danger we're facing.

Her eyes search mine, and for a second, I forget that we're running for our lives, that she's a high-value target, that I'm just a prospect assigned to keep her alive.

For a second, we're just a man and a woman, standing too close in the fading desert light.

The spell breaks when a truck rumbles past, kicking up dust that swirls around us.

Reality crashes back—we're still being hunted, we're still in danger, and I still have a job to do.

"I'll fuel up," I say, turning to the pump. "You go inside, see if they have rooms available. Act casual, like we're just passing through."

She nods, straightening her shoulders and throwing on a relaxed posture.

As she walks toward the small office, I can't help but admire her adaptability.

Most people would be falling apart by now.

Hell, most people wouldn't have made it this far.

But Imani Torres isn't most people. That much is becoming clearer by the minute.

As I fill the tank, I scan our surroundings, noting everything of importance—ways to get out of here, everyone around us, and more.

Old habits from runs I don't talk about, and then stuff from my life before the club.

The town is quiet—a few locals sitting on porches, an old dog sleeping in the shade of a pickup truck.

No sign of our little buddies… yet.

Imani emerges from the office, a key dangling from her fingers.

She's smiling, a casual, carefree expression that looks so natural it takes me a moment to remember it's an act.

"They have one room left," she says, her voice pitched just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "The owner says there's a place down the street that serves decent food."

I nod, playing along. "Great. I'm starving."

We move the bike to the parking spot in front of our room—a small cabin at the end of a row of identical structures.

The door sticks slightly as Imani unlocks it, revealing a space that's clean but sparse: one bed, a small table with two chairs, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in.

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