Page 22 of Brick's Retribution

As the waitress leaves, Imani leans forward slightly.

"We're being watched," she says, her lips barely moving. "Far corner, by the pool table. Three men. They've been tracking us since we walked in."

I resist the urge to look directly.

Instead, I stretch casually, using the motion to scan the room. She's right. Three men, locals by the look of them, but paying far too much attention to a random couple passing through.

"Could be nothing," I say quietly. "Small town, strangers are interesting."

"Or they could be waiting for someone to pay them for information about new arrivals." Her hand finds mine on the table, a girlfriend's affectionate gesture that also allows her to speak without being overheard. "A few hundred dollars goes a long way in a town like this."

Again, she's probably right.

And if these guys are willing to sell information, they won't care who's buying—cartel, mercenaries, cops.

We're exposed here.

"Eat quick," I say, squeezing her hand before releasing it. "Then we grab supplies and go. No point waiting for sunrise."

Our food arrives—plates piled high with carne asada, beans, rice, and homemade tortillas.

My stomach growls, God.

It's been too long since I've had a real meal, and the adrenaline crash is hitting hard.

We eat quickly but not suspiciously so, maintaining our cover while keeping an eye on the men in the corner.

They're definitely watching us, though they're trying to be subtle about it.

Just as we're finishing, the door opens, and two more men enter—these ones different from the locals.

They scan the room, their eyes landing on us for a fraction too long.

Imani's hand finds mine again, her grip tightening slightly. "Back exit?" she asks under her breath.

"Through the kitchen." I casually reach for my wallet, leaving cash on the table—enough to cover the meal plus a generous tip. "Ready?"

She nods, and we stand together, walking unhurriedly toward the back of the restaurant as if heading to the restrooms.

The newcomers watch but don't immediately follow—they're smart enough to avoid making a scene in public.

The kitchen staff barely glance at us as we push through the swinging doors.

A cook starts to object, but I flash a twenty-dollar bill and point to the back door.

He hesitates, then jerks his head toward the exit.

Money talks.

We slip out into the alley behind the restaurant, immediately pressing against the wall as we assess our surroundings.

The night air is cool now, the temperature dropping rapidly as it always does in the desert after sunset.

"Room first," I whisper. "Grab our things, then the bike. Stay in the shadows."

We move quickly but carefully through the back alleys of the small town, avoiding the main street where we might be spotted.

As we approach our cabin, I see headlights turning into the motel parking lot—another black SUV, identical to the ones at the safe house.

---