Page 26 of Brick's Retribution

"That's the plan."

I step closer, curious. "What's in the bag?"

He follows my gaze to the medical bag secured to his bike—black canvas with a red cross, worn but maintained.

His tone suggests this should be obvious. "Medical supplies."

"I know it's medical supplies," I snap, irritated by his dismissive tone. "I'm asking what kind. Basic first aid, or something more intense?"

A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "Field surgery kit. Trauma supplies. Why?"

Instead of answering, I move to the bag. "May I?"

He hesitates, then nods once.

I open the bag carefully, impressed at how organized it is.

Everything neatly arranged, labeled, secured against movement.

The contents go far beyond basic first aid—surgical instruments, IV supplies, military-grade hemostatic agents, antibiotics, painkillers.

The kit of someone prepared to perform emergency surgery in the field.

"You know how to use all this?" I run my fingers over a suture kit.

"I wouldn't carry it if I didn't."

I close the bag, turning to face him. "Where did you learn? You're not old enough to be a doctor, I don’t think."

Another tick in his jaw. "Self-taught, initially. To take care of my mother. Later, EMT training. Some courses through the VA medical center."

There's a story there, something personal that explains his defensive tone.

I decide not to push, at least not yet.

"I was pre-med," I say instead. "Before Harvard Business School."

Now I have his full attention. "What happened?"

The bitterness rises before I can stop it. "My father happened. Said the cartel didn't need another doctor. Needed someone who understood business, finance. Someone who could legitimize our enterprises." The old wound still stings, even after all these years. "Someone who could fulfill my mother's vision."

Brick leans against his bike, apparently willing to engage in actual conversation. "Your mother's vision?"

"She wanted to transition our family business away from drugs, toward legitimate enterprises. Import/export, real estate, tech investments." I fiddle with St. Christopher's medallionaround my neck. "She was killed before she could make much progress."

"I'm sorry," he says, and the simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.

I shrug, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy. "It was a long time ago."

"Some wounds don't heal with time." His gaze is distant now, focused on something—or someone—I can't see.

Before I can respond, movement on the road behind us catches my attention.

A dust cloud, too deliberate to be natural.

"Company," I say quietly, hand already moving to the gun at my back.

Brick is instantly alert. "How many?"

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