Page 38 of Brick's Retribution

I shout over the wind, watching behind us for pursuit. "We can go places they can't."

"Exactly what I was thinkin’." He guides us onto a narrow side street. "Time to disappear."

The town is small enough that we reach its outskirts within minutes.

Behind us, headlights appear—at least two vehicles in our pursuit.

Ahead lies more desert and mountains, terrain that favors motorcycles over heavy SUVs.

"There." I point to a cluster of buildings ahead. "That looks like a trucking depot."

Brick follows my gaze and nods.

It's perfect—dozens of vehicles, early morning activity as drivers prepare for long hauls.

Easy to blend in, and more importantly even easier to disappear.

He guides the bike into the depot, parking between two eighteen-wheelers.

The moment we step out, we're just two more travelers in a place where there are loads of people already.

"We need a ride," Brick says, scanning the rows of trucks. "Something heading toward Chihuahua."

A horn honks behind us, making us both spin around.

But it's just a trucker backing out of his space, coffee cup in one hand, steering wheel in the other.

The normalcy of it almost makes me laugh.

"Over there," I say, spotting a driver doing his pre-trip inspection. "Let me handle this."

The driver is middle-aged, weathered face showing years of highway miles.

He looks up as I approach, his eyes doing everything a man always does—assessing my body.

"Excuse me," I say, switching to Spanish and adopting the slightly helpless tone that works on men like him. "My boyfriend and I are stranded. Our car broke down, and we need to get to Chihuahua for a family emergency."

He glances over at Brick, who's leaning against the truck with casual confidence. "What kind of emergency?"

"My grandmother," I lie smoothly. "She's in the hospital. We'll pay for gas, food, whatever you need."

The trucker considers it, clearly weighing the risks against the potential profit.

I pull out a roll of bills—American dollars, more than he probably makes in a week.

"Seven hundred now, three hundred when we get there," I offer.

That settles it. "I'm heading to Chihuahua anyway," he says, pocketing the money. "But if you bring trouble, you're out at the first truck stop."

"No trouble," I assure him. "We just need a ride."

He nods toward his cab. "Load up. We leave in five minutes."

I signal to Brick, who grabs our essentials and joins us.

The trucker—Carlos, he introduces himself—helps me into the passenger seat while Brick climbs into the sleeper berth behind us.

As we pull out of the depot, I catch a glimpse of black SUVs entering the other end of the lot.

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