Page 97 of Brick's Retribution

I’m certain ‘harmed’ has a different meaning to everyone.

"Did you ever?—"

"Got her back six months later," he confirms. "I burned down the fucker’s drug houses and killed eleven men to do it. She's in therapy now, living under a new name in Canada. Doesn't talk to me anymore—I remind her of what happened. If I wasn’t involved with bad people, it never would’ve happened. That’s what she says at least."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Doom leans forward. "Because I see that same look in your eyes I had in mine. The one that says you'll burn the whole worlddown to save her. And I'm telling you—that rage will get you killed if you don't control it."

"I can control it."

"Can you?" He gestures toward Imani, who's reviewing something with Boulder two rows back. "When you see your friend up there, chained, possibly pregnant, you going to stay ice cold? When your woman wants to save every girl in that room, you going to be the voice of reason?"

The questions hit too close to home.

"I'll do what needs to be done," I say firmly.

"Good." Doom settles back. "Because I've got your six out of there, brother. But I need to know you've got your head straight. We all come home, or none of us do."

It's the most I've ever heard him speak at once, and his words oddly steady me.

"I've got it," I assure him. "And Doom? Thanks for sharing."

He nods once.

We're interrupted by one of Alejandro's men—Miguel, I think—approaching with a tablet.

"Thirty minutes to landing," he reports. "Local contact confirmed the venue is active. Multiple vehicles arriving throughout the morning."

Imani comes over and joins us. "What’s security look like?"

"Standard pattern. Rooftop surveillance, roving patrols, checkpoint at the main gate." Miguel pulls up satellite images. "The estate is fifteen thousand square feet, oceanfront, single access road. Helicopter pad on the south lawn."

Boulder questions. "What sort of extraction routes are we looking at?"

"Limited. The road is the obvious choice, but they'll lock it down if things go bad. Beach access is possible but exposed. Dense jungle to the east—difficult but doable."

I study the images, memorizing every detail.

The place is a fortress designed to keep people in as much as out.

"There's an underground level," Miguel continues. "That's where the... viewing happens. Reinforced concrete, limited access points."

My stomach turns at the casual way he says "viewing," but I try to keep a straight face.

This is the reality we're walking into—a place where horror has been normalized into something as normal as selling a Big Mac at fucking McDonald’s.

The plane begins its descent, and I catch Imani's hand. "You ready for this?"

"No," she admits quietly. "But I'll play my part."

Twenty minutes later, we're on the ground at a private airstrip outside Riohacha.

The humid Colombian air hits like a wall as we exit the plane, carrying the scent of ocean and jungle.

Two SUVs wait on the tarmac, drivers standing at attention.

"These are Alejandro's people," Miguel confirms. "They'll take us to the safe house."

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