Page 11 of Brick's Retribution

The drive takes twenty minutes.

I'm careful, taking random turns, doubling back occasionally, watching for tails in my rearview mirror.

Old habits drilled into me since childhood.

The warehouse appears abandoned, windows boarded up, chain-link fence rusted and bent.

I park behind the building, out of sight from the street, and wait.

Exactly at noon, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up beside me.

Diego emerges from the driver's side, his weathered face grim.

He's been with my father since before I was born—the closest thing to an uncle I've ever had.

"Princess," he greets me, using the nickname he's called me since I was small. "You look well."

"Considering someone tried to kill me, you mean?"

He doesn't smile. "Your father told you the arrangements?"

"Some biker degenerate is escorting me to Chihuahua. Hardly seems adequate."

Diego's expression shifts subtly. "Don't underestimate the Reapers Rejects. They're more than they appear. And isn’t Amara a friend of yours?"

Before I can respond, the passenger door of the SUV opens, and a man unfolds himself from the seat.

My breath catches.

He's massive—at least six-foot-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Bald as a baby, revealing a face that's all sharp angles and hard planes.

Yet, the beard lining his jaw doesn't soften him.

Nothing could soften the intensity radiating from him like the Texas pavement heat in the middle of August.

His eyes find mine immediately, assessing, calculating.

Danger personified in a leather cut with a prospect patch.

"Imani Torres," Diego says formally, "meet Brick. He'll be your escort to Chihuahua."

Brick. The name suits him—solid, unyielding, capable of building or destroying.

He nods once, a minimal acknowledgment. "Ms. Torres."

His voice is deep, graveled, like he doesn't use it often.

His gaze sweeps over me, not in the way men usually look at me—with desire, or calculation, or greed—but with an assessment of threat and value.

"You're the medic," I say, keeping my voice neutral, even if my stomach is doing flips.

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I know this detail. "Yes."

"And you're supposed to protect me from professional assassins?"

His mouth tightens slightly. "That's the plan."

I turn to Diego. "This is absurd. One man on a motorcycle? We might as well paint a target on our backs."

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