Page 27 of Brick's Retribution

"Can't tell yet. At least one vehicle." I squint against the setting sun. "Moving fast."

He's already in motion, securing the medical bag, scanning our surroundings for defensive positions. "Could be nothing. Could be trouble. We're not sticking around to find out."

I nod, already moving toward the bike.

The brief moment of connection between us is forgotten as our survival instincts take over.

In moments, we're back on the Harley, engines roaring to life as Brick guides us deeper into the desert, away from established trails.

The pursuing vehicle—a black SUV, I can see now—adjusts course, maintaining distance but clearly following us.

"Faster!" I shout into Brick's ear, fighting the surge of adrenaline.

He doesn't respond verbally, just opens the throttle wider, pushing the bike to its limits across the uneven terrain.

His body is tense against mine, all his focus on navigating the dangerous landscape while evading our pursuer.

The SUV is gaining ground, its four-wheel drive handling the rough terrain better than our motorcycle, even if Brick is insanely skilled.

We need an advantage, something to even the odds.

"There!" I point toward a narrow canyon ahead. "They can't follow with a vehicle!"

Brick nods sharply, changing direction to head straight for the rocky passage.

It's a risky move—the narrow gap barely looks wide enough for the motorcycle, and the terrain is treacherous with loose rocks and steep drops.

But it's our best chance.

Hell, it might be our only chance.

Just as we approach the canyon entrance, a shot rings out.

The bullet whizzes past, close enough that I feel air against my cheek.

Brick curses, swerving sharply to present a more difficult target. "Keep your head down!" he barks, hunching lower over the handlebars.

I press myself against his back, making myself as small as possible while maintaining my grip.

More shots follow, but the shooter's aim is compromised by the bouncing vehicle and the increasing distance.

Then we're into the canyon, the rock walls rising on either side like protective arms.

The roar of the SUV's engine fades as our pursuers are forced to stop at the canyon entrance.

But our relief is short-lived.

The canyon narrows further ahead, the path becoming increasingly difficult to navigate.

Brick slows out of necessity, his entire body radiating tension as he guides the bike around obstacles, through shallow water crossings, along ledges barely wide enough for our tires.

"Who do you think they are?" he shouts over the engine and the echo of the canyon walls.

"No idea," I respond truthfully. "Diego's men, maybe. Or someone else who wants me dead."

He nods grimly, focusing on returning to the path.

We continue for what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, winding deeper into the maze of rock formations.

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