Page 49 of Brick's Retribution

The only thing that matters now is survival.

The fire escape creaks under our weight as we descend, the metal protesting after years of neglect.

Below us, the alley stretches into darkness—our escape route to whatever comes next.

CHAPTER SIX

Brick

The alley feels like a trap, but I’m determined we’re getting the hell out of this shit.

All we need to do is make it to the clubhouse, and we can do that.

"This way," she says, leading us deeper into the maze of back streets.

I catch her arm, pulling her into the shadowed doorway of a closed shop. "We need to find somewhere safe. Regroup, figure out our next move."

She scans the area, her tactical mind working. "There's a safe house my family maintains about six blocks from here. Off the books, even Diego doesn't know about it."

"You sure?"

"My mother set it up years ago. Used it when she needed to disappear from my father's world for a while." There's pain in her voice when she mentions her mother. "I'm the only one with the access codes now."

We could go there, or right to the club. “How far is it?”

“Only a couple of blocks away.”

Mmm, it would be smarter to go there.

The club is about ten blocks away. We could go to the safe house, let things cool off, and then reconvene.

We make our way through the streets, sticking to shadows and avoiding main areas.

The last thing I want is more attention on us, but if I had my damn cut on then people would know not to fuck with us.

We have the Ramirez cartel in our back pocket, and their people are everywhere.

Motherfucker.

With every step it feels like we might run into more trouble, but Imani goes on, leading us to a modest apartment building that looks like a thousand others in this part of the city.

She punches a code into a hidden keypad beside an unmarked door.

The lock clicks open, and we slip inside to find a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors.

"Third floor," she says quietly. "End of the hall."

The apartment is small but good enough—clearly maintained and recently used.

It's furnished like a temporary refuge rather than a home, with the basics but nothing personal except for a single photograph on the side table: a younger Imani with a woman who must be her mother.

Honestly, it more looks like an AirBnB than anything else.

"Nice place," I say, checking the windows and exits out of habit.

"My mother believed in having options. I don’t remember a lot about her, but I remember odd things she’d tell me as a child," Imani replies, moving to what looks like a communications setup in the corner. "She said a smart woman always has somewhere to run. It’s almost like she wanted me to know about the life I was born into, before I even understood it, if that makes sense."

“It makes plenty of sense.”

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