PROLOGUE
Brick
The fresh desert air hits my face as I roll into the club for the second time today, the rumble of my Harley echoing off the walls.
Three months.
Three fucking months of chasing ghosts, following dead-end leads, and coming up empty-handed.
My body aches from the long ride, but it's nothing compared to the hollow feeling in my chest.
Lashes is still out there somewhere, and I've failed to bring her home.
The club comes alive as I cut the engine.
Music pumps through massive speakers, the heavy bass vibrating beneath my boots.
Brothers and their ol’ ladies fill the courtyard, drinks flowing freely.
The celebration for Sam—sorry, Compass—officially becoming a prospect is in full swing.
But guilt churns in my gut.
How can we be celebrating anything when one of our own is missing?
I spot Amara across the crowd, her sharp eyes finding mine instantly.
Our president doesn't miss a goddamn thing.
Even from this distance, I see the tension in her shoulders ease slightly at my return.
She gives me a small nod, then whispers something to her husband, Dante, before making her way toward me.
She hands me a cold beer. "You look like shit."
I accept it, but don't drink. "I need to head back out tomorrow. Got a lead in Juárez that?—"
"No." The single word cuts through the night air with the precision of a blade. "You've been running yourself into the ground for months. It's time to come home."
"I can't just?—"
"We still have people looking. Connections across the border, in every major city. Professional resources." Her voice softens slightly. "You can't save someone if you're dead on your feet, Brick."
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might crack.
My road name—solid, dependable, the foundation others rely on—feels like a fucking joke right now.
What good is being the rock when I can't even find one of our own?
When I can’t even find my best fucking friend in the entire world?
"This isn't your fault," Amara says, reading my thoughts with unnerving accuracy. "And I need you here. We have a situation."
My attention sharpens. "What kind of situation?"
She scans the courtyard before jerking her head toward the clubhouse. "Inside."
I follow her through the crowd, forcing a tight smile when brothers clap my shoulder in greeting.
None of them sees the rage simmering beneath the surface, the helplessness that's been eating me alive since Lashes disappeared.
Inside the club, it’s not as loud as the pounding music outside. Honestly, I’m grateful for the quiet.
Amara leads me to her office and closes the door, indicating the chair across from her massive oak desk.
I remain standing, arms crossed.
"You need rest, but I also need you for a run," she says, settling into her chair. "Tomorrow, you're heading to El Paso."
"El Paso? That's the wrong fuckin’ direction. If Lashes?—"
"This isn't about Lashes," she interrupts. "It's about our alliance with my uncle—the Ramirez cartel."
Yeah, her uncle, so why would this be more important than Lashes?
It’s not like we’re going to suddenly lose the alliance.
Her uncle, Alejandro Ramirez, is the most powerful cartel leader in Mexico.
The man whose protection allows our charter to operate in cartel territory, and our greatest ally.
"What about it?"
"Alejandro's goddaughter needs safe transport from El Paso to here. There's been an attempt on her life."
I blink. "And I'm what, a glorified Uber driver now?"
Amara's eyes flash dangerously. "You're a prospect who follows the fucking orders I give him. And right now, your president is telling you this is important."
I press my palms against my eyes, exhaustion washing over me in waves. "Why me? Boulder or one of the patched members?—"
"Boulder has been through enough lately, we all have. More importantly, I need someone with medical training for this assignment, just in case things go awry." She leans forward. "Imani Torres isn't just Alejandro's goddaughter. She's the daughter of Mateo Torres."
That gets my attention.
Everyone knows the Torres cartel controls distribution across the southwestern United States. "So, cartel royalty, then."
"The highest around besides my cousins. Which means the threat against her is serious. Not to mention, she’s a good friend of mine. Someone's making a power play, and I need my most level-headed prospect handling this."
The compliment doesn’t make it better for me. "For how long?"
"You'll escort her here, where she'll remain under our protection until her father sends for her." Amara studies me. "You leave tomorrow at dawn. Get some sleep. Eat something that isn't gas station trash. And Brick..." Her voice softens a fraction. "We will find Lashes. But right now, I need you here, focused on this."
I want to argue, to remind her that every day Lashes remains missing is another day she could be suffering, another day we might never get her back.
"Fine," I mutter. "I'll do it."
She nods. "Ruby cleaned up your room the other day. Washed your dirty clothes, said the room stunk worse than a dead skunk. She made sure to get you sorted. Take a breather while you can, prospect."
I recognize the silent dismissal and turn to leave, but her voice stops me at the door.
"And Brick? No heroics. Get the girl here safely. That's it."
Something in her tone makes me pause. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
Amara's face gives nothing away. "Just do your job."
I head up to my room and unlock the door.
The second I open it, eucalyptus hits me straight in the face. I guess Ruby thought it would help with the smell.
I waste no time shredding my clothes off and head into the bathroom, turn on the water, and step inside.
The hot water pounds against my skin, washing away the dust and grime of the road.
I stand under the spray until it runs cold, then towel off and pull on the clean clothes.
My reflection in the steamy mirror looks like a stranger—hollow eyes, scruff that's well past a beard, dark circles that make me look a decade older than my twenty-eight years.
I run a hand over my head, thinking about what I’ll be doing tomorrow.
Babysitting cartel royalty isn't what I signed up for when I asked to prospect with the Reapers Rejects MC, but the club is the only real family I've got, and family means doing what needs to be done.
My hand finds the folded piece of paper in my pocket—my ritual before every run.
The photograph is creased and worn from looking at it every day: Lashes and I, her wide smile revealing the gap between her front teeth, her eyes bright.
It’s not right that she isn’t here, in the club, partying with everyone else downstairs.
I sigh, knowing we’ll find her and trust that Amara has something in the works.
But she's gone, taken by Sally and sold into a sex trafficking ring.
I tuck the photo away and finish getting ready.
I’m fucking exhausted but I'm too wired to sleep.
The club is still pulsing from the party, but I head to the club's small medical room instead.
Honestly, I’m not in the mood to celebrate anything, and this is my domain—the place where I'm most useful if you ask me.
The organized shelves of supplies—everything from bandages to surgical tools to prescription meds—provide a small comfort.
I've always been good at fixing things, at making broken people whole again.
It's what drew me to medicine in the first place, that and my past.
I wasn’t really given the option to not pick up on a few things.
I take inventory, restocking what's low, organizing what's scattered.
The automatic task settles my mind, just as it did when I was a kid, organizing my mother's pill bottles after my father went to prison.
My father.
The thought of him brings a familiar ache.
Fifteen years behind bars for armed robbery, a desperate act to keep debt collectors from hurting his family.
Now that I’m an adult, I think it was understandable, but it destroyed our family.
He couldn’t find a job, and we were going hungry.
My mother spiraled into depression and addiction.
And I learned how to dress wounds, administer medication, and eventually, how to shut down emotionally.
The medical room door creaks open, and Boulder's massive frame fills the doorway.
Despite his size, the man moves like a ghost—a skill that makes others think twice when he walks into a room.
He leans against the doorframe. "Heard you were back."
"Not for long."
"Yeah, Amara mentioned. The Torres girl." He watches me organize supplies. "You been sleeping at all?"
I shrug. "Enough."
"Bullshit." He enters the room fully, closing the door behind him. "Look, brother, I know you and Lashes were close?—"
"We're still close," I snap. "Present tense. She's not dead."
Boulder holds up his hands. "That's not what I meant. Christ, you're touchy."
I exhale slowly, reining in my temper. "Sorry. It's been a long few months."
"Which is why you need to stand down, recharge. Let the rest of us carry some of the weight." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Kelsey's been worried about you."
The mention of his ol’ lady brings a slight smile to my face.
"Tell her I'm fine."
His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "Tell her yourself. She's expecting you for breakfast before you head out tomorrow."
I nod, knowing better than to argue.
Boulder might be my brother in the club, but he's also a fully patched member, while I'm still a prospect—even if I have put a few years in.
His voice grows quiet. "How’s it been out there?"
I stop organizing, my hands gripping the edge of the stainless steel counter. "Cold trails. Dead ends. It's like she vanished into thin air."
"We'll find her."
"Everyone keeps saying that." I turn to face him. "But what if we don't? What if she's?—"
"Don't." Boulder's voice is sharp. "Don't go there. Not until we know for sure."
Unspoken words hang between us: her chances of survival lessen with each passing day.
"Get some sleep," Boulder says finally. "Tomorrow's run is important. More important than Amara's letting on."
That catches my attention. "How so?"
"The Torres-Ramirez connection runs deeper than most know. There's a sacred compadre relationship between the families. Alejandro is Imani's godfather. Mateo was made godfather to Amara."
This is news to me. "So, this Mateo guy is close to the Ramirez family in general, if he’s Amara’s godfather too. This isn't just about maintaining our alliance."
"It's family," Boulder confirms. "Family obligations trump everything. Even club business."
Jesus, this is going to be a lot riskier than I thought. "No pressure, then."
He grins, slapping my shoulder. "Just another day in paradise. Now get some fuckin’ sleep before you fall over."
After he leaves, I finish my inventory and head back upstairs to my room.
It's simple—a bed, a dresser, a chair—but it's clean and quiet, and most importantly, it’s mine.
I should sleep.
I need to sleep.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is Lashes's face, her smile replaced by fear, terrified, screaming for us to help her before she’s killed.
I open my eyes and reach for my duffel bag, pulling out the stack of letters I've carried with me for years.
Each envelope bears the same return address: Central California Penitentiary.
Each bears my name in my father's neat handwriting.
Each is still sealed, unread.
For fifteen years, I've kept every letter he's sent, never finding the courage to open them.
They're my reminder of what happens when you fail to protect the people you love.
I add them to the nightstand, a silent vigil as I finally stretch out on the bed.
Tomorrow I'll head to El Paso to protect a woman I've never met, a cartel princess whose life apparently means enough to pull me off the search for Lashes.
She better be worth it.
Surprisingly, sleep hits me hard, and I drift off to sleep, but I don’t get any rest.
In my dreams, I'm still searching, still failing, still watching helplessly as the people I care about disappear one by one.
***
Someone pounds on my door, and I jerk awake, hand automatically reaching for the gun under my pillow.
"Rise and shine, prospect!" Kelsey's cheerful voice filters through the wood. "Breakfast in twenty!"
I grunt in acknowledgment, then drag myself to the small adjoining bathroom.
After another quick shower and shave, I look marginally more human.
The dark circles remain, but at least I no longer resemble a wild man from the desert.
My phone buzzes with a text from Amara:
Briefing. My office. 15 min.
I dress quickly in my riding clothes—dark jeans, heavy boots, plain black t-shirt that hides the holster at my back.
The prospect cut comes last, settling on my shoulders like armor I wear, ready for the battle ahead.
The bottom rocker reads CHIHUAHUA, marking me as part of this charter.
The prospect patch is a reminder that I haven't fully earned my place yet, but I’m on my way.
Boulder was patched in recently, so maybe I’m next.
Maybe if I find Lashes, I’ll get my shot.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm in Amara's office, a coffee mug clutched in my hand like a lifeline.
"You look better," she observes, sliding a file across her desk. "Everything you need to know about Imani Torres."
I flip it open, scanning the basics.
Twenty-six years old.
Harvard Business School graduate.
Currently working for her father's import/export business.
The photo shows a stunning woman with caramel skin, dark eyes, and an expression that manages to be both regal and dangerous.
"She's been living in El Paso for the past six months," Amara continues. "Overseeing some of her father's legitimate business interests. Three days ago, someone tried to take her out at her apartment. Professional hit, not a random attack."
I glance up from the file. "Any suspects?"
"That's what her father's people are investigating. In the meantime, Alejandro requested our help getting her to safety."
"And her father couldn't send his own men because...?"
Amara's expression darkens. "Because he believes the hit came from inside his organization. Trust is in short supply right now."
Great, a cartel civil war.
"Your contact in El Paso is Diego." She hands me a burner phone. "He'll text you the meeting location once you're in the city. Get in, get the girl, get out. No detours, no side missions."
So basically, she means no looking for Lashes.
"The route's been mapped out," she continues, unfolding a detailed map of the border region. "You'll avoid main highways. Take the mountain passes. It's longer, but safer."
I memorize the route, noting the safe houses marked along the way. "What's her security situation? Armed escort? Decoy vehicles?"
"You're it."
I blink. "Just me? For cartel royalty under an active threat?"
"A larger group would attract attention. Two people on a bike can disappear easier." She leans back in her chair. "Besides, you're not just a pretty face with a gun. You're our medic. If anything happens, you can handle it. It’s why I’m sending you."
The vote of confidence doesn't exactly comfort me. "And if I run into trouble I can't handle?"
"Call this number." She scribbles on a piece of paper. "Memorize it, then destroy it. It's a direct line to Alejandro's personal security. Use it only as a last resort."
I commit the number to memory, then rip the paper into tiny pieces. "Anything else I should know?"
Amara hesitates, which is unusual for her. "Imani isn't just a package to be delivered. She's... complicated. Smart. Dangerous in her own way."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning she watched her mother and brother get gunned down when she was five. Meaning she can handle herself in a fight. Meaning she's not going to take kindly to being treated like helpless cargo." Amara's eyes narrow. "So don't."
This isn't a damsel in distress situation.
This is a temperamental force of nature who happens to have a target on her back.
I nod, understanding. "Will I have any issues at the border with what I’m carrying?"
"No, you’re all good."
I give her another nod, showing I understand her. "Got it."
"One more thing." Amara's voice drops. "There are rumors... whispers about a trafficking operation working the border. High-end merchandise. Exclusive buyers."
My pulse quickens. "You think it's connected to Lashes?"
"I don't know. But keep your eyes and ears open. Just... don't lose sight of what your focus needs to be until this run is over."
"Get the girl to safety. I got it."
She studies me for a long moment. "I know how hard these past months have been for you. I know what Lashes means to you. But I need you present, focused."
"I'm always focused."
"No. You're always searching. There's a difference." She stands, indicating our meeting is over. "Kelsey's waiting with breakfast. Don't keep her waiting, or Boulder will have your ass."
I rise, tucking the file and burner phone into my inner pocket. At the door, I pause. "Why me, Amara? Really?"
Her expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Because you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who would do anything to protect the people he cared about, even at a great personal cost."
Before I can ask who she means, she's already refocused on the paperwork on her desk, dismissing me with a wave.
Kelsey's breakfast is legendary—a spread that could feed a small army.
Boulder watches with amusement as I shovel eggs and bacon into my mouth, realizing only now how hungry I actually am.
"When was the last time you ate a real meal?" Kelsey asks, refilling my coffee.
I shrug. "Define 'real.'"
She rolls her eyes. "Something that didn't come wrapped in paper or from a gas station."
"It's been a while."
Boulder snorts. "Told you he's been running himself into the ground."
I ignore him, focusing on the food.
Kelsey's presence is calming, her steady hands and quiet strength a reminder of why Boulder fell for her.
"Be careful out there," she says as I finish eating. "The borders are more dangerous than usual lately."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're always reckless," Boulder corrects. "There's a difference."
I flip him off, but there's no heat behind it. He's not wrong.
After breakfast, I return to my room to pack the few belongings I've unpacked.
The stack of letters from my father catches my eye, and after a moment, I tuck them into my duffel.
A reminder of what failure looks like. A reminder of what happens when you abandon the people who need you.
My medical bag comes next—the specialized kit I've assembled over the years.
Beyond the standard first aid supplies, it contains everything needed for field surgery: suture kits, hemostatic agents, IV supplies, antibiotics, painkillers. Some obtained legitimately, others through club connections.
All potentially life-saving.
This, at least, is something I know I can do.
This is how I make myself useful to the club, to the world. I may have failed to find Lashes, but I won't fail at this.
Outside, my Harley has been serviced and refueled by Compass, formerly known as Sam.
Since I’ve been gone, he’s somehow become the club’s mechanic.
I secure my bags, check my weapons one last time, and swing my leg over the seat.
The engine roars to life beneath me, the vibration traveling up through my body like a familiar heartbeat.
Amara appears at the clubhouse door, arms crossed, watching.
She gives me a single nod—part blessing, part warning.
I return it, then pull on my helmet and ease the bike toward the compound gates.
The desert stretches before me, endless and unforgiving.
Somewhere out there, Lashes is waiting to be found, and right now, a cartel princess needs my protection.
I twist the throttle and head east, toward El Paso.
Toward my assignment.
Toward a woman who, according to Amara, is complicated and dangerous and somehow important enough to pull me away from the only thing that has mattered to me for months.
She better be fucking worth it.