CHAPTER TWO
Brick
The desert air whips against my face as I push the Harley to its limits, taking turns I normally wouldn't risk with a passenger.
The woman behind me seems to read my movements instinctively, leaning into each curve, tightening her grip when necessary.
For someone who claimed to have "some" experience on bikes, she's handling this like a pro.
Diego's betrayal changes everything.
The planned route, the safe houses, the check-in protocols—all compromised.
My mind races through alternatives as I navigate the outskirts of El Paso, deliberately choosing roads that will make pursuit difficult, adding random turns to shake any tails.
The burner phone in my pocket vibrates.
I ignore it.
It could be Amara responding to my alert, but it could also be Diego trying to track our movements.
I can’t afford to trust anyone until we're somewhere safe.
Imani's arms remain locked around my waist, her body pressed against mine—no longer awkward, but anchored in place because our survival is dependent on working together.
The feel of her against me is a distraction I can't afford, but I'm human enough to notice.
She's all soft curves against my back, the faint scent of expensive perfume cutting through the desert dust.
Focus, damn it. This isn't about how smoking hot she is. This is about keeping her alive.
I take us deeper into the desert, following trails only locals would know.
My search for Lashes taught me every back road and hidden path in this godforsaken stretch of border country.
Now that knowledge might very well save our lives.
After an hour of evasive maneuvers, I spot what I'm looking for—a narrow canyon entrance partially hidden by rock formations.
Perfect for losing vehicles, but navigable on a bike if you know what you're doing.
I cut the engine to listen for any others who might be around us before heading in.
Nothing but desert wind, for now.
I kickstart the Harley back to life and head for the canyon, feeling Imani's questioning grip tighten slightly.
She doesn't ask, though.
Doesn't second-guess.
Just trusts me to know what I'm doing.
The canyon narrows as we push deeper, the walls rising like silent sentinels on either side.
The terrain grows treacherous—loose gravel, sudden drops, patches of sand that could send the bike sliding if I misjudge by an inch.
I slow our pace, hyper-focused on every inch of ground ahead.
Imani shouts over the engine and the echo of the canyon walls. "Where are we going?"
"Safe house," I call back. "One Diego doesn't know about."
I feel her nod against my shoulder, her body relaxing slightly at the news.
We continue in silence, the bike's engine the only sound echoing off the ancient rock.
Twenty minutes later, the canyon widens again, opening into a hidden valley ringed by steep cliffs.
I follow what barely qualifies as a trail to a small structure nestled against the far wall—a stone cabin, weathered by decades of desert wind but still standing.
It's one of the club's emergency shelters, off all official records.
Only patched members know about this place, and even then, only those Amara trusts completely.
I learned about it during my search for Lashes, when Boulder took pity on me after finding me half-dead from heat exhaustion.
"What is this place?" Imani asks as I cut the engine.
"Club safe house. Not on any maps Diego, your father, or even Alejandro have seen."
She dismounts first, stretching cramped muscles with a wince that betrays how uncomfortable the long ride was for her, despite her stoic silence throughout.
I follow, my own muscles protesting after hours of tension.
"Water first," I say, pulling bottles from my saddlebag. "Then we figure out our next move."
She accepts the water gratefully, draining half the bottle in one go.
I use the moment to really look at her for the first time since we left El Paso.
Even though we were riding hard, she still manages to look composed—dusty and wind-blown, but somehow still has that regal bearing—the one that marks her as cartel royalty.
But there's more to her than that.
The way she spotted Diego's betrayal.
The way she handled herself on the bike.
The intelligence in those dark eyes.
This woman is more than just a pampered princess.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me, recapping her water bottle.
"Assessing," I correct her. "There's a difference."
Now she does look at me, one eyebrow raised. "And what's your assessment, prospect?"
The challenge in her voice triggers something primal in me, but I push it aside. "That you're not what I expected."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning most cartel princesses I've met would be falling apart by now. Demanding luxury accommodations. Complaining about the dust." I gesture to the stark landscape around us. "Not spotting who could be the one behind this whole mess."
Something flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe.
Like she's not used to being seen as anything more than Mateo Torres' daughter.
"Most degenerate bikers I've met wouldn't know the difference between a Harvard MBA and a high school dropout," she counters. "Yet you noticed I was pre-med before business school."
Touché.
I didn't realize I filed away that detail from her file.
I turn toward the cabin, slinging my medical bag over my shoulder. "We can't stay here long. Just need to regroup, figure out our next move."
The door creaks as I push it open, revealing a sparse interior—a small kitchenette, a table with two chairs, a worn couch, and a door leading to what I assume is a bedroom.
Basic, but it has what we need: shelter, supplies, and most importantly, a secure place to figure this shit out.
"Cozy," Imani comments dryly, running a finger along the dusty table.
"It's not the Ritz, but it's off the grid." I drop my bag on the table and start checking the place.
The generator out back still has fuel.
The pantry holds canned goods and bottled water.
The first aid kit is well-stocked, though not as comprehensive as my own.
"Any way to contact your father?" I ask, turning back to Imani.
She shakes her head. "He was explicit—no contact until he reaches out. And with Diego compromised..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.
"What about your club? Can we trust them?" she asks, her voice careful.
"With my life," I answer without hesitation. "But any communication is a risk right now. We need to assume everything digital can be tracked."
She nods, understanding the gravity of our situation.
We're truly on our own.
I pull out a map from the emergency supplies and spread it across the table. "We have two options. Wait here for a few days, see if things cool down, or push straight through to Chihuahua using back roads."
Imani studies the map, her finger tracing potential routes. "Waiting makes us sitting ducks if they find this place. Moving keeps us exposed but unpredictable."
"My thoughts exactly."
Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts between us—a mutual understanding we're in this together now, partners by necessity if nothing else.
She breaks the connection first, turning back to the map. "These routes here," she points to several unmarked trails. "My father's men used them to move product before we established more legitimate shipping lines. They're dangerous—steep drops, flash flood zones—but they're virtually unknown."
I raise an eyebrow. "You're well-informed for someone who runs the legitimate side of the business."
A bitter smile touches her lips. "I wasn't always the suit-wearing Harvard graduate. Before my father decided I was more valuable in boardrooms, I learned every aspect of the family business."
There's a story there, something deeper than she's letting on, but now isn't the time to dig.
"We'll need supplies," I say, running through mental calculations. "Food, water, extra fuel."
"There's a small town about twenty miles east," she says, her finger finding it on the map with surprising accuracy. "Off the main roads. We could?—"
The distant sound of an engine cuts her off.
We both freeze, heads turning toward the sound.
"Vehicle," I say quietly, already moving to the window. "Heavy. Likely an SUV or truck."
Imani joins me, careful to stay out of direct sight. "How the hell did they find us so quickly?"
"Could be coincidence," I say, though I don't believe it for a second. "Could be?—"
My burner phone—the realization hits like a punch to the gut.
If Diego has connections high enough, he could have tracked the burner Amara gave me.
"We need to move. Now." I'm already gathering essentials, stuffing them into my saddlebags. "Leave everything else."
To her credit, Imani doesn't question or panic. She grabs her bag, checks her weapon, and follows me to the back door.
"The bike's too loud," she whispers. "They'll hear us the second you start it."
She's right. Damn it.
"There's a wash about a hundred yards behind the cabin," I say, mind racing through options. "If we can get the bike there, the terrain will muffle the sound. But we'd have to push it."
She nods, already moving to help.
We get the heavy motorcycle out the back door, each step achingly slow as we strain to listen for approaching vehicles.
The engine sounds are getting closer.
No longer just one vehicle—at least two, maybe three.
We push the bike across the rocky ground, every pebble that crunches under the tires sounding like an explosion in the tense silence.
Sweat trickles down my back, not just from exertion but from the knowledge that our lives depend on these precious minutes.
Imani stumbles on a loose rock, catching herself with a sharp intake of breath.
I steady her with one hand, our eyes meeting.
We've got this.
The dry wash appears ahead—a natural depression carved by flash floods, deep enough to hide us from view.
We guide the bike down the sloping bank just as the first vehicle crests the hill overlooking the cabin.
I whisper, pulling her against me as we crouch behind the bike. "Down."
We watch through the scrub brush as three black SUVs converge on the cabin, men spilling out with military precision.
Not cartel sicarios —these move like professionals, like Special Forces.
This is a whole other level of trouble.
"Those aren't my father's men," Imani whispers, her body tense against mine. "And they're not typical cartel muscle."
"Mercenaries," I agree. "High-end."
"Why would Diego hire mercenaries? That's not his style."
The question hangs between us as we watch the men systematically clear the cabin, their movements coordinated and efficient.
Whoever's bankrolling this operation has serious resources.
This isn't just about a cartel power play—this is something bigger.
"We need to move before they start sweeping the perimeter," I say, my lips close to her ear.
She nods, and I feel her take a steadying breath. "How far to the town you mentioned?"
"On back trails? Maybe an hour." I check my watch. "Sun sets in about two hours. If we can stay ahead of them until dark, we'll have a better chance."
"Then let's go."
I kickstart the bike as quietly as possible, the wash muffling the sound just enough.
We roll down the dry streambed until we're well clear of the cabin, then I open the throttle, sending us racing across the desert floor.
In the side mirror, I see men pouring out of the cabin, pointing in our direction.
They've spotted us.
I shout over the engine, "Hold on!"
Imani's arms tighten around me as I push the Harley to its limits, racing toward a ridge line that will temporarily shield us from view.
Behind us, engines roar to life as they start coming for us.
The next hour becomes a blur of adrenaline and instinct.
I navigate terrain that would challenge professional off-road riders, pushing both the bike and ourselves to the breaking point.
The SUVs fall behind in the rougher sections but reappear whenever we're forced onto more open ground.
These guys are good.
Too good to be just hired guns.
They know these back routes almost as well as I do.
As the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert, I spot the small cluster of buildings that marks our destination—Agua Seca, a town barely worthy of the name.
Population eighty-seven, according to the weathered sign we pass.
I slow the bike as we approach, trying to appear casual rather than like fugitives.
The town consists of little more than a main street with a gas station, a small grocery, and what looks like a bar doubling as the local gathering spot.
"Cover story," I say quietly as I pull up to the gas station. "Couple on a road trip. Got lost exploring back roads. Need fuel, supplies, and a place to crash for the night."
"Will they buy that?" Imani gestures to herself, then me.
Even dusty and disheveled, we don't exactly look like typical tourists.
I strip off my prospect cut, stowing it in the saddlebag.
Without it, in just my t-shirt, I look less like an outlaw biker and more like any other guy on a road trip.
"Better," she admits, then hesitates. "My clothes still scream money."
She's right. Her designer outfit, even covered in desert dust, is obviously expensive.
"Here." I pull out a flannel shirt from my bag, offering it to her. "Put this over your blouse. And maybe lose some of the fancy jewelry."
She takes the shirt without argument, slipping it on over her blouse.
It swallows her, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips, but the effect is good—she looks like a girlfriend on a weekend getaway.
She removes her earrings and an expensive-looking bracelet, tucking them into her pocket.
Only a gold chain disappears beneath her collar, something she apparently won't part with.
"How do I look?" she asks, spreading her arms.
Something shifts in my chest at the sight of her in my shirt, something I don't have time to examine right now.
"You'll do," I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something beyond the danger we're facing.
Her eyes search mine, and for a second, I forget that we're running for our lives, that she's a high-value target, that I'm just a prospect assigned to keep her alive.
For a second, we're just a man and a woman, standing too close in the fading desert light.
The spell breaks when a truck rumbles past, kicking up dust that swirls around us.
Reality crashes back—we're still being hunted, we're still in danger, and I still have a job to do.
"I'll fuel up," I say, turning to the pump. "You go inside, see if they have rooms available. Act casual, like we're just passing through."
She nods, straightening her shoulders and throwing on a relaxed posture.
As she walks toward the small office, I can't help but admire her adaptability.
Most people would be falling apart by now.
Hell, most people wouldn't have made it this far.
But Imani Torres isn't most people. That much is becoming clearer by the minute.
As I fill the tank, I scan our surroundings, noting everything of importance—ways to get out of here, everyone around us, and more.
Old habits from runs I don't talk about, and then stuff from my life before the club.
The town is quiet—a few locals sitting on porches, an old dog sleeping in the shade of a pickup truck.
No sign of our little buddies… yet.
Imani emerges from the office, a key dangling from her fingers.
She's smiling, a casual, carefree expression that looks so natural it takes me a moment to remember it's an act.
"They have one room left," she says, her voice pitched just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "The owner says there's a place down the street that serves decent food."
I nod, playing along. "Great. I'm starving."
We move the bike to the parking spot in front of our room—a small cabin at the end of a row of identical structures.
The door sticks slightly as Imani unlocks it, revealing a space that's clean but sparse: one bed, a small table with two chairs, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in.
I lock the door behind us, immediately checking for alternate exits.
A small window in the bathroom might work in an emergency.
Not ideal, but better than nothing.
"We lost them for now," I say, dropping my voice to ensure we aren't overheard. "But they'll be checking every town within fifty miles. We need to be gone by dawn."
Imani sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly looking exhausted.
The facade of the carefree traveler drops away, revealing the strain beneath.
"Who are these people?" she asks, running a hand through her dust-streaked hair. "This isn't just Diego going rogue. This is... something else."
"Agreed." I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. "The men at the cabin moved like the military. Professional. Expensive."
"Could it be connected to the trafficking operation Amara mentioned?" She looks up, catching me by surprise. "Yes, I know about that. My father's been tracking a new player moving high-end merchandise across the border. Women mostly. But they've never come after our family directly before."
The mention of trafficking sends a spike of pain through my chest—Lashes. I push the thought away, focusing on the present situation I’m in.
"It's possible. Or it could be rival cartels seeing an opportunity." I hesitate, then add, "Or it could be something internal. Someone in your father's organization making a power play."
Her face darkens at this last suggestion. "If that's true, then my father could be in danger too."
For all her competence and strength, she clearly cares deeply about her father.
"We'll figure it out," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Our first priority is getting you to Chihuahua. Once you're safe with the club, we can work on the bigger picture."
She nods, though her expression remains troubled. "We should get food, supplies. Maintain our cover for now."
"Agreed." I push off from the wall. "You stay here, lock the door. I'll go?—"
"No." She stands, her posture making it clear this isn't up for debate. "We stick together. Splitting up is exactly what they'd expect. Besides, a couple traveling together doesn't separate. It would look suspicious."
She's right, damn it. "Fine. But stay close. And if anything happens?—"
"I know. Run, don't fight." She checks her weapon discreetly, then tucks it back into her holster. "I'm not helpless, Brick. I've been a target my entire life."
Something in her tone makes me see her differently yet again.
This woman has lived her whole life knowing she could be killed at any moment, and she's learned to function with that knowledge. Maybe even because of it.
"Never said you were helpless," I reply. "But my job is to keep you alive, and I take my job seriously."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "So I've noticed."
We head out, locking the room behind us. The small restaurant across the street is nearly empty—just a few locals nursing beers at the bar and an elderly couple finishing their meal in the corner. We choose a table near the back, with a clear view of both the entrance and the kitchen exit.
The waitress, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a kind smile, brings us menus and glasses of water. "You two just passing through?" she asks, her accent thick but her English clear.
"Yeah," I answer, adopting a more relaxed posture. "Taking the scenic route to San Miguel. Got a bit lost on the back roads."
"Hmm." She gives us a once-over that says she doesn't entirely buy our story but isn't paid enough to care. "Special today is carne asada. Best in the county, if you ask me."
"Sounds perfect," Imani says, her smile warm and natural.
She's good at this—the easy charm, the casual conversation.
Years of practice, I imagine, moving between cartel politics and legitimate business meetings.
As the waitress leaves, Imani leans forward slightly.
"We're being watched," she says, her lips barely moving. "Far corner, by the pool table. Three men. They've been tracking us since we walked in."
I resist the urge to look directly.
Instead, I stretch casually, using the motion to scan the room. She's right. Three men, locals by the look of them, but paying far too much attention to a random couple passing through.
"Could be nothing," I say quietly. "Small town, strangers are interesting."
"Or they could be waiting for someone to pay them for information about new arrivals." Her hand finds mine on the table, a girlfriend's affectionate gesture that also allows her to speak without being overheard. "A few hundred dollars goes a long way in a town like this."
Again, she's probably right.
And if these guys are willing to sell information, they won't care who's buying—cartel, mercenaries, cops.
We're exposed here.
"Eat quick," I say, squeezing her hand before releasing it. "Then we grab supplies and go. No point waiting for sunrise."
Our food arrives—plates piled high with carne asada, beans, rice, and homemade tortillas.
My stomach growls, God.
It's been too long since I've had a real meal, and the adrenaline crash is hitting hard.
We eat quickly but not suspiciously so, maintaining our cover while keeping an eye on the men in the corner.
They're definitely watching us, though they're trying to be subtle about it.
Just as we're finishing, the door opens, and two more men enter—these ones different from the locals.
They scan the room, their eyes landing on us for a fraction too long.
Imani's hand finds mine again, her grip tightening slightly. "Back exit?" she asks under her breath.
"Through the kitchen." I casually reach for my wallet, leaving cash on the table—enough to cover the meal plus a generous tip. "Ready?"
She nods, and we stand together, walking unhurriedly toward the back of the restaurant as if heading to the restrooms.
The newcomers watch but don't immediately follow—they're smart enough to avoid making a scene in public.
The kitchen staff barely glance at us as we push through the swinging doors.
A cook starts to object, but I flash a twenty-dollar bill and point to the back door.
He hesitates, then jerks his head toward the exit.
Money talks.
We slip out into the alley behind the restaurant, immediately pressing against the wall as we assess our surroundings.
The night air is cool now, the temperature dropping rapidly as it always does in the desert after sunset.
"Room first," I whisper. "Grab our things, then the bike. Stay in the shadows."
We move quickly but carefully through the back alleys of the small town, avoiding the main street where we might be spotted.
As we approach our cabin, I see headlights turning into the motel parking lot—another black SUV, identical to the ones at the safe house.
"Shit," I mutter. "They found us."
Imani's expression hardens with determination. "Plan B?"
"Side window. Now."
We circle around to the back of the cabin, keeping low.
The small bathroom window is our only option—barely big enough for Imani to squeeze through, and a tight fit for me, but we don't have a choice.
I boost her up first, supporting her weight as she wriggles through the narrow opening. A moment later, her hand appears, reaching down to help pull me up.
It's an awkward, ungraceful entry, but we make it, dropping quietly onto the bathroom floor.
Through the thin walls, we can hear voices outside—men giving orders, organizing a search pattern.
They're thorough, professional. And they're getting closer.
We grab our bags in silence, essential items only.
I shoulder my medical kit—won't leave that behind—and check my weapon.
Imani does the same, her movements precise and efficient.
The voices are right outside our door now.
Any second, they'll check the room and find us.
There's only one option left.
"When I say go, we run for the bike," I whisper, positioning myself by the bathroom window. "Full speed, no hesitation. I'll cover you."
She nods, adjusting her grip on her bag. "And if they start shooting?"
"Then I'll shoot back." I meet her eyes in the dim light. "I'm getting you to Chihuahua alive, Imani. That's a promise."
She reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm in a gesture that feels more intimate than it should.
"Ready," she whispers.
A key scrapes in the lock of our room door.
"Go!" I push her toward the window, covering her escape as she slips out into the night.
I follow immediately after, hitting the ground in a crouch just as shouts erupt behind us.
They've found the empty room and the open bathroom window.
We sprint for the bike, zigzagging to make harder targets.
A shot rings out, kicking up dust near my feet.
Then another, much closer.
Imani reaches the bike first, throwing her bag on and preparing to mount.
I'm seconds behind her when pain explodes across my ribs—a bullet graze, not a direct hit, but enough to steal my breath for a critical moment.
Imani turns back, reaching for me. "Brick!"
"Go!" I gasp, pushing her toward the bike. "I'm right behind you!"
She hesitates just long enough to see me regain my footing, then swings her leg over the bike.
I'm there a heartbeat later, ignoring the fire in my side as I kick start the engine.
More shots ring out as we roar away from the motel, bullets whizzing past.
I keep our movements unpredictable, weaving between buildings until we hit the open desert, the darkness swallowing us.
Behind us, engines roar to life.
The chase is on again.
I push the bike harder, faster, ignoring the warm wetness spreading across my side.
The wound isn't serious—I've had worse—but it's a reminder of what a close call that was.
"You're hit," Imani shouts over the wind, her arms tight around my waist.
"It's nothing," I call back. "Just a graze."
She doesn't argue, but I feel her shift slightly, one hand moving to press against my side, applying pressure to the wound even as she holds on.
The gesture is unexpected—practical, yes, but also caring in a way.
We race into the night, the stars our only witness as we push deeper into the wilderness between borders.
The lights of the men grow smaller in the distance, then disappear altogether as we navigate terrain their vehicles can't follow.
For now, we've escaped, but this is only the beginning.
As my adrenaline comes down, the pain in my side grows more insistent.
Imani's hand remains steady against the wound, her presence at my back a strange comfort.
I've always worked alone, relying on no one but myself for most of my life.
The club was the only time that changed.
Hell, it's how I've survived this long in a world that takes more than it gives.
But as we ride through the darkness, I can't deny the truth that's becoming increasingly clear—we need each other now.