CHAPTER THREE
Imani
The desert flies by in a blur of sand and scrub brush as Brick guides the Harley down back roads I didn't know existed.
His body is a shield between me and the wind, broad shoulders blocking the worst of the dust and debris.
I've given up maintaining any semblance of distance—survival trumps pride every time.
My arms are locked around his waist, thighs pressed against his, my chest against his back.
Every curve in the road pushes us closer together.
It's been hours since we left El Paso, changing direction multiple times, doubling back, cutting through terrain I would have thought impossible for a motorcycle.
If someone is still following us, they're either extremely skilled or determined.
Brick hasn't spoken much, just occasional instructions barked over his shoulder— hold tighter when the terrain gets rough, lean with me when we take sharp curves.
The raw power of the man is evident in every movement, in the controlled way he handles the heavy bike through terrain that would challenge most riders.
It would be impressive if I weren't so damn uncomfortable.
My legs are cramping, my back aches, and even though I’m wearing a leather jacket, the desert wind has a bite to it as the sun goes down.
Just when I'm about to demand a break, Brick slows, turning onto what barely qualifies as a trail.
He navigates carefully between rocks and cacti until we reach a small outcropping that provides some shelter from prying eyes.
"Break," he says, killing the engine. "Fifteen minutes."
I dismount somewhat less gracefully than I'd like, my legs wobbling after hours of being locked around the machine.
Brick watches, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Water?" He offers a bottle from his saddlebag.
I accept it gratefully, taking long swallows before handing it back.
As he drinks, I study him openly for the first time.
The man is a weapon—every movement precise, efficient, and controlled.
I get a good look at him, noting how I think bald men are typically ugly… but this bald man is the sexiest man on earth.
The prospect cut he wears shows off arms corded with muscle, tattoos snaking up to disappear beneath his t-shirt.
But it's his eyes that catch me—deep amber flecked with gold, constantly scanning our surroundings, missing nothing.
The eyes of a predator.
His voice startles me out of my assessment. "See something interesting?"
"Just trying to figure out if my father's faith in you is justified," I answer coolly.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Not your father's. My Prez's."
Ah, a point of pride. "And how is Amara these days? We haven't caught up in months."
Surprise flickers across his face. "You two are close then? She mentioned you were friends."
"Since we were teenagers. The relationship between our families and all that, but we actually get along, unlike most arranged family alliances." I smile slightly at the memories. "She was always the wild one, even before the MC. Used to drive her father crazy with her rebellious streak."
Brick's expression softens slightly. "Sounds like the Prez I know. She runs the charter with the same fire."
"I'm not surprised. I always knew she'd end up leading something. Too stubborn to follow anyone else's rules." I pause, studying him. "She must think highly of you to trust you with this assignment."
"I trust her judgment completely," he says without hesitation. "With my life. With the lives of everyone in my club."
Something that feels like envy flickers through me.
I can't remember the last time I trusted anyone so completely.
Maybe I never have.
"And she trusts you to deliver me safely," I comment.
"That's the plan."
I step closer, curious. "What's in the bag?"
He follows my gaze to the medical bag secured to his bike—black canvas with a red cross, worn but maintained.
His tone suggests this should be obvious. "Medical supplies."
"I know it's medical supplies," I snap, irritated by his dismissive tone. "I'm asking what kind. Basic first aid, or something more intense?"
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "Field surgery kit. Trauma supplies. Why?"
Instead of answering, I move to the bag. "May I?"
He hesitates, then nods once.
I open the bag carefully, impressed at how organized it is.
Everything neatly arranged, labeled, secured against movement.
The contents go far beyond basic first aid—surgical instruments, IV supplies, military-grade hemostatic agents, antibiotics, painkillers.
The kit of someone prepared to perform emergency surgery in the field.
"You know how to use all this?" I run my fingers over a suture kit.
"I wouldn't carry it if I didn't."
I close the bag, turning to face him. "Where did you learn? You're not old enough to be a doctor, I don’t think."
Another tick in his jaw. "Self-taught, initially. To take care of my mother. Later, EMT training. Some courses through the VA medical center."
There's a story there, something personal that explains his defensive tone.
I decide not to push, at least not yet.
"I was pre-med," I say instead. "Before Harvard Business School."
Now I have his full attention. "What happened?"
The bitterness rises before I can stop it. "My father happened. Said the cartel didn't need another doctor. Needed someone who understood business, finance. Someone who could legitimize our enterprises." The old wound still stings, even after all these years. "Someone who could fulfill my mother's vision."
Brick leans against his bike, apparently willing to engage in actual conversation. "Your mother's vision?"
"She wanted to transition our family business away from drugs, toward legitimate enterprises. Import/export, real estate, tech investments." I fiddle with St. Christopher's medallion around my neck. "She was killed before she could make much progress."
"I'm sorry," he says, and the simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
I shrug, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy. "It was a long time ago."
"Some wounds don't heal with time." His gaze is distant now, focused on something—or someone—I can't see.
Before I can respond, movement on the road behind us catches my attention.
A dust cloud, too deliberate to be natural.
"Company," I say quietly, hand already moving to the gun at my back.
Brick is instantly alert. "How many?"
"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.
The light fades as the sun dips below the canyon walls, casting long shadows that make navigating it even more challenging.
Finally, the canyon widens, opening into a small valley surrounded by steep cliffs.
Brick cuts the engine, letting the bike coast to a stop in the shelter of an overhanging rock.
For a moment, we sit in silence, straining to hear if they’re still following us.
Nothing but the whisper of wind through the rocks and the cooling tick of the motorcycle engine.
"We lost them?" I ask, unable to fully believe it was that easy.
"For now." Brick dismounts, helping me off with a steadying hand that I hate myself for needing. "But they'll find another way around. We need to keep moving."
I nod, stretching my cramped muscles. "Who shot at us?"
"Professionals," he answers, checking the bike for damage. "First shot was a warning. They were aiming to disable the bike, not kill us."
"That doesn't make sense." I pace, mind racing. "If Diego betrayed us, why not just kill me? Why the elaborate chase?"
Brick straightens, eyes meeting mine. "Maybe they don't want you dead. Maybe they want you alive."
As much as I don’t want to think about it, Brick’s probably right.
Diego had helped us track down the last human trafficking operation that had infiltrated our border territories.
He knew exactly how valuable a cartel princess would be to the right buyers.
"They wouldn't dare," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know it's not true.
They would dare.
The right price would make any risk worthwhile.
"We need to contact your father," Brick says, pulling out his phone. "If Diego's involved, he might not be the only one. Your father needs to know who he can trust."
I shake my head. "No contact. That's what he said. No contact until he reaches out first."
Brick's eyes narrow. "That was before we knew Diego was compromised."
"It doesn't matter. We stick to what he said." Years of training makes this decision automatic. "Besides, my father doesn't trust electronic communications. Everything important goes through trusted messengers."
"Like Diego," Brick points out, frustration evident.
"Like Diego," I agree grimly.
He runs a hand over his head. "So we're on our own."
We're alone in hostile territory, pursued by unknown enemies, with no way to communicate with potential allies.
Our only option is to reach Chihuahua and the relative safety of Brick’s club.
"We should get moving," I say, straightening my shoulders. "Use the darkness as our best weapon."
Brick studies me for a long moment, something like respect flickering in his amber eyes. "You're handling this well."
I give him a bitter smile. "This isn't my first life-or-death situation."
"The assassination attempt?"
"That, and others." I finger the medallion around my neck. "I was five when I watched men gun down my mother and brother in our own home. After something like that, everything else is just... Tuesday."
His expression shifts, softens almost immediately. "I'm sorry."
There it is again—that simple sincerity that bypasses all my defenses.
I turn away, uncomfortable with the way things suddenly seem to shift for us.
"We should eat something before we move on," I say, changing the subject. "No telling when we'll get another chance."
He accepts the deflection, turning to retrieve protein bars and some beef jerky from his saddlebag.
We eat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.
The protein bar tastes like cardboard and chemicals, but I force it down, knowing I'll need the energy.
Brick checks his phone for the time. "We'll head out in twenty minutes. There's a town about thirty miles southeast. We can find a place to hole up for a few hours, maybe get some real food instead of this shit."
I nod, trying to ignore my aching muscles."What's our cover story?"
"Couple on a road trip," he says without hesitation. "Exploring the back country. Got lost, need a place to crash for the night."
"Will they believe that?" I gesture to his prospect cut, my designer clothes—hardly the typical tourists.
He nods, then shrugs off his cut, folding it carefully and storing it in one of the saddlebags.
Without it, in just a plain black t-shirt, he looks less like an outlaw biker and more like a ruggedly handsome adventurer.
"Better?"
I nod, unable to deny that he's even more attractive without the leather vest.
The t-shirt clings to his broad chest and shoulders, revealing the full extent of his muscular build.
The man is built like a brick wall—appropriate, given his nickname.
He gestures to my outfit. "You’re still good, look like a typical girlfriend. The flannel is fine, jacket is good."
The tension between us shifts, taking on a different quality.
For a breath, two, we simply look at each other, the danger momentarily forgotten as awareness crackles between us.
He breaks the connection first, clearing his throat and turning back to the motorcycle. "We should go. Stay close once we hit town. Don't draw attention."
I nod, gathering myself.
This is no time for... whatever that was.
We're running for our lives, pursued by unknown enemies with unknown motives.
Attraction is a distraction we can't afford right now.
As I climb back onto the bike behind him, fitting myself against his body, I can't help but notice how perfectly we seem to fit together.
My arms wrap around his waist, my chest pressed against his broad back, my thighs cradling his.
The engine roars to life, vibrating between us.
In the darkness, with only the motorcycle's headlight illuminating the path ahead, we could be anyone—a couple on an adventure, not a cartel princess and her unlikely protector fleeing for their lives.
"Ready?" Brick asks, voice barely audible over the engine.
I tighten my grip around his waist, fighting the crazy feeling that I'm safer with this man I barely know than I've been with anyone in years.
"Ready," I lie, and we head into the night.