CHAPTER FIVE
Imani
I wake to the sound of engines—multiple vehicles, moving fast, getting closer.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:47 AM, and pale light seeps through the gap in the curtains.
Dawn is starting to break, but we're not alone.
Brick is already moving beside me, instantly alert even though we were both in deep sleep moments before.
His hand finds his weapon on the nightstand as he rolls toward the window, careful not to aggravate his injury.
"How many?" I whisper, reaching for my own gun.
He peers through the gap in the curtains, his expression grim. "Three SUVs. Same as before." He turns to me, his amber eyes hard. "They found us."
My mind races through everything.
How did they track us to this small town?
We've been careful, used cash, avoided main roads. Unless...
"The motel clerk," I say, the realization catching me off guard. "He must have called it in after we left for dinner. Probably has a standing offer to report strangers."
Brick nods, already pulling on his jeans. "We've got maybe two minutes before they have the place surrounded."
I'm out of bed, grabbing clothes like my life depends on it, because it does. Growing up in the cartel world means you learn to dress quickly when danger comes calling.
Jeans, boots, jacket—all while keeping my weapon within reach.
"Back window?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Too small, and it faces the parking lot anyway." Brick shrugs into his shirt, wincing as the movement pulls at his stitches. "We go out the front, bold as brass. They'll expect us to run or hide."
It's insane enough to work. Maybe.
We gather our essentials in silence—weapons, my laptop, his medical kit.
Everything else gets left behind.
Brick cracks the door open, scanning the parking lot. "Three o'clock," he murmurs. "Right side of the lot. That's our target."
I see it—Brick's Harley, right where we left it when we checked into the motel.
Our bags are still secured to it, and more importantly, it's our fastest way out of here.
"The bike," I say, pointing toward it.
"Already on it," he replies, and I can see the relief in his expression.
The sound of car doors slamming echoes across the lot.
They're here.
We have to go.
"Now," Brick says.
We step out into the pre-dawn air like we belong there, like we're just another couple starting an early road trip.
The casual way we’re walking together is a mask, but it's one I've worn my entire life.
Brick matches my pace, his body language relaxed even with the tension I can feel radiating from him.
Twenty yards to the bike. Fifteen. Ten.
"There!" A shout from behind us, followed by the sound of running boots on pavement.
Brick breaks into a sprint, and I'm right behind him.
We reach the Harley as the first shots ring out, bullets sparking off the asphalt near our feet.
Brick throws his leg over the bike and kicks the engine to life while I slide on behind him.
I draw my weapon, twisting to return fire over his shoulder.
The shot is hasty but accurate enough to make our pursuers duck for cover behind their vehicles.
"Hold on!" Brick shouts over the engine.
More gunfire erupts, this time closer.
A bullet whines past my ear, close enough that I feel the displaced air.
I adjust my position, using Brick's broad back for partial cover while still shooting back.
The Harley roars as Brick opens the throttle, the bike lurching forward faster than it has before.
I keep shooting until my magazine runs out, then duck down to reload as he weaves between the motel's parked cars toward the street.
A bullet sparks off the bike's frame, but the engine keeps running strong.
We're moving, putting distance between us and our hunters.
I shout over the wind, watching behind us for pursuit. "We can go places they can't."
"Exactly what I was thinkin’." He guides us onto a narrow side street. "Time to disappear."
The town is small enough that we reach its outskirts within minutes.
Behind us, headlights appear—at least two vehicles in our pursuit.
Ahead lies more desert and mountains, terrain that favors motorcycles over heavy SUVs.
"There." I point to a cluster of buildings ahead. "That looks like a trucking depot."
Brick follows my gaze and nods.
It's perfect—dozens of vehicles, early morning activity as drivers prepare for long hauls.
Easy to blend in, and more importantly even easier to disappear.
He guides the bike into the depot, parking between two eighteen-wheelers.
The moment we step out, we're just two more travelers in a place where there are loads of people already.
"We need a ride," Brick says, scanning the rows of trucks. "Something heading toward Chihuahua."
A horn honks behind us, making us both spin around.
But it's just a trucker backing out of his space, coffee cup in one hand, steering wheel in the other.
The normalcy of it almost makes me laugh.
"Over there," I say, spotting a driver doing his pre-trip inspection. "Let me handle this."
The driver is middle-aged, weathered face showing years of highway miles.
He looks up as I approach, his eyes doing everything a man always does—assessing my body.
"Excuse me," I say, switching to Spanish and adopting the slightly helpless tone that works on men like him. "My boyfriend and I are stranded. Our car broke down, and we need to get to Chihuahua for a family emergency."
He glances over at Brick, who's leaning against the truck with casual confidence. "What kind of emergency?"
"My grandmother," I lie smoothly. "She's in the hospital. We'll pay for gas, food, whatever you need."
The trucker considers it, clearly weighing the risks against the potential profit.
I pull out a roll of bills—American dollars, more than he probably makes in a week.
"Seven hundred now, three hundred when we get there," I offer.
That settles it. "I'm heading to Chihuahua anyway," he says, pocketing the money. "But if you bring trouble, you're out at the first truck stop."
"No trouble," I assure him. "We just need a ride."
He nods toward his cab. "Load up. We leave in five minutes."
I signal to Brick, who grabs our essentials and joins us.
The trucker—Carlos, he introduces himself—helps me into the passenger seat while Brick climbs into the sleeper berth behind us.
As we pull out of the depot, I catch a glimpse of black SUVs entering the other end of the lot.
They're searching, but we're already gone, anonymous cargo in a sea of people.
I don’t like the idea of leaving Brick’s bike here, but I’m sure he’ll get it back at some point.
"Your grandmother really sick?" Carlos asks as we merge onto the highway.
"Something like that," I reply, watching the side mirror.
No one is following us yet, but I know it's only a matter of time.
The cab is warm and smells like diesel fuel and old coffee.
Carlos has the radio tuned to a Mexican station playing norteno music, the familiar rhythms a comfort.
For a moment, I can almost pretend we're just regular people on a road trip.
"How long to Chihuahua?" Brick asks from the sleeper.
"Ten, twelve hours," Carlos replies. "Depends on the checkpoints."
Checkpoints. I'd forgotten about those—routine stops where authorities inspect cargo and documentation.
Usually not a problem for someone with my connections, but now...
"What kind of checkpoints?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Drug interdiction mostly. Sometimes immigration." Carlos glances at me. "You two got papers?"
"Of course," I lie smoothly. We have identification, but using it would be like sending up a flare. "Just prefer to avoid delays, you know?"
He nods, understanding. "There's a checkpoint about six hours out. Usually just wave truckers through, but sometimes they're thorough."
I file this information away. Six hours gives us time to plan, but not much. If they're looking for us specifically, even routine checks could be dangerous.
The highway stretches ahead, empty except for occasional traffic.
In the distance, mountains rise like jagged teeth against the pale sky.
Beautiful country, but unforgiving.
The kind of place where people disappear and are never found.
"You sleep," Brick says quietly from behind me. "I'll keep watch."
I want to argue, to insist I'm fine, but my exhaustion is weighing me down horribly.
The adrenaline crash after the motel escape, combined with too little sleep and too much stress, is taking its toll.
"Wake me if anything changes," I say, closing my eyes.
"Count on it."
I drift off to the sound of the engine and Carlos humming along with the radio.
My last conscious thought is how strange it is to feel safe in the cab of a truck with a stranger, protected by a man I've known for barely a couple of days.
When I wake, the sun is high up in the sky and the landscape is different.
We're in the mountains now, the highway winding through pine forests and rocky outcroppings.
The air smells different—cleaner, thinner.
"How long was I out?" I ask, stretching as much as the cab allows.
"Four hours," Brick replies. "We're making good time."
Carlos glances at me. "Checkpoint's coming up in about an hour. Might want to think about your story."
I nod, my mind already working through stories.
The truth is obviously out—we can't tell them we're fleeing assassins.
But, the cover story needs to be believable enough to pass.
"Business trip," I decide. "I'm a consultant, Brick's my security. We're heading to Chihuahua to meet with potential clients."
"What kind of consulting?" Carlos asks.
"Import/export," I reply. It's close enough to the truth to be believable, and vague enough to discourage follow-up questions.
Brick nods his approval. "I'll be the strong, silent type. Let you do the talking."
"That's probably best," I agree with a slight smile. "Your Spanish is terrible."
"Hey," he protests, but there's amusement in his voice. "It's not that bad."
"It really is," Carlos chimes in, grinning. "Sounds like a gringo trying to order tacos."
The checkpoint appears ahead—a small building beside the highway, several official vehicles parked nearby.
Carlos slows, joining the short line of trucks waiting for inspection.
" Documentos ," Carlos says, holding out his hand.
I pass him our identification, my heart hammering as I see uniformed officers approaching each vehicle.
This is it—the moment of truth.
If they're looking for us specifically, if our photos have been circulated...
"Stay calm," Brick murmurs from behind me. "Just another routine stop."
The officer who approaches our truck is young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of authority that comes with the badge.
He glances at Carlos's papers, then at us.
"Purpose of travel?" he asks in Spanish.
"Business," I reply smoothly. "Import/export consulting. Meeting with clients in Chihuahua."
He nods, checking our identification against some kind of list.
My breath catches as I see him pause, studying my ID more carefully.
Does he recognize the name?
Is Torres on some kind of watch list?
"Imani Torres," he reads aloud. "Any relation to Mateo Torres?"
The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun.
How I answer could determine whether we continue to Chihuahua or end up in custody.
"Distant cousin," I lie, keeping my voice level. "Same last name, different family. You know how it is."
He studies me for a long moment, then hands back our documents. "Safe travels."
Carlos puts the truck in gear, and we roll forward.
I don't breathe normally until the checkpoint is well behind us.
Brick sighs. "That was close."
"Too close," I agree. "They're definitely looking for us."
"Your father's Mateo?" Carlos asks.
I glance at him, surprised. "You know who my father is?"
"Lady, everyone in this business knows who Mateo Torres is." He gives me a sideways look. "Question is, what kind of trouble are you running from?"
I consider lying, but Carlos has been straight with us so far, and if we're going to trust him with our lives, he deserves some version of the truth.
"The kind that gets people killed," I say simply.
He nods, as if that's explanation enough. "Well, you picked the right ride. I've been moving questionable cargo for twenty years. Know how to stay invisible."
The highway continues to wind through the mountains, the scenery spectacular even though we’re in this shitty situation.
I think once we’re finally in Chihuahua, I’m going to feel much better.
A little while passes and in the distance, I can see the sprawl of Chihuahua beginning to appear.
"How well do you know Amara?" Brick asks, breaking the comfortable silence.
I turn to look at him, noting the genuine curiosity in his expression. "We've known each other since we were teenagers. Why?"
"Just trying to understand the dynamics. She can be… intense."
"That's one word for it." I smile, remembering. "When we were kids, she was always the one pushing boundaries, testing limits. Drove her father crazy."
"Sounds familiar," Brick says with a slight grin. "She hasn't changed much."
"No, she hasn't. But that's why she's good at what she does. Why she's survived in that world." I pause. "Why I trust her with my life."
"And why she trusts you."
Trust is a precious commodity in our world, not given lightly or without reason.
"We protect each other," I say, echoing his words from the night before. "Always have."
The city sprawls across the valley like a concrete organism.
"Where do you want me to drop you?" Carlos asks.
I consider his question.
Going directly to the clubhouse might lead trouble to Amara's door.
It’s better to maintain some distance, approach carefully.
"The bus station," I decide. "Central location, easy to blend in."
Carlos nods, driving through increasingly dense traffic.
The city is waking up around us—vendors setting up stalls, commuters heading to work, children walking to school.
Normal life continuing even with the danger that follows us. I guess that’s how it is every single day.
We reach the bus station, a massive complex.
It’s perfect for our needs—busy enough to hide in, with multiple exit routes if needed.
"This is where we part ways," I tell Carlos, handing him the promised payment. "Thank you for the ride."
" De nada ," he replies, pocketing the bills. "Stay safe, both of you."
We gather our belongings and step out into the morning heat.
The bus station is already bustling with activity—travelers, vendors, taxi drivers competing for fares.
We blend into the crowd, just two more people in a city of millions.
"Now what?" Brick asks.
I pull out my phone, checking for messages.
Nothing from my father, which means either he's maintaining radio silence or something's happened to him.
The thought sends a chill down my spine.
"Now we contact Amara," I say. "Let her know we're here."
But as I start to dial, I notice we're being watched.
A man in a business suit, standing by the taxi stand, his attention focused on us so hard that he doesn’t dare look away.
When our eyes meet, he reaches for something inside his jacket.
"Brick," I say quietly, not taking my eyes off the man. "We've got company."
He follows my gaze, instantly alert. "How many?"
"One that I can see. Probably more."
The man is moving now, crossing the busy plaza toward us.
I scan for escape routes, but the crowd that seemed like protection moments ago now threatens to trap us.
"This way," Brick says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the nearest building.
We move quickly but not frantically, trying to avoid drawing attention while putting distance between us and our pursuer.
Behind us, I can hear the man speaking into a radio—calling for backup, giving our location.
"There." I point to a narrow alley between buildings. "We can lose them in the maze."
We duck into the alley, pressing ourselves against the wall as footsteps pound past the entrance.
My heart hammers in my chest, adrenaline sharpening every sense.
"They're getting closer," Brick says grimly. "We need to reach the clubhouse before they can coordinate a full search."
I nod, already planning our route through the city's backstreets.
Chihuahua is a big city, but it's not infinite.
Eventually, they'll box us in unless we find a way out of this.
"Follow me," I say, leading him deeper into the alley. "I know this city."
But as we move through the narrow streets, I can't shake the feeling that we're being herded—pushed toward a specific location, a trap waiting to spring on us.
The men hunting us are professionals, and they've had time to prepare.
We're walking into something, I'm sure of it.
The question is whether we'll recognize the trap before it's too late.
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.”
I watch her work, noting how naturally she moves through the space.
This isn't just a safe house—it's a piece of her family history, a connection to the mother she lost.
"Are you thinking about trying to contact your father?" I ask.
She shakes her head, frustration evident. "No, he said he’d make contact with me first, but…I want to hear from him." She turns from the equipment, and I can see the worry she's trying to hide. "This doesn’t feel right, and it’s getting to me, Brick."
The confirmation of what we already suspected settles between us like a lead weight.
Diego's betrayal goes deeper than just selling us out—it's compromised Mateo's entire organization.
"We're going to figure it out," I tell her, though I'm not sure how. "Once we reach the clubhouse, Amara will have resources we can use."
She nods, but I can see the doubt in her dark eyes.
The woman who impressed me the first moment I met her is showing cracks in her armor.
I find myself studying her more intently—the way she moves with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of her perfume cutting through the dust and sweat of our journey, the intelligence that flashes in her eyes when she's processing information.
Everything about her draws me in, even though I should know better than to get involved with someone I’m on a protection detail with.
"You're staring again," she says without looking at me, unpacking her bag.
"Thinking," I correct, though she's not wrong.
"About what?"
About how you make me forget why I'm here.
About how protecting you has become personal in ways I didn't expect.
About how much I want to taste those lips that always seem to be set in that determined line.
"About how to keep you alive," I say instead.
She pauses in her unpacking, something flickering across her expression. "Is that all I am to you? A mission? A quest? An assignment?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. "You were," I admit. "When this started."
"And now?"
Now you're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I sleep.
Now the thought of someone hurting you makes me see red in ways that have nothing to do with the club.
"Now it's complicated," I say.
She moves closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "Complicated how?"
"Imani..." I start, but she's standing right in front of me now, her hand coming up to rest on my chest.
"Tell me," she says softly.
The words get caught in my throat as her fingers trace over the fabric of my shirt.
Every nerve ending where she touches feels like it's on fire.
This is dangerous, but I can't seem to care about the risks right now.
"You make me want things I have no business wanting," I admit roughly.
Her lips curve into a small smile. "Such as?"
Instead of answering with words, I cup her face in my hands, my thumb tracing the elegant line of her cheekbone.
Her skin is soft as silk, warmed by the desert sun.
She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
When she opens them again, the heat I see there nearly undoes me.
"Brick," she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips in that breathless tone breaks whatever restraint I was clinging to.
I lower my head slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
But she doesn't move—instead, she rises on her toes to meet me halfway.
The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question asked and answered.
But the moment her lips part under mine, something ignites between us.
My hands slide into her hair, tilting her head back as I deepen the kiss.
She tastes like danger and desire, like everything I've ever wanted and shouldn't have.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own.
Years of walls and control crumble under the assault of her mouth, her body pressed against mine.
I back her against the wall, my mouth leaving hers to trail down the column of her throat.
She makes a small sound—part gasp, part moan—that goes straight to my head like the finest tequila.
"We shouldn't," she breathes, even as her head falls back to give me better access.
"I know," I murmur against her skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. "Tell me to stop."
Her hands slide up to grip my shoulders. "I can't."
The honesty in her voice, the admission that she's as lost in this as I am, makes me lift my head to look at her.
Her lips are swollen from our kiss, her eyes dark with desire, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
She's beautiful.
Not just physically, though she's stunning enough to stop traffic.
The urge to claim her, to mark her as mine, rises with such intensity it frightens me.
This isn't just attraction anymore.
This is something much more dangerous.
I force myself to step back, breaking the spell between us.
The loss of contact feels like tearing away part of myself.
"We should get some rest," I say, my voice rough. "It’ll be a long day tomorrow."
Hurt flashes in her eyes before she masks it with icy composure. "Of course. The assignment."
"Imani—"
"It's fine," she says, turning away to busy herself with checking her weapon. "You're right. We need to stay focused."
But it's not fine, and we both know it.
The tension between us has shifted into something intense and unresolved, crackling in the air whenever we look at each other.
I settle into the chair by the window, positioning myself to watch the street while she takes the bed.
Silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we're not saying.
Hours pass. I can tell from her breathing that she's not sleeping any more than I am.
Every small sound she makes—the rustle of sheets, a quiet sigh—sends awareness shooting through me.
Around three in the morning, she cries out in her sleep.
Not loud, but sharp with terror.
I'm on my feet and beside the bed before I consciously decide to move.
"Imani," I say softly, not wanting to startle her awake too suddenly. "Hey, you're okay."
She jerks awake, eyes wide with fear before focusing on me.
For a moment, she looks young and vulnerable, nothing like the strong cartel princess she usually presents to the world.
"Nightmare?" I ask gently.
She nods, pushing herself up to sit against the headboard. "The same one I've had since I was five. My mother and brother... their blood on the floor..."
Without thinking, I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her into my arms.
She resists for a moment, then melts against me, her face buried in my chest.
"I can still hear the gunshots," she whispers. "Still smell the gunpowder and blood. Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm still that little girl, hiding behind the couch while men kill my family."
I hold her tighter, one hand stroking her hair. "You're safe now. I've got you."
"Do you?" she asks, lifting her head to look at me. "Have me, I mean?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning.
She's not just asking about protection—she's asking about something deeper, more personal.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I do."
She searches my eyes, looking for something.
Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because she relaxes against me again.
"Tell me about your family," she says after a while. "What happened to your father?"
The subject I never talk about, the wound I keep buried.
But something about the darkness, about holding her in my arms while she shares her pain, makes me want to tell her.
"Armed robbery," I say finally. "Fifteen years ago. He held up a liquor store to get money for food and rent."
"He was desperate?"
"Broke, no job, debt collectors threatening the family. He saw it as his only option." I can still remember that night—the police at the door, my mother's screams, the way my world changed in a matter of minutes. "Got fifteen to twenty-five. Could be out in a few more years if he behaves himself."
"Have you seen him? Since he went in?"
I shake my head. "He writes letters. I keep them, but I've never opened them. Don't know what he could say that would make any difference."
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest as she thinks about what I’ve said. "Maybe he wants to explain. Tell you why he did it."
"I know why he did it. Doesn't change what happened after."
"What happened to your mother?"
The harder question.
The one that explains why I became the club's medic, why I'm driven to fix what's broken.
"She fell apart," I say simply. "Started drinking, then pills, then harder stuff. I learned to take care of her—basic medical stuff, managing her medications, keeping her functional. By the time I was sixteen, I was more of a parent than a child."
"That's why you became a medic."
"Partly. Also because I was good at it. Turns out I have a talent for putting people back together." I look down at her, noting how right she feels in my arms. "What about you? Ever think about going back to medicine?"
"Sometimes. But my father needs me in the business side. Someone he can trust to handle the legitimate operations."
"Is that what you want? Or is it what he wants?"
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. "I don't know anymore. For so long, I've defined myself by what the family needs, what my mother would have wanted. I'm not sure who I am outside of that."
"You're brilliant," I tell her. "Brave, strategic, tougher than most men I know. You could be anything you wanted to be."
She lifts her head to look at me again, something vulnerable in her expression. "You see me differently than most people do."
"How do most people see you?"
"Mateo Torres's daughter. A valuable asset. A potential threat. A prize to be won or a target to be eliminated." She pauses. "You're the first person in a long time to see me as just... me."
The admission hits me harder than it should.
This woman, who has everything money can buy, is starved for something as simple as being seen for who she is rather than what she represents.
"You're not just anything to me," I say quietly.
The words hang between us, an admission that changes everything. Her eyes search mine, and I can see the exact moment she makes her decision.
She leans up and kisses me, soft and sweet this time, not the desperate hunger from earlier but something more sincere.
I should pull away.
I should remember what the goal is, what my responsibilities are, the dozen reasons why this is a bad idea.
But when she looks at me like that, like I'm something she cares about, it’s hard to stop.
The kiss deepens gradually, her hands sliding up to cup my face as I gather her closer.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she rests her forehead against mine.
"Stay with me," she whispers. "Tonight."
"Imani," I start, but she silences me with a finger against my lips.
"I know what I'm asking. I know it complicates things." Her eyes are steady on mine. "But I need you. Not the protector, not the prospect on a mission. You, Brick."
The simple honesty in her words breaks the last of my resistance.
Whatever consequences come from this, whatever complications it creates, I can't deny her.
I can't deny us.
"Okay," I say.
She smiles then, the first truly carefree expression I've seen from her since this all started. It transforms her face, making her look younger, happier.
But our moment is interrupted by the sound of vehicles pulling up outside—multiple engines, moving fast.
Through the window, I can see headlights converging on the building.
"Shit," I breathe, grabbing my weapon. "They found us."
The moment of peace shatters as reality crashes back in.
We're not just two people finding comfort in each other—we're hunted prey, and the hunters have found our scent.
"How?" Imani demands, already moving to gather our gear.
"Doesn't matter now," I reply, checking the magazine in my gun. "What matters is getting out of here alive."
The sound of boots on the stairs echoes through the building.
Multiple sets, moving fast. Professional again, just like all the others.
"Back exit?" I ask.
"Fire escape," she confirms, pointing to the window facing the alley.
We grab our essential gear and head for the window. Behind us, I can hear doors being kicked in, systematic searches getting closer.
As I help Imani onto the fire escape, I can't help but think about what almost happened between us.
What should have happened, if we'd had more time.
But time is a luxury we don't have.
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.