Page 75 of Boulder's Weight

Nothing flashy, but clean and anonymous—perfect for someone wanting to blend in.

"You sure about this, brother?" Brick asks as we survey the entrance. "Amara said observation only."

"We are observing," I say, scanning the parking lot for the black Ford truck Kelsey described.

I spot it near the back, partially hidden by a delivery van. "Just up close and personal."

Brick sighs but doesn't argue further.

Right now, his loyalty is to me as his brother, even if he thinks I'm crossing a line.

We enter the hotel lobby, keeping our cuts visible but not acting threatening.

The desk clerk eyes us nervously as we approach.

"Need some information," I say, keeping my voice casual. "Two guys staying here—brothers. One tall, dark hair, early thirties. Other similar looking, but built like a fighter. Probably checked in last week."

The clerk hesitates, his gaze flicking to our cuts. "I can't give out guest information. Company policy."

I lean forward slightly, not threatening but intense. "Not asking for room numbers or personal details. Just confirmation they're staying here. It's important."

Brick slides two folded thousand peso notes across the counter, his expression neutral. "For your trouble."

The clerk glances around, then takes the money with a quick nod. "Room 312. Checked in three days ago. But I didn't tell you that."

"Tell us what?" I reply, already heading for the stairs rather than the elevator.

Less chance of being trapped.

We reach the third floor and move silently down the hallway.

Room 312 is midway down, nothing to distinguish it from the others.

"What's the plan?" Brick whispers, one hand resting inside his cut where I know he keeps his gun.

"We knock. Talk like civilized people." I check that my own weapon is accessible. "Let them know Kelsey has club protection now."

"And if they don't want to talk?"

"Then we're less civilized."

I approach the door and knock firmly, three solid raps.

There's movement inside, a muffled voice, then silence.

I knock again, louder.

"Hotel management," I call plastering on a thick Mexican accent, figuring they'll open for that.

The door cracks open, a security chain still in place.

A face appears in the gap—early thirties, sharp features, dark eyes that assess me coldly.

This must be Benji.

His eyes narrow when he sees my cut. "You're not management."

"No, I'm not," I agree, keeping my tone neutral. "I'm here about your sister."

---