Page 18 of Brick's Retribution

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 cartelsicarios—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."

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