Page 13 of Fang

Fang says nothing, but his eyes never leave the screens, watching as I systematically identify and neutralize one malicious process after another. I can feel his assessment shifting, the weight of his gaze changing from suspicion tosomething closer to professional respect. He recognizes skill when he sees it, even if it belongs to someone he considers an enemy.

“There,” I mutter, hitting Enter. “Primary breach contained.” I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Now for the secondary payloads.”

The minutes blur together as I work, each successful countermeasure followed by two more challenges. It’s like dismantling a bomb with multiple failsafes, each one designed to trigger if the previous is disturbed. But I know this work intimately—know the minds that created it, know their habits and shortcuts, and know where to look for the hidden traps.

“Almost…” I whisper, more to myself than to Fang, as I track down the final piece of malicious code. My vision doubles momentarily, my body reminding me of its limitations, but I force the weakness away. “Got it.”

The last warning message disappears from the screens, replaced by a system status report showing all services restored and secure. Under normal circumstances, I’d allow myself a moment of satisfaction, maybe even a smile. But these aren’t normal circumstances, and time is running out.

Without pausing, I pivot from defense to offense, my fingers launching new commands before Fang can react.

“What are you doing?” Fang’s voice sharpens as he reaches for the Glock, shifting it into his hand.

“Getting what we both need,” I reply, not looking away from the screens as I navigate through the cartel’s internal-facing servers. Hospital databases appear on one monitor, shipping manifests on another. “You want intel on their operations. I want to find my brother. This is our chance for both.”

I feel Fang move closer, his shadow falling across the keyboard. “I didn’t authorize this.”

My fingers continue typing, racing against invisible clocks. “You didn’t have to.”

For a moment, I think he might pull me bodily from the chair, might decide I’m too dangerous to allow near his systems. But curiosity wins out over caution. The cartel’s data—their shipping routes, their personnel records, their financial transactions—scrolls across his screens in real-time, a treasure trove of intelligence.

And somewhere in that digital ocean of information swims my brother’s location. The cartel kept this information hidden from me so they could continue to use me. They let me visit him, but I was always blindfolded so I didn’t know where we were. I had never tried to search for him before because I had no way of rescuing him. Now I do. I just have to locate and rescue him before Fang decides I’ve outlived my usefulness. Or before the cartel realizes I’ve survived and sends someone to finish what the warehouse explosion couldn’t.

My hands hover over the keyboard, each finger trembling not with fear but with the raw determination that’s kept me alive all these years. The cartel’s databases spread before me on Fang’s monitors—a digital labyrinth I helped build, now potentially my brother’s salvation.

Two devastating facts hang in the air between keystrokes: the cartel is about to realize that I survived the explosion, and worse, they’ll know I’m working with Underground Vengeance. The clock that’s been counting down my brother’s safety has just accelerated to a dangerous speed.

“You realize what you’ve done,” Fang says, his voice low and steady beside me. Not a question—an accusation wrapped in observation.

“I know exactly what I’ve done,” I respond, fingers already flying across the keyboard again. “I’ve bought us maybe fiveminutes before they lock me out completely. Less if they’re smart about it.”

I navigate through the hospital databases first, searching for my brother’s unique identifier in their system. The cartel doesn’t use real names for their leverage points—too easy to track. Instead, they assign codes: mine is Python-379. My brother’s is Cobra-380. Finding him means finding that designation in their medical records.

The screen flickers as another firewall falls under my assault. Sweat trickles down my spine, my shirt sticking to my back despite the air conditioning that hums steadily in Fang’s office. My mouth tastes like cotton. My tongue sticks to the roof of it with each swallow. The drink helped, but not enough. My dehydration is becoming dangerous. The edges of my vision occasionally darken, but I push through it.

“Here.” Fang shoves another bottle of water in front of me.

“No time. Patient logs,” I mumble, more to myself than to Fang. “Transfer records. Payment trails.”

He shifts behind me, moving to where he can see both the screens and my face. His gaze presses on me like a physical weight—assessing, calculating, still suspicious, even though I just saved his entire digital infrastructure from collapse.

“How do you know they haven’t moved him already?” he asks.

A fair question, one that’s been clawing at the back of my mind since I first sat down.

“They wouldn’t,” I say, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “Not yet. They’re efficient, but not that efficient. Moving a patient in critical condition takes planning, especially if they want to keep it quiet.”

“Critical condition?” Something shifts in his tone—a softening so subtle I almost miss it.

I don’t answer, can’t afford the distraction of explanation, not when every second counts. Instead, I pull up a map of hospital facilities with cartel connections, cross-referencing with payment records from their financial database. Twenty-three facilities blink red on the screen, each a potential prison for my brother.

“Too many,” I mutter, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Need to narrow it down.”

I create a new query, filtering for specialized equipment—the dialysis machines and monitoring systems my brother needs to survive. The map refreshes, red dots disappearing one by one until only eleven remain. Better, but still too many to check manually before the cartel realizes what I’m doing.

A new idea strikes, and I pivot to a different database—the cartel’s shipping records. If my brother is about to be moved, I need to get a look at their logistics. The cartel documents everything; their criminal enterprise runs with corporate efficiency. Every asset, every transaction, every movement is recorded somewhere.

Fang leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek as he watches the data flow across the screens. “What are you looking for now?”

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