Page 16 of Fang

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a rejection either.

“Fair enough,” I say, trying to keep the desperate hope from my voice. “But remember—every minute we wait is another minute the cartel has to realize what’s happening and move him. Getting to him before they figure stuff out is a huge advantage.”

Fang nods once, a sharp, precise movement that acknowledges the urgency without committing to immediate action. “I’ll talk to the president. Make your case to the club. Based on your brother’s condition, can they really move him within a few hours?”

“I’m not sure. He needs special transportation and that’s not always readily available. We could have a day at most, but it could happen tonight.”

“That’s assuming they know you found his location,” Fang says.

“Right. We don’t know how long it will take for them to put it all together.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up and rested while I go talk to Vapor.”

“Okay.” I flash a quick smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns.

I follow Fang through the labyrinth of the clubhouse, mapping each turn in my mind like I’m tracing circuit boards. His broad shoulders block most of my view, but I catalog what I can see: exit points, security cameras, the faces of men who watch us pass with curious, predatory eyes. My skin prickles with awareness. In this den of leather and testosterone, I’m both an asset and a liability—a hacker with secrets they need and secrets they don’t know I have.

“Keep close,” Fang says, his voice barely audible over the heavy metal blasting from somewhere deeper in the building.“Most of the guys will assume you’re with me, but they’re always looking for some action.”

I quicken my pace, nearly stepping on his heels. “That’s not the kind of action I’m interested in right now.”

He doesn’t laugh, just throws me a look over his shoulder that might be amusement or annoyance.

We pass a room where three men hunched over a pool table straighten like hunting dogs catching a scent when I walk by. One of them, a barrel-chested guy with a beard that could house a bird’s nest gives Fang a questioning look.

“She’s with me,” Fang says simply. It’s enough to make the man nod and return to his game, though his eyes linger on me a beat too long. A shiver runs down my spine. As long as I’m in their territory, I’d better stay close to Fang. It feels like he’s the only thing keeping the dogs at bay.

We climb a set of stairs. At the top, the hallway stretches in both directions with doors lining each side like a hotel corridor. Unlike a hotel, though, there are no numbers, just small insignias burned into the wood—personalized markers for each member, I realize.

Fang stops at a door with an etching that looks like computer code wrapped around a dagger. Without ceremony, he pushes it open and gestures me inside.

“Home sweet home,” he says, though there’s nothing sweet about it.

The room is as sparse as a monk’s cell, though one dedicated to the worship of technology rather than God. A king sized bed with military corners occupies one wall. A wooden desk supports three monitors connected to a tower humming quietly to the side. No photos. No art. Just a corkboard pinned with what look like network diagrams.

Motorcycle gear hangs from hooks on the wall—a leather jacket with the club’s insignia, gloves worn thin at the knuckles,a helmet with a scratch across the visor. The room smells of motor oil and something faintly chemical—cleaning solution, maybe, or the residue of electronic components.

“Cozy,” I say, the sarcasm automatic.

Fang crosses his arms, the movement pulling his t-shirt tight across muscles that seem excessive for someone who spends his days at a keyboard. “You’re staying here until I can talk to Vapor.”

My stomach tightens. “I should go with you. He might have questions only I can answer.”

“Vapor doesn’t trust you. I’m your babysitter until the club decides what to do with you.” His green eyes hold mine steadily behind those thick-framed glasses.

“But I—”

“Or I could take you back to the Quiet Room.”

“That hellhole out by the bayou? No thanks.” I cross my arms under my breasts, not missing the way his gaze drops to watch the movement.

Fang points to a door beside the desk. “Bathroom’s through there. Get cleaned up.”

The bathroom is surprisingly large with a shower big enough to hold four people, a separate toilet with its own door, and dual sinks. A small window above the toilet is painted shut, the glass frosted for privacy but also eliminating it as an escape route. I file away the observation automatically, a habit formed from years of calculating exits.

“Towels are on the shelf,” Fang says, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll be right outside.”

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