Page 19 of Fang

“Sort of. Vapor’s got the final say. I can only make recommendations to him. That said, I trust his gut, and he trusts me. But he’s going to want to know exactly what we’d be getting into if we agreed to help you.”

“What do you need to know?” I ask softly.

“How simple will it be to move him once we have him? Can we do it without a bunch of medical equipment?”

“I’m not sure. He might be able to be disconnected from stuff for an hour or two, but not much longer than that.”

“So we’d need to round up any medical personnel we’d need before the move?”

“Ideally, yes. But in a pinch, I’m pretty sure we could unhook him from everything for a couple of hours. As long as he gets to a new facility quickly, he should be okay. I think.”

“Risky.” Fang waits, his eyes never leaving my face. He has the stillness of someone who understands the value of silence, how it compels others to fill it. It’s a tactic I know well, but knowing doesn’t make me immune.

“You’re right. My brother isn’t like a package you can just grab and go,” I say, my voice taking on an edge of desperation I hate hearing. There’s no point in downplaying the risks involved, but I can’t leave him at the mercy of the cartel either. “He needs constant medical support and specialized care. There’s monitoring, and medication, and equipment. He can’t breathe properly without assistance at night. His heart has to be checked regularly. He gets infections easily because his immune system is compromised.”

Fang nods slowly, processing. His fingers begin to drum against the table—not impatience, I realize, but a thinking mechanism, like a computer processing data. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap. “What specific equipment does he need longer term?”

“A BiPAP machine for sleep. An automated medication dispenser programmed with his dosage schedule. A hospital bed that can be adjusted to help with his breathing. Pulse oximeter. Heart monitor.” I tick them off on my fingers. “And that’s just the hardware. He needs trained people who know what to do if he has a respiratory crisis.”

Fang’s eyes narrow slightly as he considers this. “Can any of it be sourced privately?”

“Some of it, maybe. The machines, yes. But you’d need someone who knows how to calibrate them specifically for him.” I hesitate, then add, “And you’d need his medical records to know exactly what medications and dosages he needs.”

“Medical records can be accessed.” Fang says this with the casual confidence of someone who regularly breaches secure systems.

“But carefully,” I insist. “One mistake and—” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to.

Fang studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind those black-framed glasses. I wonder what he sees—a desperate sister? A valuable asset? A liability? All three, probably.

“I’ll talk to Vapor,” he finally says. “After everything you’ve told me, I’m going to stick my neck out and trust you on this. I think you could help us take down the cartel, but I can also tell you won’t be able to think straight until your brother’s safe.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Relief loosens a knot in my chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Fang cautions. “Vapor makes the final call. But he’s a good man. Better than most in this life.”

I want to ask what that means, how someone rises to leadership in a world of outlaws and still qualifies as “good,” but I hold my tongue. I’m in no position to judge the moral relativism of motorcycle clubs when I’ve spent the last decade working for a cartel.

“If we do this,” Fang continues, “we’ll need a secure location. Medical staff we can trust. Supplies. It won’t be cheap or easy.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” I reply, the platitude slipping out before I can stop it.

A ghost of a smile touches Fang’s lips. “True enough.” He stands, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the concrete floor. “Get some rest. I’m going to talk to Vapor now. We’ll figure this out.”

I nod, suddenly exhausted. The day has stretched my nerves to the breaking point—the tension of being stuck in the Quiet Room, the stress of stopping the cyberattack, the bargain I’ve struck, the uncertainty about Rory’s future. It all crashes down at once, a DDoS attack on my emotional firewalls.

“Thank you,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

Fang pauses at the doorway, looking back at me. “For what it’s worth, I get it. Family’s everything. It’s worth any risk.” Something flickers in his eyes—pain, maybe, or memory—before he shuts it down. “I’ll be back soon. If you leave this room, all bets are off.”

Then he’s gone.

Returning to the bed, I glance at the perfectly made blanket and don’t bother to untuck it. I lay across the bed, letting my exhausted muscles rest. I’m too tired to move, yet too wired to relax completely.

The cartel has held Rory hostage through his medical needs for years. Now I’m betting his life on a motorcycle club’s honor and a hacker’s word. It’s a desperate play, but desperation has been my constant companion for so long I hardly recognize it anymore. It’s just the background noise of my existence, like the hum of a computer that never powers down.

I close my eyes, allowing myself one moment of weakness while no one is watching. Rory’s face floats in my mind—not as he is now, thin and pale in a hospital bed, but as he was before, laughing as I pushed him on a swing, his small hands reaching for the sky. I hold that image close, a talisman against doubt.

Then I open my eyes, straighten my shoulders, and begin mentally coding the next steps of this dangerous program I’ve initiated. Fang will return with good news or bad, but either way, I need to be ready. Rory is counting on me. He always has been.

---