Page 27 of Fang

I swing my leg over and find my footing on the uneven ground. My legs vibrate with phantom motion, adjusting to stillness after the long ride.

“Scalpel’s here,” Fang says, nodding toward the ambulance. “Let’s go inside.”

Inside, the diner is a study in strategic neglect. It’s rundown enough to discourage casual visitors, but not so dilapidated that it attracts attention from authorities. The linoleum floor is cracked but clean, the vinyl booths patched with silver duct tape. A ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring air that smells of coffee and grease. Three local men hunch over plates at the counter, while a waitress with faded tattoos and hard eyes refills their cups without conversation.

In the farthest booth, a man sits with his back to the wall, face partially obscured by a newspaper. As we approach, he folds it precisely and sets it aside, revealing features that seem too refined for his surroundings—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that assess us with clinical detachment. His hands are unmistakably a surgeon’s—long fingers, clean nails, and a calm precision that hints at thousands of careful incisions.

“Scalpel,” Fang greets him, sliding into the booth opposite him.

I take the spot beside Fang.

“You must be Mina,” Scalpel says, his voice carrying the faint trace of an education he’s tried to bury beneath rougher cadences. He doesn’t offer his hand, doesn’t smile. Just studies me with those assessing eyes. “Your brother has an interesting case.”

“My brother is not a case,” I correct him, keeping my voice low. “He’s a person who needs help.”

Something shifts in Scalpel’s expression—not quite approval, but a subtle recalibration. “Fair enough. I’ve brought everything we’ll need for the first seventy-two hours. After that, we’ll need to source additional supplies.”

Fang leans forward, elbows on the table. “Show us what you’ve got.”

“Food’s about to come. Burger and fries, like Fang asked.”

“Thank you. When Fang asked me earlier, I wasn’t hungry. But he insisted.” My stomach grumbles. “He was right.”

Fang had tried to get me to eat earlier, but my belly churned enough that I wasn’t sure I’d keep the meal down. Now, I’m ravenous.

When the food comes, we dig in. Scalpel and Fang clean their plates while I manage to finish over half of mine. That will be enough to get me through the next few hours.

After Fang pays the waitress, we follow Scalpel outside to the ambulance, the heat hitting us like a physical barrier as we exit the diner’s air conditioning. He unlocks the back doors and swings them open to reveal an interior that looks nothing like you’d expect from the vehicle’s exterior. Where I expected outdated equipment and makeshift solutions, I find a miniature hospital room—portable dialysis machine, ventilator, monitoring systems, and neatly labeled medications organized in specialized coolers.

“Jesus,” Fang mutters, clearly impressed. “You didn’t cut any corners.”

“I never do,” Scalpel replies, running his fingers along the edge of a metal case. “Not with patients.” He turns to me. “I’ve worked on other cases similar to your brother’s. His condition is serious but manageable with the right equipment. This setup will keep him stable during transport and for the initial recovery period.”

The weight I’ve been carrying eases slightly. “Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what this means to me.

Scalpel acknowledges my gratitude with a slight nod. “Let’s get in so we can finish planning. I don’t like being exposed.”

We climb into the back of the ambulance and close the doors. Fang unfolds a map of Mercy Memorial Hospital on the stretcher then glances at me.“Show him what you know about the setup.”

“I’m pretty sure that Rory’s room is on the third floor,” I say, pointing to the room I think he’s in.

“What’s‘pretty sure’mean?” Scalpel asks.

“They blindfolded me, but I always paid attention to details. The elevator would ding three times before the doors opened, so that would mean the third floor.”

“Maybe,” Scalpel says.“But we can’t count on it.”

“No. We can’t,” Fang agrees.

“The cartel has at least two guards disguised as orderlies on rotation, plus a nurse they’ve paid off to monitor his care,” I say.“They could be in my brother’s room, or in the hall. Really, they could be anywhere in the building, so we need to be watching for them.”

“Hopefully they’ll stick out enough that we can identify them before they realize why we’re there. We’ll enter here, using the staff elevator to avoid the main lobby cameras.” Fang’s finger traces a path from the service entrance. “Scalpel will park the ambulance at the emergency bay, wearing paramedic gear so he blends in.”

“I’ll change right before we take off. Didn’t want to earlier because I didn’t want the waitress asking a bunch of questions.”

“Did she say anything about the ambulance?” Fang asks.

“No. She saw it for sure, but didn’t comment. People around here don’t seem to be the type to get into other people’s business.”

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