Page 32 of Fang

In turn, Fang tells me about the motorcycle club’s structure, the brotherhood that forms the backbone of his world. He explains their code, their hierarchy, and the complex relationships between chapters. His passion for technology emerges in tangents about security systems and network architecture.

Our conversation shifts between strategic planning and these personal revelations, creating a rhythm that feels almost normal. I catch him watching me once when I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His gaze lingers a moment too long. When our eyes meet, neither of us looks away immediately.

We make our connecting flight without any issues. A few hours later, the seatbelt sign illuminates as we begin our descent into Mexico City. Fang’s hand brushes against mine on the armrest—accidentally, perhaps, though he doesn’t move away.

“We’re going to get him back,” he says, his voice steady with conviction.

I don’t respond, but I don’t pull my hand away either. The weight of his presence beside me feels unexpectedly like an anchor in a storm I’ve been weathering alone for too long.

After we pick up a rental car, we head to the motel Fang located before we left the U.S. It sits in a neighborhood where shadows gather thick at street corners and eyes follow us from darkened doorways. The building leans slightly, as if centuries of Mexico City’s soft soil have slowly conspired to pull it groundward. Paint peels from its façade in long strips like sunburned skin, and the neon sign above the entrance flickers with the erratic pulse of a dying firefly. It’s perfect—exactly the kind of place the cartel wouldn’t bother monitoring, too insignificant for their notice.

Fang’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back as we approach, a gesture that maintains our cover as a married couple while subtly guiding me toward the entrance. I allow it, though the pressure of his fingers sends unwelcome heat up my spine. Although I hope there will be two beds in the room, I’ve got a feeling there’s only going to be one. After all, we’re‘married.’

The lobby smells of cigarettes and cheap cleaning solution, the kind that masks odors rather than eliminating them. A ceiling fan whirs overhead, stirring the stagnant air without cooling it. Behind a scratched plexiglass barrier, the desk clerk watches a telenovela on a small television, his attention lifting to us with obvious reluctance.

“Necesitamos una habitación,” Fang says, his Spanish carrying just enough of an American accent to match our cover as tourists. “Para mi esposa y yo.”

My wife and I. The words echo strangely in my ears as I force a tired smile, leaning against Fang’s side in a pantomime of affection. His arm slips around my shoulders, the weight of it simultaneously foreign and oddly comforting.

The clerk slides a registration card through the gap in the plexiglass, watching with disinterest as Fang fills it out with our false names. Money changes hands—cash only, no digital trail—and a key attached to a plastic fob is pushed toward us.

“Cuarto diecisiete,” the clerk says, already turning back to his program. “Segundo piso.”

The stairs creak beneath our weight as we climb to the second floor, the worn carpet releasing puffs of dust with each step. Room seventeen is at the end of a narrow hallway, its door swollen with humidity so that Fang has to lean his shoulder against it to force it open.

The room beyond is small enough that we both hesitate in the doorway, silently calculating the logistics of sharing such confined quarters. A double bed with a concave mattress dominates the space, flanked by mismatched nightstands. A desk with a wobbly-looking chair sits beneath a window covered by thin curtains that do little to block the neon glow from the street below. The bathroom door hangs slightly ajar, revealing chipped tiles and a shower stall with rust-stained grout.

“Home sweet home,” Fang mutters, stepping inside and placing his bag on the bed.

I follow, closing the door behind us and engaging both the deadbolt and the flimsy chain lock. “It’ll work. No one will look for us here.”

Fang nods, already unpacking his laptop and setting it on the desk. “We’ll need to split the power load,” he says, plugging devices into a surge protector he’s brought. “This building’s wiring probably hasn’t been updated since the 60s.”

I move to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains at the street below. Vendors pack up their carts for the night, locals hurry toward metro stations, and the occasional tourist wanders by, looking rather lost. Nothing that registersas a threat, but now we’re deep in cartel territory and danger doesn’t always announce itself.

I move to stand behind him. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to access the cartel’s medical database.” His voice carries the distant quality of someone whose mind is half in another world—the digital landscape where he operates with such confidence. “If I can find Rory’s patient records, we might be able to narrow down which facility they’ve taken him to.”

“This place has wi-fi?”

“Nope, but themercado de carneacross the street didn’t secure theirs.”

“Nice.”

“And I highly doubt the cartel’s patched in and watching the meat market’s online traffic.”

“Unless they’re getting kickbacks, there’s no reason for them to care.”

I lean closer, studying the screen. Lines of code scroll past, too fast to read. Eventually, various maps of Mexico appear, along with a list of all the cartel-run hospitals. It’s impressive, watching him work. I’m starting to wonder if I have a competency porn fetish because every time his hands slide across the keyboard, I wonder what those able fingers would feel like against my skin.

“There,” he murmurs, interrupting my thoughts. “See that? That’s their network signature. Same one they used for the system that managed your brother’s hospital bills.”

I nod, acutely aware of how close we’re standing, my chest nearly touching his back as I lean over him. I straighten abruptly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

“How long will it take to find his new location?” I ask, focusing on the mission, not the man.

Fang’s brow furrows as his screen flashes red text. “Longer than I thought. They’ve upgraded their security since the last time I probed their network.”

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