Page 34 of Fang

Chapter 13: Mina

Night settles over Mexico City like a velvet shroud, the darkness providing cover as Fang and I approach the clinic. The building rises six stories of gleaming glass and steel—a physical manifestation of the cartel’s wealth and influence. Security cameras track the perimeter with mechanical precision, their red lights blinking like artificial stars.

I adjust the fake ID badge hanging around my neck, the plastic cool against my fingertips. This was just one of the many‘supplies’Fang had in his go bag. The photo isn’t me, but it’s female and generic-looking enough that it could be me.

Beside me, Fang walks with the confident stride of someone who belongs, his own disguise transforming him from biker to corporate IT specialist with nothing more than slacks, a button-down shirt, and slicked-back hair. We steamed our shirts in the shower so they wouldn’t be wrinkled before we left the motel room. Looking like you fit in is the key to this type of subterfuge.

“Remember,” he murmurs as we approach the main entrance, “you’re Teresa Alvarez, my junior technician. You don’t speak unless spoken to directly. Most of these people are trained to look through support staff.”

I nod slightly, slipping into the role by hanging back a step.

The lobby gleams with polished marble and soft, recessed lighting—more luxury hotel than medical facility. A securityguard stands beside a metal detector, his posture deceptively casual, the bulge of a holstered weapon visible beneath his uniform jacket. Behind a curved reception desk, a woman with immaculate makeup and sharp eyes watches our approach.

Fang steps forward, producing a tablet and work order with practiced ease. “Buenas noches.Miguel Suarez and Teresa Alvarez, from NetCare Systems. We’re scheduled for the server maintenance tonight.”

The receptionist examines the documentation, then our IDs, her expression revealing nothing. My pulse quickens, but I keep my face neutral, eyes downcast like a subordinate. After what feels like eternity, she nods and makes a call, speaking too softly for us to hear.

“Quinto piso,” she finally says, handing back our credentials. “Sala de servidores.César will meet you upstairs.”

We place the laptop and networking cables in a plastic bin then pass through the metal detector without incident. After retrieving our equipment, we head to the elevators. As the doors close behind us, I release a breath.

“That was almost too easy,” I whisper as we ascend.

Fang’s expression remains neutral, aware of the camera in the elevator’s corner. “The hard part’s coming. We need to lose César before we can access the patient database.”

The fifth floor opens to a sterile corridor lit by fluorescent panels that cast everything in a clinical glow. A man waits by the elevator banks—César, presumably—with a clipboard and suspicious eyes. He leads us down the hallway, past rooms with specialized equipment visible through glass panels. I catalogue each turn, each security checkpoint, building a mental map for our escape.

“The servers are in here,” César says, stopping before a heavy door with a keypad. He punches in a code—I memorize the sequence automatically—and pushes it open to reveala climate-controlled room humming with technology. “What exactly are you upgrading?”

Fang launches into a technical explanation about bandwidth optimization and backup protocols, his delivery so convincing that César’s eyes begin to glaze over. I move slightly away, pretending to examine a network panel while actually scanning for surveillance cameras. Two in the server room itself, one in the corridor outside. If they’re being monitored by anyone offsite, then we’re going to have to move fast.

“I need coffee,” César finally says, interrupting Fang’s monologue. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Completely,” Fang assures him. “We’ll be at least an hour. The system needs to recompile after the update.”

César hesitates, clearly torn between his responsibility to monitor us and his desire to escape the technical jargon. “Don’t touch anything outside the approved workstation,” he warns before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, Fang turns to me. “We have to move fast. The patient database won’t be accessible from here. We need an administrative terminal.”

“Administrative offices would be on a higher floor,” I say, recalling the building plans we studied. “Executive level, sixth floor.”

Fang nods, already moving to the door. “If anyone stops us—”

“We’re looking for a better network connection point,” I finish. “Lead terminal was showing latency issues.”

We slip into the corridor and find the closest stairwell up. Since the office is closed for the night, the floor is darker. Only security lights illuminate the hallway, casting long shadows across the polished floor. We move silently, checking doors until we find one unlocked—a corner office with the name “Dr. Alejandro Vega, Director” etched on a brass plate.

Inside, Fang heads straight for the computer while I take position by the door, listening for approaching footsteps. The office screams of wealth and privilege—leather furniture, original artwork, a view of the city lights that would cost millions anywhere else.

“Password protected,” Fang mutters, fingers already dancing across the keyboard. “Give me three minutes.”

“You might only get one.”

He grunts in acknowledgement.

I keep my eyes on the frosted glass panel beside the door, alert for shadows moving in the hallway.

“I’m in,” Fang says. “Accessing patient transfer records now.”

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