Page 35 of Fang

“Hurry.”

Fang doesn’t look up, his focus absolute as he navigates through the system. “Need thirty more seconds.”

An eternity later, he types a final command, yanks a flash drive from the computer, and follows me to the door. I peek out to make sure it’s clear. As we walk toward the stairwell, the sound of a door slamming in the stairwell freezes us both. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs, heading toward our floor. Security.

“Someone’s coming.” I scan the hallway desperately, spotting a supply closet across from the office. “In here!” Grabbing Fang’s wrist, I yank him toward it, twisting the handle and shoving us both inside just as a security guard pulls open the stairwell door. I shut the closet door as quietly as possible.

The closet is tiny, crammed with shelves of medical supplies that leave barely enough room for two people. Fang’s body presses against mine in the darkness, his breath warm against my neck. I can feel his heart hammering—or maybe it’s mine. Our chests rise and fall in silent tandem as footsteps pause outside our hiding place.

The guard’s radio crackles, voices speaking rapid Spanish. He responds, then continues past the closet, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Neither of us moves immediately. Fang’s arms bracket me against the shelves, his body a solid wall of warmth in the cool darkness. I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between us—his chest against mine, his thigh pressed between my legs, his breath stirring the hair near my temple. The closeness ignites something dangerous in my blood, something I can’t afford to acknowledge.

“Think he’s gone?” Fang whispers, his voice low and rough beside my ear.

I suppress a shiver. “Give it another minute.”

We stand frozen in our intimate tableau, time stretching like heated glass. I try to focus on the danger, on Rory, on anything but the way the feel of Fang’s muscles makes my skin prickle with awareness. His fingers brush mine in the darkness—accidentally, perhaps—and we both inhale sharply at the contact.

When I finally ease the door open, the hallway is empty. We move swiftly to the stairwell, descending to the fifth floor where César might still expect to find us in the server room. Back in the corridor, we adjust our clothing and expressions, resuming our professional façades.

“Did you get it?” I ask as we approach the server room.

Fang pats his pocket where the flash drive rests. “Everything they have on patient transfers in the last week. We’ll need to decrypt it back at the hotel.”

César returns just as we’re finishing our pretend maintenance, a coffee cup in his hand, suspicion in his eyes. “Any problems?”

“Minor network fluctuations,” Fang says smoothly, packing up his equipment. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. The system should run more efficiently now.”

He watches us, following us downstairs and watches us leave. I don’t allow myself to breathe normally until we’re three blocks away, hidden in the shadow of a closed market stall.

“We need to get back to the hotel,” Fang says, his voice tight with urgency. “If they realize someone accessed the director’s computer—”

“They won’t,” I finish. “Not immediately. Probably not until tomorrow. But yes, let’s move.”

We take a circuitous route back to our hotel, changing direction multiple times to ensure we’re not followed. In our room, Fang immediately connects the flash drive to his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys as he breaks through the encryption.

I pace the small space, adrenaline still coursing through my system—from the mission, from the near-discovery, from those moments in the dark closet with Fang’s body pressed against mine. I push the memory aside, focusing on what matters—finding Rory.

“I’ve got something,” Fang says suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “Your brother was moved to a private clinic in Puerto Escondido. It’s on the west coast, west of Oaxaca. It’s about an hour and fifteen minute flight or a ten hour drive.”

“When’s the next flight?”

“Shit! We just missed one. Next one’s… tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“We could drive but…”

“We’d get there at about the same time. And we’d be tired,” I add.

“Better to stay here tonight and rest.”

“Does it say anything about his condition?” I lean over his shoulder to see the screen. There it is—Rory’s patient ID number, transfer details, even his current status: “Stable, under observation.”

Relief crashes through me like a wave, so powerful it weakens my knees. Without thinking, I throw my arms around Fang’s shoulders, hugging him tightly.

“He’s alive,” I whisper, voice breaking. “They’re keeping him alive.”

---