Page 38 of Fang

She nods, clutching the borrowed clothes to her chest. “I’ll shower first,” she says, already moving toward the bathroom.

As the bathroom door closes behind her, I exhale slowly, allowing myself a moment of unfiltered reaction. The shower sputters to life, water pipes complaining in the walls. I reach for my glasses, sliding them onto my face, and the world coming back into sharp focus. The room looks different now—details becoming clear. The stain on the carpet. The crack in the lampshade. The rumpled evidence of what we just did scattered across the bed. Reality returns with a vengeance.

I sit up, running a hand through my hair, feeling the scratch of Mina’s nails still burning across my shoulders. The marks will fade in a day or two, leaving no trace of this night. It’s for the best. Attachments are vulnerabilities in our line of work—entry points for enemies to exploit. That’s part of why I’ve never tried to be in any kind of romantic relationship. I can get sex without strings, but this was nothing like those meaninglessromps. Still, I can’t get distracted right now, so I’m going to have to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

By the time Mina emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a threadbare towel, I’ve reassembled most of my defenses. Her skin is rosy from the shower. Wet hair clings to her neck in tendrils. For a moment, I allow myself to memorize this image—Mina with her guard temporarily lowered, beautiful in an ethereal way.

“Your turn,” she says, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I nod and rise, careful to maintain distance as I pass her. The bathroom door clicks shut behind me. I lean against it for a moment, eyes closed.

Eventually, I get into the shower. Its lukewarm spray washes away the physical evidence of what happened between us, but not the memory of what it felt like to be inside her hot, sensual body. Shaking my head, I scrub methodically, cleansing myself while trying to ignore the war going on in my head.

When I emerge, she’s fully dressed in clean clothes from her pack, sitting at the small desk where I left my laptop. I join her, careful not to brush against her.

“We’ll need transportation when we arrive.” I power on my computer and navigate to a rental car company. “Something inconspicuous that can handle the coastal roads.”

She nods, focusing on the screen instead of meeting my eyes. “Get the most generic car you can find.”

“On it.”

We fall into planning mode, the familiar rhythm creating a buffer zone between us. It’s almost possible to pretend nothing has changed, that we’re still just reluctant allies bound by a common goal. Almost, but not quite—because beneath the seemingly casual conversation, awareness pulses. Even after we leave the motel, my body still humming with the memory of her touch.

Outside, the city glows with the watery light of early dawn, casting long shadows across cracked pavement and smog-streaked windows. We load our gear in silence, the weight of our mission a convenient shield against everything left unsaid. When our eyes meet across the roof of the car, something flickers—recognition, regret, maybe even longing—but it vanishes before I can grasp it. We nod, almost in sync, then slide into the car and drive toward the airport, toward danger, toward whatever comes next.

Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing safe left to say. The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the space between us. I focus on the road, not on the girl in the passenger seat who tastes like molten honey. We’re partners on a mission, forged together for a purpose. But somewhere along the way, we broke protocol.

I don’t know what this is between us—if it will survive the mission, or if it even should—but for now, it’s a phantom echo in my chest, impossible to ignore, yet that’s exactly what I need to do. Breaking focus could get us killed. I can’t allow that to happen.

Chapter 15: Mina

The humid air of Puerto Escondido hits me like a physical wall as we exit the airport, sweat instantly beading on my skin. I scan the parking lot, cataloging potential threats while adjusting the thin cotton shirt clinging to my back. Every face is a potential cartel soldier, every vehicle a possible trap. My brother is less than ten miles from where I stand, but the distance feels infinite.

“Car rental’s this way,” Fang says, his hand briefly touching the small of my back before dropping away. The casual contact sends electricity through my spine, an unwelcome reminder of last night. We’re back to being colleagues now—professionals with a mission—not whatever we became in that shabby motel room. I can’t think about it without remembering the way he made me come. Again and again.

I clench my fists and fight the rising heat in my belly. One night of passion is all we’ll ever have. Once our deal is over, I must walk away. Fang isn’t living the kind of life I want to live. We’re incompatible because of that fact. As much as I wish that wasn’t the truth, it is.

The rental agency is little more than a concrete shack with a faded sign and a bored-looking attendant scrolling through his phone. Inside, a desk fan pushes hot air around the room. I stand near the window so I can keep tabs on anyone approaching. We used the same passports as before, but that doesn’t guarantee our safety.

Fang gives the attendant our reservation number in Spanish. The attendant barely looks up as he processes a credit card Fang produces from a hidden pocket. Earlier, he told me the plan. The card isn’t connected to the club and it’s impossible to trace. It’s one of dozens he keeps for emergencies, each tied to an identity as thoroughly constructed as the one on his fake passport.

“Keys are in it,” the attendant says in heavily accented English, gesturing toward a silver compact car that’s seen better days. “Bring back with full tank.”

The car smells of artificial pine and cigarettes, the upholstery worn smooth by countless tourists. Fang takes the driver’s seat. I slide into the passenger seat, unfolding a map I purchased from an airport kiosk.

“Take the coastal highway north,” I instruct, tracing the route with my finger. “Then east on Route 200. The clinic is isolated, about two kilometers from the main road.”

Fang navigates through narrow streets lined with pastel-colored buildings, their vibrancy at odds with our grim purpose. Puerto Escondido unfolds around us—a tourist paradise of beaches and palm trees, surf shops and open-air restaurants. Couples walk hand in hand, concerned only with which beach to visit or where to find the best margarita. I envy their oblivion, their freedom from knowing what lurks beneath paradise’s surface.

“You’re quiet,” Fang observes as we merge onto the coastal highway. The ocean stretches to our left, impossibly blue against the sandy beaches.

“Just focusing,” I reply, but the truth is more complicated. Last night replays in fragments—his hands on my skin, my name on his lips, the brief escape into something that felt like freedom. Now we’re back in the real world, where such indulgences get people killed.

The road curves along the coastline, palm trees swaying in the breeze, their fronds casting dappled shadows across the windshield. Tourists in rented Jeeps pass us, surfboards strapped to their roofs. A roadside stand selling fresh coconuts and mangoes creates a momentary traffic slowdown. It’s beautiful in a way that makes the ugliness of our mission more stark—this paradise built atop cartel violence, funded by addiction and maintained through bloodshed and fear.

“Clinic’s around the next bend,” I say, squinting at the map. “We’ll need to—”

Fang’s eyes flash to the rearview mirror. “We’ve got company.”

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