Page 4 of Fang

Getting out of the room is a lot easier than getting into it. We run through corridors that seem to be collapsing in slow motion around us. The overhead lights flicker and die in sequence, leaving us stumbling through patches of emergency lighting that cast everything in hellish red shadows. Smoke pours through the ventilation system, bringing with it the acrid smell of burning electronics and something else—something organic that I don’t want to identify.

Behind us, the sounds of chaos grow louder. Boots on grating, men shouting orders in rapid Spanish, the distinctive crack of assault rifle fire. Someone’s screaming about data corruption and system failures, while another voice keeps repeating“¿Dónde está la chica?” Where is the girl?

Mina leads me down a stairwell that shudders with each new explosion. The handrail vibrates under my palm like a tuning fork. She moves with the confidence of someone who’splanned for this exact scenario, taking stairs three at a time while I struggle to keep up.

“How did you know your bosses found your virus?” I shout over the noise.

“They’ve been monitoring my access for weeks,” she calls back without slowing down. “I got sloppy tonight and made a mistake during the auction.”

We reach the bottom of the stairwell, and she pushes through a door. The corridor beyond is filling with smoke, and the emergency lighting has failed completely. She pulls out her phone and activates its flashlight, revealing a narrow hallway lined with supply closets and maintenance equipment.

“Dead end,” I point out.

“Is it?” She kneels next to what looks like a standard floor grate and produces a multi-tool from somewhere in her hoodie. The grate comes up with practiced ease, revealing a crawlspace that disappears into darkness. “You wanted into my world, hacker boy. Hope you brought your boots.”

The sound of pursuing footsteps echoes from the stairwell behind us. Mina swings her legs into the opening and drops from sight. I follow, landing hard on what feels like a concrete drainage pipe. The space is tight, barely large enough for crawling, and smells so musty I’m sure I’ll never get the smell out of my lungs.

“This way,” her voice drifts from ahead, muffled by the confined space.

We crawl through the darkness, guided only by the dim glow of our phone lights. The building continues to shake above us, and I can hear the groaning of stressed metal and concrete. Something explodes close enough to rain debris through the grate we entered, and the sound of sirens begins to filter through from outside.

After what feels like minutes but was probably only seconds, Mina stops. “Exit’s above us,” she whispers.

I look up to see another grate, this one showing a slice of star-filled sky. She pushes it aside and pulls herself through, then reaches back to help me up. Her grip is stronger than I expected, and she hauls me out of the crawlspace with surprising ease.

We emerge behind the warehouse, in a narrow alley lined with industrial dumpsters and abandoned pallets. The main building looms behind us, smoke pouring from its windows while emergency lights paint the surrounding area in strobing reds and blues. In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens grows louder.

Mina wipes sweat from her face with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of soot that makes her look like a warrior returning from battle. She holds up the baggie with the flash drive.

“By the way,” she says, her voice carrying that same musical accent that made her earlier insults sting. “Try not to die before you get to use it.”

“What is it?”

“Everything you need to destroy the cartel.”

The comment hangs between us as a promise and a challenge. I’m covered in dust and concrete powder, my glasses are cracked, and my cheap suit will never recover from our crawl through the drainage system. But I’m alive, and so is she, and that feels like a victory worth celebrating. That said, I still don’t know if I can trust her.

Heat builds in my chest again, but this time it’s not guilt or anger. It’s something more complex—frustration mixed with admiration; irritation seasoned with genuine respect.

“This had better be worth it,” I growl.

“It is.” Her smile transforms her face completely, adding warmth to features that had seemed carved from ice. “Keep up, hacker boy.”

The sound of engines roars from the direction of the warehouse—big vehicles moving fast, probably cartel reinforcements responding to the chaos. Mina starts running into the desert, her movements fluid despite the rough terrain. I follow, my dress shoes sliding on loose gravel while her boots find purchase with each step.

Behind us, the warehouse burns against the star-filled sky, sending a column of smoke toward the heavens like a signal fire. The sound of pursuit grows louder—vehicles, voices, the distant bark of search dogs. But ahead of us stretches the vast darkness of the desert, empty and welcoming.

“The drive,” I call after her as we run. “What’s really on it?”

“Everything,” she shouts back without slowing. “Names, locations, financial records. Enough to bring down their entire trafficking operation.”

“And you’re just going to give it to me?”

She stops so suddenly that I almost run into her. When she turns, her eyes catch the starlight, and I see something in them that might be hope.

“I’m going to help you use it,” she says. “That is, if you think your motorcycle club friends can handle a real fight.”

The sound of cartel trucks grows louder behind us, their engines growling like mechanical predators. If we don’t find transportation or a place to hide quickly, we won’t live long enough to do anything with that drive.

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