Page 45 of Fang

“I’ll be your extraction insurance,” Vapor says with dangerous calm. “If things go sideways, I’ll make sure we all have a way out.”

For the next hour, we refine the plan, dissecting each step with meticulous precision. Bones and Ice ask questions about Rory’s medical condition, including how to transport him safely. Scalpel already knows the details, but they want to have the knowledge too in case something happens to the doctor. Ice and Fang discuss the clinic’s electronic security, mapping out how to bypass it. Diablo and Tank calculate timing for each phase of the operation, how long until cartel reinforcements might arrive if alerted.

Throughout it all, I watch these men work with a cohesion that can only come from absolute trust. They finish each other’s sentences, anticipate questions before they’re asked, respectfully challenge assumptions when necessary. I realize with startling clarity that this is what Fang has found in the club—not just brotherhood, but purpose. A place where his particular skills are valued, where his obsessive attention to detail saves lives rather than marking him as an outsider.

“We move at ten,” Vapor finally announces, checking his watch. “That gives us three hours to prep. Any questions?” His eyes sweep the room, landing on each brother in turn before settling on me.

I shake my head, throat suddenly tight with emotion. These men are risking everything for my brother—a stranger to them—based solely on Fang’s word and perhaps some kind of club code I don’t fully understand.

“Then we’re set,” Vapor says with finality. “Meet at the garage at 2200 hours. Fully equipped, fully committed.” He looks directly at me. “We’re bringing your brother home tonight, Mina. That’s a promise.”

The club brothers file out with determined nods, boots heavy on the thin carpet. Vapor is last, pausing at the door to exchange a meaningful look with Fang.

“Thanks, Pres.,” Fang says before Vapor leaves.

The motel room feels hollow after the bikers leave, like a theater after the final curtain, too quiet, too empty, yet somehow still vibrating with the energy of what just happened. I listen to their boots retreating down the walkway. A few seconds later, the vans’ engines start up but then fade as they pull out of the parking lot. We decided not to stay together in case the cartel somehow located us. It would be better not to draw too much attention to the motel. Besides, after the long flight, the other guys could use some rest.

The blueprints still glow on the wall, a ghostly reminder of what we’re about to attempt. Fang moves to the bed, unzipping a small black case to reveal several handguns nestled in foam cutouts. His movements are precise, mechanical—checking chambers, testing actions, counting ammunition. I pace the narrow strip between the bed and bathroom door, my nerves too raw to allow stillness.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that carpet,” Fang says without looking up, his voice gentle despite the teasing words.

I ignore him, continuing my circuit. Four steps, turn, four steps back. My mind races through variables, contingencies, failure points in the plan. What if Rory isn’t where we think? What if the cartel moved him again? What if one of us gets captured or killed? The scenarios multiply like viruses in a compromised system, each more catastrophic than the last.

“Mina,” Fang says, finally looking up from his weapons. “Come sit down before you vibrate out of your skin.”

I stop mid-stride, suddenly aware of how manic I must appear. With deliberate calm, I perch on the edge of the desk chair instead of joining him on the bed—still needing somedistance, some boundary between us despite everything we’ve shared. I can’t begin to think about anything else until Rory’s safe. Once that happens, I can figure out what to do about this thing between me and Fang.

“Why did you join the motorcycle club?” I blurt. “What made you choose that life?”

Fang’s hands go still, a bullet held between his fingers. The silence stretches long enough that I think he might not answer, then he sets the bullet down in the case.

“It’s because… because of my brother,” he says finally, his voice tight. “Tommy.”

I wait, giving him space to continue or not. His glasses catch the light from the blueprints, turning his eyes into unreadable blue pools.

“He disappeared when we were kids,” Fang continues. “I was ten. He was eight. We were playing basketball at the park near our house.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Tommy wanted to go home. I wanted to play one more game. I told him to ride his bike back without me.”

The pain in his voice is raw, immediate—not the dull ache of an old wound but something still bleeding beneath the surface. I recognize it instantly; it’s the same pain I carry for Rory.

“He never made it home,” Fang says, staring at his hands. “No body, no evidence, no witnesses. Just… gone. Like he evaporated between the park and our house. Three blocks.”

“Fang, I’m—”

“I should have gone with him,” he cuts me off, the words sharp-edged. “I was his big brother. I was supposed to protect him. If I’d just left when he wanted to, if I’d just walked him home—”

He stops abruptly, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he continues, his voice is steadier, more analytical, as if he’s discussing someone else’s tragedy.

“Intellectually, I know it wasn’t my fault. I was a kid myself. Whoever took Tommy—they’re the ones responsible. Not me.” His mouth twists in a bitter smile. “But knowing something intellectually doesn’t fix how you feel about it.”

I understand this dichotomy too well—the gap between what your brain knows and what your heart believes. My entire life with the cartel was built on that divide.

“The club gave me resources,” Fang continues. “Connections, skills, purpose. We have a network across the country—brothers looking for missing kids, tracking trafficking rings, sharing information outside official channels.” His fingers resume their methodical check of the weapons, finding comfort in the routine. “Every child we find, every family we rescue—it doesn’t bring Tommy back, but it matters. It has to matter.”

The pieces click together—why Fang believed me about Rory when others didn’t, why he’s risking everything to help me. It’s not just about me; it’s about the brother he couldn’t save.

I stand and cross to the bed, sitting beside him close enough that our shoulders touch. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, bringing us slightly closer. I place my hand over his, stilling his movements with the weapons.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him firmly, the words inadequate but necessary. “You’re right. Whoever took your brother is the only one to blame.”

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