Page 46 of Fang

His eyes meet mine, and for once, I see past his carefully constructed defenses—past the genius hacker, past the calculating biker—to the ten-year-old boy still looking for his little brother.

“You’re a hero, Fang,” I say softly. “Maybe not the kind they write comic books about, but the real kind. The kind whosaves people even when no one’s watching. The kind who uses his pain to prevent others from suffering the same way.”

Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, but a softening around the edges. I lean forward and kiss him gently, a brief press of lips that carries more meaning than our most passionate embraces. When I pull back, his eyes remain closed for a moment, as if holding onto the sensation.

“You’re going to rescue my brother,” I tell him with absolute certainty. “I believe that. Not just because you’re good at what you do, but because you understand what he means to me. You understand in a way no one else could.”

Fang opens his eyes, meeting my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. “I promise you, Mina,” he says, his voice low and fervent. “I will do everything in my power to bring Rory home tonight.”

We sit together in the charged silence, the weight of his promise hanging between us. On the nightstand, the digital clock blinks its red numbers—7:23 PM—counting down to the mission with merciless precision. Less than three hours until we attempt the impossible. Less than three hours until I potentially see my brother again—or lose everything trying.

Fang’s hand turns beneath mine, our fingers interlacing in silent understanding. We don’t speak of what happens after—whether there is an after for us, whether this connection survives beyond the mission. Such considerations are luxuries we can’t afford right now.

But his hand in mine feels like a different kind of promise—unspoken, undefined, but real nonetheless. And for this moment, that’s enough.

Chapter 18: Fang

The van slides through the night like a shark through dark water, headlights off, as we approach the hospital. Through the windshield, I can make out the modern three-story building rising against the inky sky, its windows glowing with clinical light. My fingers tap a nervous rhythm against my thigh as I mentally review the blueprints for the hundredth time. I can see a thousand ways this could go wrong, but we’ve prepared as much as we could. From now on, all we can do is execute the plan.

A few minutes ago, Vapor drove us past the hospital. Four armed guards were patrolling the main entrance, their silhouettes sharp against the illuminated glass doors. More cartel soldiers circled the perimeter, automatic weapons slung across their chests. We expected a lot of firepower, but the cartel’s not messing around.

I’ve faced bad odds before but tonight feels different. There’s more than just my life at stake. My club brothers and Mina are counting on me to make all the right moves once we’re inside. Rory, a completely innocent pawn in this war, doesn’t even know what’s coming. His life’s at risk too. I can’t fuck this up.

“Two minutes,” Vapor’s voice comes through my earpiece, calm and measured despite what we’re about to do. “Final check, everyone.”

Around me, the van transforms into a war room. Diablo checks the action on his Glock, the metallic click unnervingly loud in the confined space. Beside him, Tank adjusts his tactical vest, massive hands moving with surprising delicacy as he secures extra magazines. Scalpel, Ice and Bones follow us in the ambulance, a legitimate vehicle for an illegitimate extraction.

Mina sits opposite me, her face half-hidden in shadow. Her fingers move methodically over her weapon, checking the magazine, the action, the safety. The motions are practiced, efficient—cartel training showing through. She catches me watching and holds my gaze, her eyes reflecting the dim light from the dashboard. Neither of us speaks; there’s nothing left to say that matters more than what we’re about to do.

The van slows as we reach our staging position, half a block from the hospital’s service entrance. Through the tinted windows, I watch another guard make his rounds through the parking lot, flashlight beam sweeping across the pavement.

“Comms check,” Vapor orders. “Sound off.”

“Diablo, clear.”

“Tank, clear.”

“Fang, clear.”

“Mina, clear,” she says, her voice steady despite everything.

A chorus of other MC men sound off from the second van. Scalpel, Ice, and Bones confirm they’re good from inside the ambulance, which is trailing behind the other vehicles. We stop in the staging location.

Vapor nods, satisfied. “Listen up. One last time.” He turns in his seat to face us, his blue eyes intense under the slicked-back raven hair. “Main team creates a diversion at the front entrance—big, loud, unmistakable. Tank, Diablo, and I lead that charge. Ice and Bones secure our exit path and the ambulance. Fang, Mina, you slip in through the service entrance during the chaosand find Rory. Radio Scalpel and let him know which room he’s in.”

My throat tightens as I realize what he’s not saying—that he’s putting himself at the point of highest danger, drawing fire so Mina and I have a cleaner shot at Rory. It’s what a club president does, what I’ve seen Vapor do countless times, but it still hits me in the chest. Everyone is putting their life on the line for this. It has to work.

“Hospital security will lock down immediately,” Vapor continues, “but they’ll focus on the main threat first. That gives you”—he looks directly at Mina and me—”a narrow window. Ten minutes, max. Any longer, and reinforcements arrive. Any longer, and we’re all dead.”

Mina’s jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping beneath her skin. I reach across the space between us and take her hand. Her fingers are cold despite the warm night, but they grip mine with startling strength.

“We’ll get him,” I tell her quietly as Vapor continues outlining tactical positions to the others. “In and out.”

“I know,” she whispers, but her eyes betray her fear—not for herself, but for Rory, for me, and for everyone risking their lives tonight. She squeezes my hand once more before releasing it. Clutching her weapon, she sits on the edge of her seat.

“We’re dealing with three main obstacles,” I say, focusing her attention on the practical. “Service entrance guard, potential roaming security, and whoever’s directly guarding Rory. We handle them quietly if possible, loudly if necessary.”

She nods, her expression hardening into the focused mask I’ve come to recognize—Mina the survivor, the fighter. She’s pushing aside her role as Rory’s sister until the job’s done. It’s the same compartmentalization I use when a mission requires absolute focus.

---