Page 47 of Fang

Vapor finishes his briefing and checks his watch. “Questions?”

Silence fills the van. There are always last minute questions before a mission this dangerous—uncertainties, variables, potential failure points—but asking them now wouldn’t change anything. We’ve planned as much as we can. The rest is execution and luck.

“Then we move on my mark.” Vapor pulls on a black tactical glove, then reaches back to clasp Tank’s massive forearm in the club’s traditional gesture of brotherhood. The gesture passes around the van before it gets to me. When I reach for Mina, she hesitates only briefly before completing the circle, her small hand gripping Vapor’s forearm.

“For family,” Vapor says. “Both blood and chosen.”

“For family,” we echo, and I watch Mina’s throat work as she repeats the words.

In the sudden silence, I can hear my own heartbeat, rapid but controlled. Adrenaline sharpens my senses—I can smell gun oil and leather, see every detail of Mina’s face as she takes a deep, steadying breath. The weight of my weapon presses against my side. I have extra clips in my pockets. Hopefully it’s enough firepower to blast a path to Rory.

“Go time,” Vapor says quietly into his comm.

We move like shadows, slipping from the van in practiced formation. In ten minutes, Scalpel, Ice, and Bones will meet us at the loading dock. If all goes well, we’ll have a new patient for Scalpel.

Vapor, Tank, and Diablo break toward the main entrance, moving with casual confidence, like men who belong exactly where they are. They’ve got their guns hidden, so the guards don’t immediately react.

Mina and I run toward the service entrance. A single guard stands beside the door, smoking a cigarette, his rifle held looselyin one hand. Above us, stars glitter in the velvet sky, indifferent to what’s about to happen.

Vapor’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Get in, get the kid, get out.” A pause, then: “Stay alive, brother.”

Before I can respond, the night erupts. Gunfire cracks from the direction of the main entrance, followed immediately by shouts and the wail of alarms. Lights flare to life around the hospital perimeter, emergency protocols engaging as Vapor’s team creates exactly the kind of chaos we need.

The guard at the service entrance straightens, dropping his cigarette and bringing his rifle up as he speaks rapidly into a radio. His attention is fully focused on the commotion at the front of the building. Mina’s eyes meet mine. I nod once. Together, we move toward the door.

The cartel man turns just as we approach, his eyes widening in recognition or alarm—I don’t wait to find out which. He brings his rifle up, but I’m already moving, driving my shoulder into his midsection. The impact forces air from his lungs in a surprised whoosh. He staggers back but manages to squeeze off a shot that cracks past my ear like a whip. My ears ring with the proximity of the bullet as I draw my weapon and fire twice in rapid succession. Both rounds find their mark in his chest. He crumples to the ground, eyes already vacant, radio crackling with unanswered questions. I grab Mina’s hand and pull her through the door before anyone responds to our gunshots.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting the sterile corridor a harsh white. The blueprint I’ve memorized unfolds in my mind like a digital overlay—service corridor connects to main east-west hallway, then up the stairwell to second floor where long-term care patients are housed. We move quickly, our footsteps echoing on the polished linoleum despite our attempts at stealth.

“This way,” I whisper, tugging Mina toward a junction where the service corridor meets the main hallway. The distant sounds of Vapor’s diversion filter through the building—gunfire, shouting, the persistent wail of alarms that sets my teeth on edge. The hospital’s emergency system cycles through automated announcements in Spanish, instructing staff to follow lockdown protocols.

We pause at the corner, and I risk a quick glance down the main corridor. Empty for now, but that won’t last. The diversion is drawing most of the security to the front, but some will remain to protect high-value areas—like where they’re keeping Rory.

“Critical patients are on the second floor, north wing,” I remind Mina as we break from cover and sprint toward the stairwell. “Room numbers starting with 2C.”

The stairwell door swings open just as we reach it. A security guard appears, his hand already reaching for his sidearm when he spots us. Mina reacts with cobra-like speed, her body a blur of precise movement. One hand strikes his wrist, deflecting the weapon while her other delivers a vicious chop to his throat. The guard gags, stumbling forward. Mina follows through with a knee to his solar plexus, then an elbow to the back of his head as he doubles over. He collapses without a sound, unconscious before he hits the floor.

“Cartel trained you well,” I observe as we drag his body behind a nearby supply cart.

“For all the wrong things,” she replies, retrieving the guard’s access card from his belt. “But useful now.”

We take the stairs two at a time, the sounds of chaos growing more distant as we ascend. My earpiece crackles with sporadic updates from the team at the front—Vapor directing suppressing fire, Tank calling out enemy positions. They’re buying us time with more bullets and chaos.

The second-floor corridor stretches before us, doors lining both sides. Most rooms are dark or empty. The nurse’s station sits abandoned, monitors still glowing with patient vitals, chairs pushed back in haste. They must have fled when the first shots rang out.

I check one of the rooms—empty bed, machines powered down. The second contains an elderly man who stares at us with frightened eyes. I close the door quickly. Third room, a woman sleeping despite the alarms, medication keeping her oblivious to the danger.

Not Rory.

“We need to narrow this down,” Mina hisses, frustration edging her voice as we check a fourth empty room. “We can’t search every room before security regroups.”

She’s right. I scan the corridor and spot a computer terminal at the nurse’s station, still logged in and active. “Cover me,” I tell her, sliding into the chair while she takes position at the junction of corridors, weapon ready.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through the hospital’s patient management system. It’s basic stuff—no sophisticated security, just a standard database of patient information and room assignments. I pull up the current patient roster for the north wing, scanning for anything that might indicate Rory—recent transfers or unusual treatment protocols.

“Anything?” Mina asks, eyes never leaving the corridor.

“Working on it,” I mutter, diving deeper into the system. “They wouldn’t list him under his real name, and he’ll have extra guards.”

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