Page 48 of Fang

I switch tactics, searching for rooms with additional security protocols. A pattern emerges—Room 2C-14 has been flagged for restricted access, requires special clearance, and houses a male patient on regular dialysis. The patient namelisted is “Miguel Vargas,” but the admission date matches when Rory was transferred here.

“Got him,” I announce, already rising from the chair. “Room 2C-14, end of the hall.”

My hand goes to my earpiece. “Scalpel, we’ve located the target. Room 2C-14, second floor, north wing. Meet us there.”

“Copy,” comes the terse reply. “Three minutes out. Encountering resistance.”

As if to emphasize his point, a fresh volley of gunfire erupts from the floor below, followed by Vapor’s voice cutting through the chaos: “Six minutes left. Clock’s ticking.”

Mina and I move quickly down the corridor, checking room numbers as we pass. 2C-8, 2C-10, 2C-12… The hallway curves slightly, and as we round the bend, I spot them—two cartel soldiers stationed outside Room 2C-14, both armed with submachine guns, their postures alert due to the chaos elsewhere in the building.

They see us at the same moment, bringing their weapons up with deadly efficiency. I shove Mina toward the minimal cover of a linen cart as bullets tear into the wall behind us, spitting plaster and tile into the air.

Returning fire from my crouched position, I manage to hit one guard in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Mina rolls from behind the cart, her weapon barking twice. The wounded guard drops, but the second adjusts his aim toward her new position.

Time slows to a crawl as I process the angles, the distances, the milliseconds we have before he squeezes the trigger. I launch myself into a sliding tackle that would make a professional soccer player proud, colliding with the guard’s legs as Mina’s bullet grazes his arm instead of finding center mass. His weapon discharges into the ceiling as he falls, plaster dust raining down on us.

I’m on him before he can recover, driving my knee into his stomach while pinning his gun arm to the floor. He’s strong—cartel enforcers usually are—and bucks beneath me, nearly throwing me off. I slam the butt of my pistol into his temple once, twice. He goes limp.

“Clear,” I pant, rising to my feet as Mina secures the other guard’s weapon.

We approach Room 2C-14, both of us breathing hard, adrenaline making my hands tremble slightly as I reach for the door. Mina’s eyes meet mine, a universe of emotion compressed into that single glance—fear, hope, determination. I nod once, and she pushes the door open.

The room is dimly lit. Various types of medical equipment cast eerie shadows on the walls. A dialysis machine hums steadily beside the bed, tubes snaking from its mechanical kidney to the thin figure lying motionless beneath sterile white sheets. For a terrible moment, I think we’re too late—the figure is so still, so pale.

Then he turns his head, eyes widening as they fix on Mina. His face is gaunt, cheeks hollowed by illness, skin nearly translucent against the pillowcase. But his eyes—his eyes are alive, alert, and so similar to Mina’s that the family resemblance is unmistakable despite his weakened state.

“Mina?” Rory whispers, his voice barely audible over the machinery. Confusion, disbelief, and the faintest flicker of hope cross his features in rapid succession. “What’s happening?”

Mina steps forward, her weapon lowering, her façade of strength crumbling as she looks at her brother for the first time in months. Her voice, when she speaks, contains all the emotion she’s been holding back since this mission began. “We’re taking you home, Rory.”

I position myself in the doorway, dividing my attention between the corridor and the reunion happening behind me.Mina rushes to her brother’s side, her movements suddenly gentle as she reaches for his hand. The juxtaposition is jarring—the same hands that efficiently incapacitated a guard moments ago now tremble as they touch Rory’s pale fingers. I keep my weapon ready, ears straining for approaching footsteps above the persistent wail of alarms. We found him, but we’re still deep in enemy territory with a fragile package to extract and a ticking clock counting down our chance of survival.

“Is this real?” Rory asks. “Are you really here?”

“I’m here,” she confirms, leaning down to carefully hug him. Her voice catches as she adds, “I’m so sorry it took so long.”

Rory’s thin arms wrap around her shoulders, his face burying against her neck in a gesture so vulnerable it makes my chest ache.

“They said you weren’t coming,” Rory whispers. “That you’d abandoned me.”

“Never,” she says fiercely, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “I will always come for you, Rory. Always.”

I check my watch—seven minutes have elapsed since we entered the building. The distant sound of gunfire has intensified, suggesting Vapor’s team is facing significant resistance.

“Mina,” I say softly, hating to interrupt but aware of our narrowing window. “We need to move.”

She nods, instantly shifting back into operational mode, though her hand remains on Rory’s arm. “We’re getting you out of here,” she explains. “Right now. These people are helping us.”

Confusion flickers across Rory’s gaunt face. “But my treatment—the machines—”

Movement in the hall catches my attention. I spin, weapon raised, only to lower it immediately as Scalpel jogs toward me. Blood spatters his tactical vest, though he appears uninjured.His clinical gaze sweeps over Rory, assessing his condition with professional detachment.

“Patient status?” he asks, already moving to examine the dialysis equipment.

“Conscious, oriented, but weakened,” I report. “Can we move him?”

Scalpel nods, his movements precise as he begins disconnecting tubes and wires in a specific sequence. “Hemodialysis in progress but nearly complete. He’s stable enough for transport if we’re careful.” He glances at Rory. “I’m a doctor. I’ll make sure you’re okay during the move.”

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