Page 49 of Fang

“A doctor with a gun,” Rory observes weakly, eyeing the weapon holstered at Scalpel’s side.

“Welcome to Mexico,” Scalpel replies dryly, continuing his work. “I need two minutes to disconnect him properly. Rushing risks clotting or hemorrhage.”

I nod, checking the corridor again before pressing my earpiece. “Vapor, status?”

Static crackles, then his voice comes through, punctuated by gunfire. “Pinned down in the main lobby. Cartel brought reinforcements earlier than expected. Heavy resistance. Get the kid out through the service exit. We’ll hold them here.”

I exchange glances with Mina, both of us understanding what Vapor isn’t saying—that the diversion has become a full-scale battle, that our brothers are fighting for their lives to give us this chance. Her jaw tightens with resolve.

“Almost done,” Scalpel announces. “He’ll need dialysis again within twenty-four hours, but he’s stable for now.”

He grabs the wheelchair parked in the corner of the room and rolls it over. Together, we carefully transfer Rory from the bed. He’s lighter than he should be, his body frail beneath the hospital gown. Mina wraps a blanket around his shoulders, then steps behind the wheelchair.

“Service corridors,” I instruct, checking the hallway before gesturing them forward. “Main routes are compromised.”

We move as quickly as Rory’s condition allows, Mina pushing the wheelchair while Scalpel monitors his patient. I lead the way, weapon ready. The hospital’s layout unfolds in my mind once more—left at the junction, through the supply room, down the service elevator reserved for staff.

My earpiece crackles with constant updates from the front—Diablo reporting he’s running low on ammo, Ice confirming the ambulance is still secure, Vapor coordinating covering fire as they try to create an exit path. We’re way beyond any ticking clock. Time’s up. We have to get the hell out of here.

The service elevator opens into a basement corridor lined with pipes and electrical panels. The emergency lights cast everything in an eerie red glow, transforming Rory’s already pale face into something ghostly. His breathing has quickened, the exertion of the move taxing his weakened system.

“How are you holding up?” I ask him as we navigate around a stack of supply crates.

“Been better,” he manages, offering a weak smile that reminds me so much of Mina it’s startling. “But I’ve also been worse.”

Mina squeezes his shoulder, her eyes meeting mine over his head—a silent thank you that makes my chest tighten. She shouldn’t be thanking me yet. Not until we’re back in the States.

We follow the corridor to a loading dock where deliveries are received. The metal door leading outside is our final barrier. Beyond it, if everything has gone according to plan, the ambulance waits.

“Approaching exit,” I report into my comm. “Status of the ambulance?”

“Still secure,” comes Ice’s immediate reply. “But hurry. We’re hearing vehicles approaching from the north—likely more cartel reinforcements.”

I crack the door open, scanning the loading area beyond. The ambulance sits twenty yards away, its white bulk gleaming under security lights. Ice and Bones stand guard beside it, weapons raised and scanning the perimeter. No immediate threats visible, but the night hums with tension.

“Now,” I say, pushing the door fully open. “Move fast, straight to the ambulance.”

We emerge from the building in tight formation, Mina pushing Rory’s wheelchair as quickly as possible while Scalpel and I provide cover on either side. The night air hits us like a physical force after the climate-controlled hospital—warm, humid, carrying the distinct scent of gun smoke from the front of the building.

Ice spots us immediately, jogging forward to help with the wheelchair while Bones continues scanning for threats, his massive frame silhouetted against the ambulance lights.

“Vapor’s team is taking heavy fire,” Ice reports as we reach the vehicle. “Cartel’s brought in at least twenty more men. They’re trapped in the lobby.”

The rear doors of the ambulance stand open, revealing a fully equipped medical transport interior. Bones and Ice help lift Rory inside, his frail body seeming to disappear among the equipment. Scalpel climbs in after him, immediately beginning to hook him up to portable monitors and an IV bag.

“They need backup,” Bones says, his deep voice tight with concern for his brothers.

My comm unit crackles to life, Vapor’s voice strained but commanding: “Fang, confirm package secure?”

“Package secure,” I reply. “Preparing for transport.”

“Good.” A burst of gunfire nearly drowns out his next words. “Ice, Bones—we need you at the front. Now.”

Ice and Bones exchange glances, then look to me.

“Go,” I tell them, making a split-second decision. “I’ll drive the ambulance. Get our brothers out.”

They nod in unison, that seamless communication that comes from years of riding together.

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