Page 5 of Fang

“Please tell me you have a ride stashed somewhere?” I yell.

“See those rocks?” She points to an outcropping of giant boulders a hundred yards away.“Got a dirt bike stashed behind them.”

I’m not surprised at all. Something about the way she speaks and moves makes me think she’s been planning this for a while. But why tonight? Why now?

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot headlights careening toward us. They haven’t located us yet, but it’s going to be a close call.

After reaching the rocks, we circle behind them. The bike’s exactly where she said it would be, propped against a smaller boulder.

“I’m driving,” I snap, grabbing it up and straddling it.“Get on and hold on.”

She does, jumping behind me and pressing every inch of her slight body against mine. A rush of heat floods my core, but there’s no time to deal with that bullshit. I kick down the starter along with my surging desire and focus on getting the fuck out of here.

The engine rumbles to life. It’s not my Hog, not by a long shot, but it’s what I’ve got to work with. I’ll need to get mine back at some point, but I can’t think about that right now.

The bike lurches but Mina manages to hold on, gripping me even more tightly, pressing her breasts against my back. It’s distracting as fuck, but when a bullet whizzes past my face, I snap out of the haze of desire.

The wind howls past my ears, dry and biting. My knuckles are white on the handlebars, throttle twisted hard as the dirt bike eats the cracked earth beneath us. Behind me, Mina clings tight, her arms locked around my ribs, her breath hot against the back of my neck.

I don’t dare look back, but I don’t have to. The roar of engines and the staccato pop of rifle fire echo across the desert. They’re close. Too close.

“Hang on!” I shout, and veer hard left, kicking up a plume of dust and gravel. The rear tire skids then finds traction, andwe tear off across an arroyo, bouncing over ridges like a rock skipping water.

The cartel trucks aren’t built for this. Big tires and horsepower don’t mean shit when the land turns mean. I spot a cut in the hills ahead—a dry wash snaking between two rises of jagged rock. The walls are tight enough to allow us to pass, but they’ll cut off anyone pursuing us that isn’t on a bike. That’s our shot.

I gun it, engine screaming. Bullets chew up the ground behind us, one whining past my ear like a warning from death itself. I duck instinctively, heart slamming. Mina scrunches down behind me, trying to make herself a smaller target.

We hit the wash at full speed, the suspension rattling, my spine jolting with every bump. But the canyon walls rise like sanctuary, the sound of pursuit muffled as the trail winds tighter. There’s no way they’ll be able to follow us.

We’re not out of danger. Not yet. But we’ve got distance now. I ease off the throttle just enough to breathe.

“Are we safe?” she asks, voice raw.

I glance over my shoulder. Empty trail.

“For now,” I say.“But they won’t stop. Do you know the area?”

“There’s a road on the other side of the canyon. If we can get to it, we’re only a few minutes away from the highway.”

“Straight ahead?”

“Yeah.”

We make it to the road and then to the highway without any more bullets flying. For now, we’ve escaped. But once the cartel realizes what she did, there’s going to be hell to pay. Unless…

Unless this entire situation was bullshit to begin with. I can’t risk trusting her until I know more about who she is and why she’s really working for the cartel. Unfortunately, thatmeans there’s only one place I can take her—the Quiet Room—and believe me, there’s nothing quiet about it.

Chapter 3: Mina

Consciousness returns like a slap—sudden, unwelcome, and accompanied by a skull-splitting headache that makes my teeth ache. The darkness is absolute, so black, so complete it feels solid against my eyelids. I blink hard, then again, but nothing changes. The air tastes of stale concrete and something metallic that makes my tongue curl in disgust.

My body feels wrong, like someone folded me into a box too small for my limbs. Sweat has soaked through my clothes, the fabric clinging to my skin in ways that make me want to crawl out of it entirely. Every breath comes ragged and shallow, as if the darkness itself is pressing against my chest.

I push myself up on trembling arms, my palms meeting rough concrete that scrapes like sandpaper. The floor beneath me is unforgiving, cold despite the oppressive heat that seems to radiate from every surface. My fingers explore outward, mapping the space around me in careful sweeps. Three feet. Four. Then my knuckles hit something solid and unyielding.

A wall.

I press my fingertips against it, feeling the texture of poured concrete, slightly damp with condensation. The surface is seamless, professional—not some hastily constructed prison but something built to last. Built to hold people like me.

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