Page 51 of Fang

“Still counts,” he insists, the corner of his mouth lifting in that crooked smile I’ve missed so desperately. “You’ve always been my protector.”

Scalpel tactfully busies himself with equipment on the far side of the ambulance, giving us as much privacy as possible in the cramped space. The vehicle rocks as Fang takes a curve, the centrifugal force pressing me against the metal wall.

“We’re getting away from them for good,” I promise, wiping tears from my face with my sleeve. “I’m taking you somewhere safe, somewhere they can never find us again.”

Rory’s eyes search mine, looking for the truth. “What about your deal with them? They said if you didn’t work for them, they’d stop paying for my treatments.”

“Fuck their deal,” I say fiercely. “I’ve got new friends now. People who can help us. People who have helped us already.” I glance toward the front of the ambulance where Fang is driving. “I’m never going back to the cartel, Rory. Never.”

His face relaxes slightly, some of the tension easing from his features. “Good,” he whispers. “I’ve hated what they made you do. All these years, knowing you were—” He breaks off, coughing, and Scalpel immediately moves in to check his oxygen levels.

“Don’t talk too much,” Scalpel advises, adjusting something on one of the machines. “Your body’s been through a lot. Rest now.”

Rory nods weakly, but his eyes stay fixed on me. “These new friends of yours,” he says after a moment, his voice barely audible. “They seem intense.”

“They are,” I admit with a small smile. “But they’re the good kind of intense.”

“And the driver?” Rory asks, a hint of his old mischief sparking in his eyes despite his condition. “Who’s he?”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks, wondering what Rory has picked up on. Before I can respond, the ambulance suddenly lurches, swerving violently to the right. Scalpel braces himself against the wall while I grab Rory’s stretcher, stabilizing it instinctively.

“Hold on!” Fang shouts from the driver’s seat.

An instant later, the night erupts with the sharp crack of gunfire. The metallic ping of bullets striking the ambulance’s exterior makes my belly drop. The window on the right rear side spiders with cracks but doesn’t shatter. Scalpel ducks down, pulling a weapon from his holster in one fluid motion.

“They found us,” I hiss, looking into Rory’s suddenly terrified eyes. “But they’re not taking you again. I promise.”

The ambulance swerves again, Fang pushing it to its limits as he tries to evade our pursuers. I look at Scalpel, who jerks his head toward the front seat.

“Go,” he says, positioning himself protectively beside Rory. “I’ve got him. Do what you need to do.”

I press a quick kiss to Rory’s forehead, then turn toward the front of the ambulance. After lunging through the partition into the front cab, I brace myself against the dashboard. Fang swerves the ambulance hard to the left. The vehicle groans in protest. It was never designed for evasive maneuvers at this speed.

Through the windshield, I see what he’s trying to avoid—two black SUVs closing in fast, their sleek bodies gleaming likepredatory beasts under the intermittent streetlights. Men lean from the windows, the metallic glint of their weapons catching the light before disappearing back into shadow.

“Is Rory okay?” Fang asks without taking his eyes off the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.

“Scalpel’s with him,” I reply, throwing myself into the passenger seat. “He’s stable for now.”

Another burst of gunfire peppers the side of the ambulance. I flinch instinctively, though I know the bullets can’t penetrate the reinforced sides—at least not yet. If they start using something heavier than handguns, we’re in trouble.

The dashboard is a Christmas tree of warning lights—engine temperature climbing into the red, transmission sending urgent signals of distress. Fang is pushing this medical tank beyond what it was ever meant to endure, and it’s crying out in mechanical protest.

“They must have had a backup team waiting,” Fang mutters, yanking the wheel hard to avoid an oncoming car. Horns blare behind us as the ambulance cuts across two lanes of traffic. “Clever bastards.”

The lead SUV accelerates, pulling alongside us on the left. A man with a tattooed face leans out the window, aiming what looks like an automatic pistol at our tires. Fang sees him too and jerks the wheel, sideswiping the SUV hard enough to send the gunman tumbling back inside his vehicle.

“We can’t outrun them,” Fang says, voice tight but controlled. “Not in this thing.”

I pull my weapon out of my waistband and check to see how many bullets I have left. “Keep it steady for three seconds,” I tell him, already rolling down my window. Air rushes in, thick with humidity and the metallic tang of recent gunfire.

“Three seconds in three… two…” Fang counts down, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.

I lean out the window, bracing my left arm against the door frame to steady myself. The wind whips my hair across my face, but I ignore it, narrowing my focus to the lead SUV now gaining on our right side. Time seems to slow as my cartel training kicks in—the calculations of speed, distance, and trajectory happening automatically in my brain.

“One!” Fang shouts, momentarily straightening our course.

I squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession. The first bullet shatters the SUV’s driver-side window, finding its mark in the driver’s shoulder. The second hits the front tire with a satisfying pop. The effect is immediate and catastrophic—the SUV lurches violently, the driver losing control as the vehicle veers sharply to the right. It hits the curb, flipping once, twice, then a third time before coming to rest on its roof, glass and metal debris spraying across the empty sidewalk.

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