Page 53 of Fang

“We’re here,” I announce.

“Let’s get Rory out of the van,” Scalpel says from the back.

Mina’s fingers gently brush Rory’s hair from his forehead. “Hear that? We made it.” Her voice carries a tenderness I’ve rarely heard from her. She loves her brother more than anyone. He’s very lucky she’s his sister.

Rory’s eyes flutter open, disorientation clouding them momentarily before recognition sets in. “The motorcycle club?” he asks softly.

“Your new sanctuary,” I confirm, opening my door and stepping out into the humid New Orleans evening. The air smells of rain-washed asphalt. An earlier storm blew through to clean the air, as if preparing NOLA for our return.

The clubhouse door swings open, spilling golden light across the gravel. One of the patched members pokes his head out.“Welcome back!”

Tank, Ice, Diablo, Bones, and Vapor emerge from the second van, scanning the area with practiced efficiency before nodding to me. Vapor says,“Let’s get him inside.”

Ice retrieves the wheelchair from the back of the van while Vapor pulls the door on the side open. Bones climbs halfway inside to help me and Scalpel ease Rory from the vehicle.

“Easy,” Scalpel murmurs as Rory winces, his frail body still adjusting to the extra movement. “No need to rush anything now.”

Mina hovers nearby, her hand never leaving her brother’s shoulder as we transfer him to the wheelchair. Despite his weakened state, Rory’s eyes are alert, taking in the clubhouse, the men in leather cuts, the motorcycles lined up with military precision along one wall. It’s a whole new world to him.

I take position behind the wheelchair, hands gripping the handles with a sense of responsibility that surprises me.

“Welcome to Underground Vengeance.” I grip the handles on the wheelchair and push him toward the entrance. “Hope you don’t mind a little noise.”

Rory’s head turns slightly, his profile catching the light. “After that hospital? I’m immune to noise.”

The transition from outside to inside is abrupt—from the muted twilight to the controlled chaos that defines ourclubhouse. The familiar scent hits me first: leather and motor oil, overlaid with a faint hint of cigarette smoke and the musk of bodies. Home in all its imperfect glory.

Vapor leads the way, carving a path through the main room where brothers not involved in the Mexico operation have gathered. They nod respectfully as we pass, eyes curious but asking no questions. They know better. The operation wasn’t secret, but it wasn’t common knowledge either. Although it was sanctioned by Vapor, it wasn’t officially club business. The less most of them know, the better.

We pass the bar, where bottles gleam like amber treasure behind a polished wooden counter. The air here is thick with the smoky sweetness of expensive whiskey. Two prospects—club members in training—snap to attention as Vapor passes, their expressions a mix of reverence and fear. Smart kids.

As we turn down the corridor that leads to the private bedrooms, movement from the pool table room catches my eye. The door stands partially open. Inside, a scene of raw hedonism unfolds—two patched members, still in their cuts, engaged in raunchy sex with one of the club girls. Her moans punctuate the air, uninhibited and genuine as she straddles one brother while the other takes her from behind.

Rory’s eyes widen, his neck craning for a better view as we pass. A startled “Oh!” escapes him, followed immediately by a grin that transforms his gaunt face into something younger, more alive. Beside me, Mina scowls and shakes her head.

I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “You’re in a whole new world now,” I tell Rory, not bothering to shield him from the view. After what he’s been through, a little adult entertainment seems like necessary medicine. Mina’s not thrilled about the club girls, but she’s got nothing to worry about. After I talk to them, they’ll stay away from her.

“I like this new world,” Rory responds enthusiastically, color flooding his pale cheeks for the first time since we rescued him.

Mina rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight upturn of her mouth. “Eyes forward, little brother. Plenty of time for sightseeing when you’re stronger.”

We continue down the hallway, passing doors marked with brothers’ road names—some closed, others open to reveal glimpses of private lives. A guitar riff escapes from one room, while the smell of incense wafts from another. Each space is a reflection of its occupant, each contributing to the patchwork of personalities that forms our club.

“We’ve set up a room for you,” I explain to Rory as we approach the end of the corridor. “Medical equipment, privacy, everything you need.”

“Anything you need is yours,” Vapor adds from ahead of us. “Just talk to Scalpel or Fang.”

The weight of what we’ve done—stealing a patient from a cartel hospital and bringing him into our sanctuary—settles over me with renewed intensity. They’re going to retaliate. It’s not a matter ofif, it’s a matter ofwhen. But I can’t think about that right now.

The room at the end of the hallway bears little resemblance to its former life as a brother’s crash pad. The walls have been repainted a soft blue-gray, the floor scrubbed clean and covered with hospital-grade linoleum that gleams under new recessed lighting. A hospital bed—not a second-hand relic but a proper medical-grade piece with electronic controls—dominates the center of the space. Beside it, a symphony of machines hum.

Someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to transform this space into a sanctuary of healing. I don’t know how Vapor managed to get this done while we were gone, but he did. I guess it pays to have a bunch of construction guys patched in.

As I wheel Rory through the doorway, a woman rises from where she’s been adjusting something on the dialysis machine. She’s small but looks strong, with chestnut hair pulled back in a practical braid and gentle brown eyes that immediately assess Rory with professional interest. She wears simple scrubs, navy blue with no pattern, and moves with the confidence of someone completely comfortable in a medical setting.

“You must be Rory,” she says, her voice warm but not saccharine. “I’m Alice.”

Scalpel steps around us, moving to stand beside her with a familiarity that speaks of long association. “She’s the best nurse I’ve ever worked with,” he says, the simple statement carrying weight. “She helped set all this up.”

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