Page 58 of Fang

“Just under,” Scalpel confirms. “But it’s only a two and a half hour flight. This hospital is partnering with the biotech company that developed the therapy. They have the specialized equipment and expertise necessary for this particular protocol.” He glances at Rory. “I’ve already reached out to a colleague there. Given your case history and current status, I believe they’ll accept you into the program immediately.”

The thought of Rory being so far away sends a spike of anxiety through me. After weeks of not knowing where he was, of fighting to get him back, the idea of separation—even for legitimate medical reasons—makes my stomach clench.

“Can I go with him?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. “I could stay nearby, be there for his treatments.”

Scalpel’s expression softens slightly, the doctor momentarily giving way to the man. “You can certainly visit,” he says carefully. “But the treatment process is intensive. The initial gene therapy administration requires isolation protocols to prevent infection while his immune system is compromised. After that, there’s a series of enzyme treatments, physiotherapy, and constant monitoring.” He glances between Rory and me. “He’ll need a lot of time to heal and recover.”

I hear what he’s not saying—that hovering anxiously at my brother’s bedside won’t help either of us.

Rory reaches for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength. “Don’t worry,” he says, his eyes holding mine steadily. “I’m ready for whatever the doctors want to do to me.” A soft smile spreads across his face. “Besides, isn’t this what we’ve been hoping for? A real chance at being normal?”

I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. “When did you get so brave?” I ask, my voice wavering despite my efforts to keep it steady. “My little brother, facing experimental gene therapy like it’s just another day.”

“It’s not bravery when you don’t have other options,” he counters, but the squeeze of his hand contradicts his dismissal. “You’re the one who broke me out of a cartel hospital in Mexico. That’s brave.”

My eyes burn with unexpected tears. After everything—the years of sacrifice, the deals with devils, the desperate rescue mission—here we are, finally facing a future with actual hope in it. The enormity of it hits me all at once, threatening to crack the careful control I’ve maintained. Tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill. I blink rapidly to try to stop them.

“It’s in our blood,” Rory continues, his voice gentle. “You’re just as brave as I am. Always have been. Taking care of me since we were kids, standing up to the cartel, finding these people who actually give a damn about us.” His gaze flickers to Fang, then back to me. “We Bishops don’t break easily.”

The tears spill over before I can stop them. I lean forward, carefully wrapping my arms around my brother, mindful of the IV lines and monitoring equipment connected to him. His body feels frail against mine, but his embrace is surprisingly strong.

“I’m going to get better,” he whispers against my hair. “And then we’re both going to figure out what normal people dowith their lives. No cartels, no dialysis machines.” He pulls back slightly to look at me, his smile crooked but genuine. “Maybe I’ll learn to ride a motorcycle.”

I laugh through my tears, the sound watery but real. “One miracle at a time, okay?” I brush his hair back from his forehead, an old gesture from our childhood. “You rest. Scalpel, Alice, Fang, and I will take care of the arrangements.”

Rory settles back against his pillows, fatigue evident in the slight droop of his eyelids. “Go,” he says, making a shooing motion with his hand. “Plot my miraculous recovery. I’ll be here, counting ceiling tiles.”

I stand, wiping away the last of my tears with the back of my hand. Fang moves to my side, his presence solid and reassuring. Alice is already adjusting Rory’s IV, while Scalpel makes notes on his tablet, probably already coordinating with his Baltimore colleagues.

The ping of an alert cuts through the air. Fang pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His entire demeanor transforms in an instant—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening, eyes sharpening with sudden focus.

“We got a hit on Juan Vasquez,” he says, voice low and urgent as he looks at me.

The name sends electricity through my system, pushing aside the overflow of emotion moments before. Juan Vasquez—the New Orleans cartel leader who disappeared after Ice shot him. He’s responsible for countless deaths, and he’s the shadow that’s been hanging over the club since he disappeared a few months ago.

“I’ll see you later,” I promise Rory, already moving toward the door. He nods, understanding in his eyes—he knows better than anyone what the cartel has taken from us, what finishing this fight means.

I follow Fang into the hallway, our footsteps quickening with purpose as we head toward his office. The transition is jarring—from the tender hope of medical miracles to the dangerous pursuit of cartel justice—but it’s a duality I’m learning to navigate. Two missions, equally important: Rory’s healing and the cartel’s downfall.

As we walk, Fang’s hand brushes mine, a brief point of contact that grounds me in this new reality. Whatever comes next, I’m not facing it alone. Fang and I are a team now, a small subset of a larger group, all working together to end the cartel’s violent reign of terror in New Orleans. If Juan Vasquez is still alive, it’s our job to feed him to the gators. I hope I get to help toss him into the swamp.

Chapter 22: Fang

My office isn’t my office anymore. It’s ours. Mina’s presence has transformed the once-spartan space into something different—still functional, still centered around technology, but now bearing subtle traces of her. Her desk is right next to mine, but unlike mine, hers is cluttered with trinkets: A coffee mug with chipped enamel that she refuses to replace, a small potted succulent that somehow survives despite the lack of natural light, and a bunch of silly plastic dolls that look half-demonic. I’m still not entirely convinced those things don’t come alive at night. Bones assures me they’re not voodoo dolls, but there’s all kinds of weird shit in this world.

Monitors cover the rest of her desk, along with her laptop, which is sleeker and more elegant than my clunky custom build. At some point I need to do another upgrade to my system. Not gonna lie, I’m envious of her setup. She asked Vapor if she could order some tech stuff. He gave her a credit card and told her to get whatever she needed. And boy, did she.

We sit in synchronized silence. The only sounds are our keyboards clicking and the low hum of cooling fans as we hunt through digital landscapes for the man who nearly destroyed both our lives.

“Too bad that alert turned out to be another dead end earlier,” Mina mutters, pushing back from her desk with a frustrated sigh. Her fingers rake through her hair, leaving itcharmingly disheveled. “Juan’s financial trails are still cold. Nothing’s moved through his known accounts since he went missing.”

I nod, eyes still fixed on my center monitor where lines of code scroll past, each one a digital tripwire I’ve set across the dark web. “If he’s alive, he’s gone old-school. Cash only, probably. Smart move, but limiting. Eventually he’ll pop back up, or we’ll find proof he’s dead. The fact that no one has taken over the NOLA cartel makes me think he’s alive and in hiding.”

“Agreed,” she says.

After rescuing Rory, we’ve spent every spare moment building a digital net to catch Juan Vasquez. My algorithms crawl through surveillance footage from traffic cameras, ATMs, and security systems across three states. My data scrapers monitor every mention of his name or known aliases on messaging platforms. Mina’s intimate knowledge of cartel communication patterns has helped me refine the searches, narrowing parameters to filter out false positives.

My phone pings with a distinctive tone—not a text or call, but an alert from one of my most sophisticated detection systems. Both of us freeze, then our eyes meet. That particular sound means something big.

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