Page 6 of Fang

“Did he seriously lock me in his dungeon?” I growl, breaking the silence.

Using the wall as a guide, I work my way to standing, my legs shaking like a newborn colt. The movement sends fresh waves of nausea through me, but I grit my teeth and push through it. I need to understand this space. I need to find a way out.

The wall stretches above my head, beyond my reach even when I stand on my toes. I follow it with my palms, step by careful step, feeling for any variation in the surface. A crack. A loose section. Anything that might give me leverage or hope.

My circuit brings me to a corner, then another wall identical to the first. The space is small—maybe eight feet by ten—but in the absolute darkness, it feels both cramped and infinite. Each step echoes strangely, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive silence.

Then my searching hands find something different. Metal. Heavy and cold, with rivets that bite into my palm when I press against them. A door. But as my fingers race along its edges, mapping every inch, my heart sinks further into my stomach.

No handle on this side. No keyhole. No evident hinges.

I’m trapped.

The realization hits like ice water in my veins, but I force myself to keep searching. There has to be something. Some flaw in construction, some oversight by whoever built this place. My fingernails scrape against the seams where the door meets its frame, probing for weakness. The metal is thick, industrial—the kind of barrier designed to keep people in, not out.

I drop to my knees, running my hands along the bottom edge of the door. A thin gap, maybe half an inch, allows the faintest breath of air to seep through. It carries scents that make my stomach clench: motor oil, leather, and something else. Something that smells like power and violence.

“Motherfucker,” I snarl, reaching into my hoodie.

Gun’s gone. Flash drive too. He definitely did this.

“Hey, asshole!” I slam my palm on the door.“I have to pee, and I need water. Open the fucking door.”

Based on the smells coming from the other side of the door, and the fact that the last thing I remember is Fang’s face, I must be at Underground Vengeance’s new compound. I heard all about how the cartel burnt their old clubhouse to the ground. Big mistake. That clubhouse was a piece of shit in the 9thWard. This one is a fortress. I may have hacked the schematics and taken a little peek when I was poking around Fang’s network.

This isn’t good. I have no idea what happened between here and West Texas. He must have thrown me in the back of a car or something. There’s no way he draped me over the bike and rode nine hundred miles without someone noticing. But none of that really matters. I’m here now, and I’ve got to figure out my next steps.

He clearly doesn’t trust me, and why should he? I work for the enemy. He doesn’t know exactly why I had to make a deal with the cartel, but the less he finds out about me, the better. If he discovers what the cartel has, then what would stop Fang from using that knowledge as leverage against me? I’d be stuck in the exact same position as I am now. The only difference would be the name of the organization forcing me to work for them.

I know all about UVMC—the club that operates in the shadows of New Orleans, claiming to fight human trafficking while using methods that made the police look like choirboys. Clearly that’s true. Why else would they have a dedicated torture room?

The heat is becoming unbearable. It radiates from the walls and floor, and even the air itself seems to pulse with it. My mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, my throat so dry that swallowing has become an exercise in futility. When did I last drink water? The memory is another casualty of whatever heused to knock me out. Nothing hurts, so I doubt he hit me. Must have drugged me. Jerk.

I stumble back to the door, pressing my ear against the metal. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no mechanical sounds that might give me a clue about where I am on the compound or how long I’ve been here. The silence is complete, oppressive in its totality.

Panic starts as a flutter in my chest, then grows with each shallow breath. The walls seem to be moving closer, the ceiling pressing down like the lid of a coffin. I know it’s impossible, know it’s just my mind playing tricks, but knowing doesn’t make it stop.

I force myself to move, to keep exploring. My hands search every inch of the walls again, more desperately now, looking for anything I might have missed. A hidden switch. A miracle.

But concrete doesn’t yield to desperation, and metal doesn’t bend to hope.

The reality of my situation settles over me like a burial shroud. I’m in an Underground Vengeance holding cell, probably in some basement where no one will hear me scream. They took me for a reason, which means they want something more from me. They already have my gun and the flash drive packed with cartel information. What else could they possibly want?

I sink back against the wall. My clothes stick to me like a second skin, salt from dried sweat making everything itch. The darkness presses in from all sides, patient and implacable.

Somewhere beyond these walls, New Orleans continues its ancient dance of light and shadow, music and violence. But here, in this concrete tomb, there’s only silence and the steady rhythm of my heart beating against my ribs like a caged bird.

I close my eyes, though it makes no difference in the absolute dark, and try to prepare myself for whatever comes next.

The first lock clicks with the precision of expensive machinery. Then another. And another. Each metallic snap echoes through my concrete tomb like a countdown to an execution. I scramble to press my back against the far wall, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I’m sure whoever’s coming for me can hear it.

The door swings inward, and light explodes into my world like a physical blow. I throw my hands up to shield my eyes, but the brightness sears through my fingers anyway, sending lightning bolts of pain straight into my skull. After hours—days?—of absolute darkness, even dim illumination feels like staring into the sun.

Through the nuclear glare, a silhouette fills the doorway. Broad shoulders seem to span the entire frame. The suggestion of impressive height. But it’s the stillness that unsettles me most—the way he stands there, patient as a predator, while I squint and blink like some cave-dwelling creature dragged into daylight.

My vision gradually adjusts, details emerging from the burning white like a photograph developing in slow motion. The first thing I notice is the contradiction—massive arms and chest that strain against a graphic tee featuring what looks like a vintage computer terminal. The graphic says,“My Code Works. (I Have No Idea Why)” The shirt is completely at odds with the intimidating physique beneath it, like finding a kitten wearing a wolf’s hide.

Then I see his face, and my breath catches in my throat.

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