Page 60 of Fang

As Vapor leaves to assemble the team, Mina leans close, her breath warm against my ear. “We’re going to get him,” she whispers, her voice a blend of vengeance and vindication.

I nod, fingers already flying across the keyboard. Juan Vasquez has been a ghost for months, but ghosts leave traces. Digital breadcrumbs. And I’ve been collecting them, patiently, methodically, building toward this moment. The hunt is over, now it’s time to get him.

The clubhouse conference room has undergone a metamorphosis since the last time Vapor called Church. Goneare the casual trappings of brotherhood meetings—the ashtrays, the scattered beer bottles, the relaxed atmosphere. In their place, a ruthless efficiency has emerged. Maps I printed a few minutes ago cover the massive oak table, weighted down by tactical gear and weapons. Three laptops connect to a projector system, throwing high-definition images of the Houston compound across the wall. The air tastes different too—charged with purpose and the metallic tang of gun oil as brothers check and clean their weapons with practiced hands.

Vapor stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding attention without effort. Ice flanks him on the right, his silver-blue eyes cataloging every detail of the projected schematics. Bones occupies the space to Vapor’s left, his massive frame hunched forward as he studies the compound layout, muttering calculations under his breath. Diablo and Tank arrive together, their expressions shifting from casual to focused as they cross the threshold and sense the room’s energy.

“Sit,” Vapor says, gesturing to the empty chairs. “Fang’s got something.”

I step forward, connecting my tablet to the main display. The satellite imagery of the compound blooms across the wall, now annotated with security details and access points.

“Juan Vasquez,” I begin, enlarging a grainy but unmistakable image of our target.

“No shit?” Tank asks.

“No shit. He’s currently holed up at a cartel safe house thirty miles outside Houston. Compound is approximately six acres, surrounded by an eight-foot wall with motion sensors and infrared cameras.” My fingers swipe through images, zooming in on key features. “Main house here, two guard stations here and here, vehicle depot on the north side.”

Ice leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Entry points?”

“Three,” I reply, highlighting them on the schematic. “Main gate is heavily monitored. Service entrance on the south side always has lighter security but still has two guards. There’s also a maintenance access point for the electrical systems here—” I tap the southeast corner. “Potential blind spot if we time it right.”

Mina steps up beside me, her presence sending a current of awareness through my body. She points to specific areas of the compound with the confidence of someone who’s walked those grounds.

“Guard rotations happen every eight hours,” she explains, her voice steady. “Three shifts—6 am, 2 pm, 10 pm. The fifteen minutes during shift change is when they’re most vulnerable.” Her finger traces the perimeter fence. “They have four external guards plus two on the main house at all times. They’re armed with H&K submachine guns and sidearms. They’re trained to shoot first, no questions.”

Diablo cracks his knuckles, the sound unnervingly loud in the focused quiet. “How many total we looking at?”

“Based on thermal signatures and vehicle count,” I answer, pulling up another screen, “between twelve and sixteen cartel members on-site plus Vasquez and a small contingent of personal security and support staff.”

“Extraction routes?” Bones asks, already tracing potential paths with his thick index finger.

I toggle to a different view showing the surrounding area. “Two viable options. Main road here, but it’s the most obvious. There’s a service road that connects to a county highway here, less traveled, so a better option overall.”

The planning continues. Tank offers an option while Ice questions response times from nearby cartel affiliates. Eventually, Diablo outlines weapon requirements. Throughout, Mina contributes crucial details that only someone with insiderknowledge could provide, including the likely location of panic buttons.

“We need to try to take Vasquez alive,” Vapor states, his voice cutting through a debate about explosive charges. “I want that clear to everyone. He’s worth more to us with a pulse.”

Ice raises an eyebrow. “That’s not our usual approach. That’s my old lady’s brother. I don’t know how she’ll feel about this.”

“I realize it’s more personal for you, but he has information we need,” Vapor explains, his gaze sweeping the room. “Details about their Mexico to US trafficking operations, about their supply chains, about the higher-ups still in Mexico. We need what’s in his head more than we need him dead. Ultimately, he’s the highest target we’ve gone after so far, and so he will have access to information other people in the cartel won’t have. We don’t just want to end the local operation; we want to go after the head of the cartel in Mexico.”

I nod, understanding the strategic value. “I’ve analyzed the compound’s electronic security. It’s sophisticated but has vulnerabilities—particularly in how their camera system interfaces with their alarm protocols.” I bring up a schematic of the security system.

“Can you bring down all the cameras at once?”

“No. There’s a security measure that prevents me from doing that. But I can create sequential blind spots, disabling cameras and alarms at precisely timed intervals. It won’t give us long—maybe two-minute windows before their fail-safes kick in. It’s enough if we coordinate correctly.”

“We’ll need two teams,” Vapor decides, looking around the table. “Fang leads the technical assault—disabling security, providing real-time intelligence. Diablo and Tank can watch your back. I’ll head the tactical team with Ice and Bones.”

Mina’s head snaps up. “What about me? Where do I fit in the plan?”

A moment of silence falls over the room. I’ve been dreading this moment since we discovered Vasquez’s location. I take a breath, meeting her eyes directly.

“You stay here,” I say, keeping my voice even despite knowing the storm that’s coming. “With Rory.”

Her expression shifts from confusion to disbelief to anger in the span of three seconds. “That’s not happening,” she says flatly. “I know that compound. I’ve been inside. You need me.”

“Which is why you’ve been crucial to the planning,” I counter, trying to sound reasonable rather than protective. “But Rory needs you here. He’s flying to Maryland in two days. Do you really want to miss that?”

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