Page 62 of Fang

“Central control system is in the security office,” I whisper, pointing to a small building adjacent to the main house. “I need five minutes there to take full control of their security grid.”

Vapor nods, signaling Ice to take point. We advance in a tight diamond formation, using shadows for cover. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline heightening every sense. This isn’t my usual role—I’m typically behind screens, not boots on the ground—but there’s a visceral thrill to field operations that’s impossible to replicate in the digital realm.

A guard appears around a corner, his rifle silhouetted against a security light. Before he can react, Ice is on him—a swift, silent takedown that ends with the guard unconscious, gagged, and zip-tied. We continue without breaking stride, approaching the security office from its blind side.

The door requires keycard access, but I’ve prepared for this. My tablet interfaces with the electronic lock, running through encryption sequences until the light blinks green. Inside, a single guard whirls toward us. Bones handles him, tackling him to the ground before wrapping one massive arm around his throat, cutting off blood flow until consciousness fades. No alarm, no gunfire, just the soft thud of a body being lowered to the floor.

“Security hub,” I announce, moving immediately to the central control station. My fingers dance across the keyboard, bypassing local security to access the compound’s core systems. “Sixty seconds.”

The others secure the room, checking sight lines and establishing defensive positions. I barely notice, lost in theintricacy of dismantling security protocols one by one. Cameras freeze for a split second before looping old footage, the door locks disengage, and alarm systems enter maintenance mode—all without triggering alerts that would warn the remaining guards.

“Full system access achieved,” I report, allowing myself a brief smile of satisfaction. “All internal cameras disabled. Electronic locks throughout the compound are under our control.”

Vapor claps my shoulder once, a gesture of approval. “Main house next. Lead us in.”

With the security system compromised, we move more boldly across the compound, no longer constrained by camera coverage. Two more guards fall to silent takedowns before we reach the main house’s rear entrance. I confirm the lock is disengaged before pulling the heavy door open to reveal a darkened kitchen.

Inside, the house is quiet—too quiet. The silence triggers a warning in my mind, a subtle wrongness that doesn’t align with our intelligence. There should be movement, signs of habitation. Instead, there’s a stillness that feels intentional.

“Second floor, northwest corner,” I remind the team, pushing the unease aside. “Vasquez’s quarters should be there.”

We ascend the stairs, checking corners and doorways as we go. The hallway stretches before us, doors on either side leading to darkened rooms. At the end, a heavy wooden door marks what should be the master suite—Juan Vasquez’s personal quarters.

Vapor takes position beside the door with Ice on the other side. Bones and I hang back, providing coverage. A nod from Vapor, and Ice tests the handle. As expected, it’s unlocked. Another nod, and they burst through the door in perfect coordination, weapons raised.

There’s no one in the room. One wall hosts a bed with rumpled sheets. On another wall, there’s a dresser with drawers partially open and a desk with nothing on its surface. The scene has the unmistakable feel of a hasty departure—or a setup.

And then I hear it. A faint, rhythmic beeping coming from the dresser. So subtle it’s almost lost beneath the sound of our breathing, but unmistakable to ears trained to recognize electronic signatures.

“Hold,” I say, raising a hand as Ice moves to check the closet. “Something’s wrong.”

I approach the dresser cautiously, the beeping growing slightly louder. With careful movements, I pull the top drawer open wider.

My blood turns to ice. Nestled among discarded clothing is a matte black box. No logos. No wires. Just a smooth little box, maybe the size of an old-school router. But I’ve been in enough shady backchannels and darknet forums to know what this is.

It continues ticking, but I doubt it’s on a timer since they had no way of knowing when we’d arrive. Still, I grab a static strap from my rig before I touch the latch. Just in case. Then I pry the casing open.

Inside, it’s beautiful—and horrifying. The internal layout is surgical. Two thin-layered slabs of white PETN and RDX sandwiched between copper discs, probably etched to shape the blast. The core’s shaped like a cone, narrow and deadly. Whoever built this didn’t just want a boom—they wanted direction, collapse, fire. The whole house will explode. No timer, but it has an antenna—this one’s old-school. Someone local will have to detonate it.

“It’s a trap,” I breathe, the realization blooming into full-blown alarm as I process what I’m seeing. “The whole place is rigged to blow!”

“Pull back! Get out now!” Vapor yells into the comms.

Chaos erupts as we scramble toward the exit. Vapor is shouting into his comm, ordering Tank and Diablo to fall back to the extraction point. Ice and Bones are already at the stairs, taking them three at a time. I’m right behind them, focused solely on reaching the exit.

I’m almost at the open door, right on Vapor and Ice’s heels when the world turns white. A wave of heat and pressure lifts me off my feet and hurls me through the door like a rag doll. For one sharp, impossible second, I’m airborne, thrown forward by the blast wave. My last conscious thought is of Mina waiting at the clubhouse, of the promise I made to return to her.

Then darkness swallows everything.

Chapter 24: Mina

The early evening air hangs heavy around me as I pace the gravel driveway, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each turn. Every few seconds, my eyes dart to the road leading to the clubhouse, searching for headlights, for any sign of the van bringing Fang and the others back from Texas.

My stomach twists itself into knots that tighten with each passing minute. It’s been twenty-four hours since I received Vapor’s cryptic message: “Mission compromised. Team extracting. Will update when secure.” Hours of imagining worst-case scenarios, of picturing Fang bleeding out on Texas soil, of wondering if I’ll ever see him alive again.

The sun bleeds orange and purple across the horizon, casting long shadows across the clubhouse yard. Cicadas begin their nightly chorus, the sound normally soothing but now just white noise beneath the roar of anxiety in my head. I check my phone for the hundredth time—no new messages, no missed calls. Just the wallpaper of Rory smiling from his hospital bed, blissfully unaware in Baltimore that the man who helped save him might be—

I can’t finish the thought.

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