Page 8 of Fang

Stepping back from the concrete box-style building, I engage the final lock on the Quiet Room door. My fingers linger on the steel for a moment, reluctance slowing my movements as the weight of what I’ve done—what I’m doing—settles on my shoulders. I don’t kidnap women. I wouldn’t even be doing this if she’d just been straight with me from the beginning. Although I get the sense she’s not entirely lying, she’s also not being completely truthful.

After we fled the warehouse, I took her to a motel where I had stashed an extra laptop as well as anything else I thought I might need after the auction. I asked her a bunch of questions about what just happened, but she refused to answer any of them. All I wanted to do was find out what was on the drive, but she tried to bolt, so I had to stop her. I ended up slipping her a roofie because she refused to cooperate. She was much more manageable once she was knocked out. I tossed her in the back of a car I stole and drove her back to the clubhouse.

My bike was still at the warehouse, but I called in a favor, and one of the guys from UVMC’s San Antonio chapter went to try to get it. He called me up and said it was toast. Burnt up in the fire. I’m still pissed off about that. I loved my ride. Thank fuck I’ve got a new one being delivered later today.

I glare at the concrete box and mutter, “She’ll start telling the truth after she’s been in there for a few more hours.”

The silence that follows seems to stretch and thin, becoming something alive and judging, wrapping around me like invisible chains. When I turn toward the clubhouse, my heart drops.

Vapor’s standing in the shadow of a nearby cypress, his massive frame silhouetted by sunlight glistening off the swamp water behind him. His slicked-back black hair gleams like a raven’s wing, while sweat beads on his forehead. Scowling, he gives me a disapproving shake of his head, as if I’m a child in need of scolding. And maybe I am. Even at this distance, I can feel the chill of his blue eyes cutting through me, dissecting my intentions with surgical precision.

“Shit,” I mutter.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches me with the stillness of a predator that’s already spotted its prey and is simply waiting for the right moment to strike. The club president doesn’t need to raise his voice or make threats. His presence alone is enough to make my mouth go dry.

“Who’s in there?” Vapor finally asks, his voice deceptively soft despite the hard edge beneath the words.

My mind races through possibilities like code executing in parallel threads. I could lie, say it’s nothing—just testing the security of the room. I could deflect and change the subject to the upgrades I’ve been making to our surveillance system. I could even try to joke my way out of it, though humor has never been my strong suit.

But this is Vapor. The man who gave me a home when I had nothing but guilt and technical skills to offer. The man who understood my obsession with finding missing people without ever questioning why it mattered so much to me. The president who’s trusted me with the club’s digital security and, by extension, all our lives.

I can’t lie to him. Not about this.

“Her name’s Mina Bishop,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “She’s a hacker. Works for the cartel.”

I watch his face for a reaction, but years of leading the MC have made Vapor a master at controlling his expressions. Only the slight tightening around his eyes betrays that my words have any impact at all.

“I know exactly who she is,” he says, each word dropping into the space between us like stones into still water. “What I want to know is why you’ve got her locked in our Quiet Room without telling me or the club.”

The acid in his tone burns through my surprise. He knows? How the hell does he know?

“She’s been probing our servers for weeks,” Vapor continues, stalking toward me with measured steps. “Trying to slip past the same security you assured me was impenetrable.”

“How do you—”

His scowl deepens.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “It’s impenetrable to everyone but this chick.”

“And?”

“And that’s why she’s here.”

“Really?” Vapor growls, close enough now that I can see the veins standing out on his neck, the clenched muscles in his jaw. “You knew we had a cartel hacker sniffing around our digital doorstep and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning to the club?” He gestures sharply toward the locked door. “And now you’ve got her on our property? What the hell were you thinking, Fang?”

I’ve seen Vapor angry before—seen him beat men twice my size into bloody submission without breaking a sweat—but I’ve never been on the receiving end of that cold fury. My stomach twists with guilt.

“I have it under control,” I insist, hating how the words sound more like a plea than a statement.

Vapor’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “Under control? You’ve brought a cartel operative into our home. Tell me exactly how that’s ‘under control.’”

He moves past me toward the common area, his shoulders rigid with tension. I follow, knowing this conversation is far from over. When we reach the barbecue area, he drops into a chair at one of the picnic tables, his massive hands coming to rest in fists on the wooden planks.

“How did you get her?” he asks, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

I slide onto the bench across from him, rubbing a hand over my face. The events of the past twenty-four hours have left me running on caffeine and adrenaline, my brain crackling with the uncomfortable static of sleep deprivation.

“There was an auction,” I begin. “Black market tech. I went undercover, looking for intel on the cartel’s digital infrastructure, but also, for her. Had a feeling she’d be there working tech security for them. I decided to go to the warehouse and see what I could learn.”

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