Page 17 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

“You’d be surprised who ends up in this life,” I say, thinking of my own unlikely journey from IT support to patched member.

“Scalpel lost his medical license after punching an abusive husband who was visiting his wife in the hospital. The club took him in, keeps him on retainer for medical emergencies. He’s good—better than good.

He’s performed four successful kidney transplants since he patched in.

Members from all over the country. With the help of a few rival clubs—shall we say—‘donors’? ”

“And he’s willing to help Rory?” she asks, ignoring the implications of what I just said.

“For a price, yes.” I close the messaging app and open a digital blueprint.

“I double checked those locations you gave me and I’m sure he’s at Mercy Memorial.

Here’s the floor plan. I’ve marked the service entrances, security camera placements, and guard rotations.

We’ll need at least twelve hours to finalize the extraction plan. ”

Mina steps back, running a hand through her jet-black hair. “Twelve hours could be too late. The cartel doesn’t mess around, Fang. When they decide someone’s a liability, they move fast and hard.”

“Yeah, but if we jump the gun, Rory could end up dead. Us too. I know we don’t have much time, but we’ve got to do this right the first time.”

Mina resumes pacing, her movements sharp and controlled like a predator. “How can you be sure that waiting will help Rory?”

“I read up on Primary Hyperoxaluria Type 1,” I say, the medical term feeling strange on my tongue.

“It’s a rare kidney disease that causes oxalate to build up.

Forms crystals that damage the kidneys. Nasty shit.

And eventually, the other organs fail too.

He requires specialized dialysis, medication management, and constant monitoring. That’s why we’ve got to wait.”

Mina stops abruptly, staring at me with undisguised surprise. “You really did do your homework.”

“Always do,” I say simply, skipping over the part where I called Scalpel to make sure I understand the complexities of the condition.

“And this is exactly why we can’t just rush into the hospital tonight.

If we disconnect his equipment improperly or administer the wrong medications during transport, we could kill him. ”

Her expression wavers, the fierceness giving way to something more vulnerable. “I can’t lose him,” she whispers. “He’s all I have left.”

“Which is why we need to be smart about this.” I stand, approaching her with the cautious respect one shows a capable opponent.

“Scalpel is driving through the night to reach us. He’ll bring the portable dialysis unit, medication supplies, and everything else Rory will need during the transition.

Meanwhile, I’m setting up a secure location where we can take your brother until it’s safe to move him to a more permanent facility. ”

“What kind of location?” Her question is sharp, testing the solidity of my plan.

“A safe house the club maintains off the grid. It has generator backup, satellite internet that can’t be traced, and enough isolation that no one will hear or see us coming and going.

” I don’t tell her it’s actually my personal property, a cabin I bought with Bitcoin earnings from a security system I designed years ago.

“It’s not hospital-grade, but with Scalpel’s equipment, it will keep Rory stable until we can arrange something better. ”

Mina’s fists clench and unclench at her sides, her internal struggle playing out in the taut lines of her posture. I can almost see the competing algorithms running behind her eyes—the urgent need to act versus the logical recognition that waiting for proper support gives her brother better odds.

“Dialysis isn’t something you can improvise. You know it’s true.”

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them, some of the frantic energy has dissipated, replaced by a reluctant pragmatism. “How sure are you about this Scalpel person?”

“He’s patched,” I say simply. In our world, that means something, a level of trust and brotherhood that transcends normal relationships. “And he owes me a favor from a situation in Galveston last year.”

“What kind of situation?” she asks, her natural suspicion reasserting itself.

“The kind that involved wiping security footage and forging a new identity for his sister after her ex-husband tried to kill her.” I meet her gaze steadily. “We take family protection seriously, especially when it comes to siblings.”

Something shifts in her posture—a subtle relaxation of her shoulders, an easing of the tight line of her jaw. She’s still coiled with tension, but it’s no longer directed at me.

“When will Scalpel arrive?” she asks.

“By noon tomorrow,” I reply. “We’ll make our move tomorrow night, during shift change at the hospital. The confusion provides better cover, and we’ll have darkness on our side.”

Mina nods slowly, her arms wrapping around herself in a gesture that seems unconscious. The weight of her brother’s life rests heavy on her shoulders.

“If anything happens to my brother because we waited,” she says quietly, “I will hold you personally responsible.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” I return to my laptop, already pulling up hospital staff schedules. “Now come here and tell me which of these names you recognize as cartel plants. We need to know exactly who we’re avoiding tomorrow night.”

She moves to stand beside me, her shoulder nearly touching mine as she leans in to study the screen.

Her posture is still tense, but there’s a grudging acceptance in the way she focuses on the task at hand.

We’re not friends, not yet allies in any true sense, but we’ve reached an understanding, a temporary truce built on mutual need and the shared knowledge that failing isn’t an option. For now, that’s enough to work with.

The blue light of my monitor casts Mina’s face in an ethereal glow as she leans over my shoulder, pointing out cartel associates on the hospital staff roster.

Her focus is absolute, the same intensity I bring to cracking a particularly stubborn firewall.

We work in tandem, her insider knowledge complementing my technical skills, until my eyes burn from screen fatigue and the numbers on my digital clock read 2:17 AM.

Only then does the unavoidable question of sleeping arrangements materialize between us.

Mina straightens, pressing her palms against her lower back and stretching with a soft groan. “Is there any coffee left in the kitchen?” she asks, her voice rough.

“Nope. Drained the last of it an hour ago.” I stand, my joints protesting the sudden movement after being hunched over the keyboard.

Mina blinks slowly, fatigue etching shadows beneath her eyes. Despite her obvious exhaustion, there’s still that alertness in her gaze, the look of someone who’s trained themselves never to fully let their guard down.

“We should get some sleep,” I say, closing the laptop with a soft click. “Tomorrow’s going to require full processing capacity from both of us.”

She nods, then glances around the room with sudden awkwardness, her gaze landing on the floor beside my desk. “I’ll take the floor,” she offers, already moving to grab one of the pillows from my bed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, gesturing toward my king-size bed. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

Mina freezes, pillow in hand, her eyes narrowing as they move from the bed to me. The assessment in her gaze is both calculating and wary.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you,” she says flatly.

“It’s a memory foam mattress. You won’t even know I’m there.” I shrug off my hoodie and drape it over my chair.

She sets the pillow back with deliberate slowness, her movements precise as she turns to face me.

Then, to my surprise, she approaches with measured steps, stopping just inches away.

She’s shorter than me by at least eight inches, but she tilts her chin up with such authority that the height difference seems irrelevant.

“If you try anything,” she says, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, “I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you.”

The threat should be menacing, but there’s something in the absurd specificity of it, combined with our mutual exhaustion and the surreal situation we’ve found ourselves in, that strikes a chord of unexpected humor. I grin, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I meet her deadly serious gaze.

“I have no doubt you’d do it,” I reply, the tension between us shifting into something less hostile but equally charged. “And I prefer my anatomy intact, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Fine,” she says. “But I’m sleeping with this.” She pulls a small switchblade from the pocket of my borrowed sweatpants, flicking it open with practiced ease.

I raise an eyebrow as I recognize it. “Where did you get that?”

“Your sock drawer,” she admits without a trace of apology. “While you were talking to Vapor.”

“Resourceful,” I comment, while making a mental note to get it away from her as soon as possible. “Just try not to stab me if I snore.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. “No promises.”

The preparation for bed becomes an awkward dance of careful movements and maintained distance. I grab a clean t- shirt from my drawer and toss it to her. “If you want something fresh to sleep in.”

She catches it one-handed, then glances toward the bathroom. “I’ll change in there.”

While she’s gone, I quickly change into a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. Normally, I sleep naked, but this will have to do. I’m more worried about keeping my balls than about my clothes. A smirk spreads across my lips. She’s feisty. I’ll give her that.

I hear the water running in the sink, then the sound of teeth being brushed. These mundane activities feel strangely intimate in the context of our high-stakes alliance.

When Mina emerges, she’s wearing my t-shirt like a nightgown, the hem hanging to mid-thigh.

Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of the day’s tension, though the wariness remains in her eyes.

She looks younger without the hard shell she’s worn since I met her, more vulnerable, though I suspect she’d hate hearing that observation.

“Left side or right?” I ask, gesturing to the bed.

“Left,” she says immediately.

I nod and move to the right side, pulling back the covers and sliding in.

She gets in on her side, keeping as close to the edge as possible without actually falling off.

The switchblade glints in the dim light from my computer’s standby mode as she places it on the nightstand, within easy reach.

I could take it now, but I’d rather wait until she’s asleep.

She’ll feel better if she thinks she has some measure of protection against me.

Not that I’m going to try anything. She’s cute and all, but this is a job. Nothing else.

“I’m turning off the light,” I warn, not wanting to startle her. I reach over and click off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the soft blue glow of my computer’s power indicator.

In the near-darkness, I’m acutely aware of her presence, of the controlled rhythm of her breathing, the subtle scent of my soap on her skin, and of the careful way she holds herself rigid to avoid any accidental contact.

We lie like two repelling magnets, the invisible force of mutual caution keeping us firmly separated.

“Thank you,” she says after a long silence. “For helping me.”

The simple gratitude catches me off guard. “Don’t thank me yet,” I reply. “We haven’t gotten him out.”

“Still,” she insists. “Not many people would go against their club for a stranger.”

I consider mentioning Tommy again, explaining how the ghost of my missing brother drives me to help others in similar situations. But the words stick in my throat, too personal to share with someone I barely know, regardless of our temporary alliance.

“Get some sleep, Mina,” I say instead. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

She makes a soft sound of agreement, and I feel her finally relax slightly into the mattress. The switchblade remains on the nightstand, her hand resting near it even as her breathing gradually slows and deepens.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the subtle changes in her respiration that signal her drift toward sleep.

The threat of bodily harm hangs between us like an unusual lullaby, oddly comforting in its straightforward honesty.

In a world where loyalties shift like encrypted data and trust is as rare as unhackable software, there’s something refreshing about someone who tells you exactly where you stand.

Even if where you stand is one wrong move away from being unmanned.

My lips curve into a smile in the darkness. Whatever happens tomorrow, at least I’ll know I followed the most important code—the one that says family should be protected, no matter the cost.