Page 18 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

Fang ’ s motorcycle rumbles beneath me, a mechanical beast carrying us deeper into the bayou, where the city’s grid fades into wilderness.

My arms encircle his waist—necessary for balance as we navigate the rutted path.

The humid air slaps against my face, carrying the primal scent of moss and decay.

Each breath also brings a whiff of something else, his piney scent.

Masculine and rugged—not something I ’ d typically associate with a hacker.

The juxtaposition of hacker and biker is something I ’ m still getting used to.

The assumptions I had about him are crumbling faster than I expected.

I thought it would be harder to convince him to help me, but he mentioned having a brother.

Based on what he said and his tone, I ’ m sure his brother died.

In the moment, I wanted to ask about him, but I held back.

The last thing I want to do is press my luck and push him away by bringing up bad memories. Still, I ’ m curious.

We ’ re on our way to meet Scalpel. Fang seems to have confidence in the man, so I ’ m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and trust him too, at least until I see a reason not to.

Fang leans into a curve, and I mirror his movement automatically, my body anticipating the shift. Spanish moss hangs like tattered curtains that occasionally brush against my shoulders, forming a gray-green tunnel. Sunlight filters through in broken patterns, flashing across my visor.

“Almost there,” Fang calls back, his voice nearly lost in the rush of air and engine noise.

I nod against his back. My thoughts circle back to Rory, trapped in his hospital bed surrounded by cartel thugs.

My brother never asked to be a pawn in this deadly game, but I did what I had to do to save him.

For ten years, I’ve been the wall between him and the monsters who’d let him die if I stopped being useful.

Today, that changes. Today, I rewrite our story.

The bike slows as we approach a clearing where a squat building hunkers beneath cypress trees.

A weathered sign barely legible reads: Gator’s Rest. The parking lot is gravel and dirt, home to three pickup trucks, a rusted sedan, and—most importantly—an ambulance whose red and white paint has faded to the color of old blood and dirty bandages.

Fang cuts the engine. He dismounts first, offering a hand.

A jolt of electricity passes between us when our hands touch, something I ’ ve been trying to ignore since we first met.

I don ’ t want to start thinking about him as anything more than a means to an end, but my body ’ s got other thoughts about this man.

Dark, sinfully delicious ideas that I ’ d best ignore.

I swing my leg over and find my footing on the uneven ground. My legs vibrate with phantom motion, adjusting to stillness after the long ride.

“Scalpel’s here,” Fang says, nodding toward the ambulance. “Let’s go inside.”

Inside, the diner is a study in strategic neglect.

It ’ s rundown enough to discourage casual visitors, but not so dilapidated that it attracts attention from authorities.

The linoleum floor is cracked but clean, the vinyl booths patched with silver duct tape.

A ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring air that smells of coffee and grease.

Three local men hunch over plates at the counter, while a waitress with faded tattoos and hard eyes refills their cups without conversation.

In the farthest booth, a man sits with his back to the wall, face partially obscured by a newspaper.

As we approach, he folds it precisely and sets it aside, revealing features that seem too refined for his surroundings—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that assess us with clinical detachment.

His hands are unmistakably a surgeon’s—long fingers, clean nails, and a calm precision that hints at thousands of careful incisions.

“Scalpel,” Fang greets him, sliding into the booth opposite him.

I take the spot beside Fang.

“You must be Mina,” Scalpel says, his voice carrying the faint trace of an education he’s tried to bury beneath rougher cadences. He doesn’t offer his hand, doesn’t smile. Just studies me with those assessing eyes. “Your brother has an interesting case.”

“My brother is not a case,” I correct him, keeping my voice low. “He’s a person who needs help.”

Something shifts in Scalpel’s expression—not quite approval, but a subtle recalibration. “Fair enough. I’ve brought everything we’ll need for the first seventy-two hours. After that, we’ll need to source additional supplies.”

Fang leans forward, elbows on the table. “Show us what you’ve got.”

“ Food ’ s about to come. Burger and fries, like Fang asked.”

“Thank you. When Fang asked me earlier, I wasn’t hungry. But he insisted.” My stomach grumbles. “He was right.”

Fang had tried to get me to eat earlier, but my belly churned enough that I wasn ’ t sure I ’ d keep the meal down. Now, I ’ m ravenous.

When the food comes, we dig in. Scalpel and Fang clean their plates while I manage to finish over half of mine. That will be enough to get me through the next few hours.

After Fang pays the waitress, we follow Scalpel outside to the ambulance, the heat hitting us like a physical barrier as we exit the diner’s air conditioning.

He unlocks the back doors and swings them open to reveal an interior that looks nothing like you’d expect from the vehicle’s exterior.

Where I expected outdated equipment and makeshift solutions, I find a miniature hospital room—portable dialysis machine, ventilator, monitoring systems, and neatly labeled medications organized in specialized coolers.

“Jesus,” Fang mutters, clearly impressed. “You didn’t cut any corners.”

“I never do,” Scalpel replies, running his fingers along the edge of a metal case.

“Not with patients.” He turns to me. “I’ve worked on other cases similar to your brother’s.

His condition is serious but manageable with the right equipment.

This setup will keep him stable during transport and for the initial recovery period. ”

The weight I ’ ve been carrying eases slightly. “Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what this means to me.

Scalpel acknowledges my gratitude with a slight nod. “Let’s get in so we can finish planning. I don’t like being exposed.”

We climb into the back of the ambulance and close the doors. Fang unfolds a map of Mercy Memorial Hospital on the stretcher then glances at me. “ Show him what you know about the setup.”

“I ’ m pretty sure that Rory’s room is on the third floor,” I say, pointing to the room I think he ’ s in.

“ What ’ s ‘ pretty sure ’ mean?” Scalpel asks.

“ They blindfolded me, but I always paid attention to details. The elevator would ding three times before the doors opened, so that would mean the third floor.”

“ Maybe,” Scalpel says. “ But we can ’ t count on it.”

“ No. We can ’ t,” Fang agrees.

“The cartel has at least two guards disguised as orderlies on rotation, plus a nurse they’ve paid off to monitor his care,” I say. “ They could be in my brother ’ s room, or in the hall. Really, they could be anywhere in the building, so we need to be watching for them.”

“ Hopefully they ’ ll stick out enough that we can identify them before they realize why we ’ re there.

We’ll enter here, using the staff elevator to avoid the main lobby cameras.

” Fang’s finger traces a path from the service entrance.

“Scalpel will park the ambulance at the emergency bay, wearing paramedic gear so he blends in.”

“ I ’ ll change right before we take off. Didn ’ t want to earlier because I didn ’ t want the waitress asking a bunch of questions.”

“ Did she say anything about the ambulance?” Fang asks.

“ No. She saw it for sure, but didn ’ t comment. People around here don ’ t seem to be the type to get into other people ’ s business.”

“ Seriously?” I arch a brow. “ That ’ s exactly the kind of people who live in Louisiana bayous. We ’ re outsiders. Everyone living within ten miles of here will know about the ambulance before we leave the parking lot. You should have parked it somewhere else.”

“ Can ’ t do much about that now. Let ’ s get back to the plan. Any security cameras?” Scalpel asks, his focus entirely on the technical aspects of the operation.

“I’ll take care of those,” Fang answers. “They’ll be on a twenty-minute loop of yesterday’s footage. Should give us enough time to get in and out.”

I lean closer, studying the map. “We should split up once we’re inside. I’ll head directly to Rory’s room while you create a diversion on the second floor. Something to draw security away from the third.”

Fang nods. “I’ve got some ideas for that. Nothing dangerous, but enough to keep them busy.”

“Once you have your brother,” Scalpel continues, “bring him down through this service elevator.” He traces the route with a precise finger. “It bypasses the main corridors where you’d be more likely to encounter staff. I’ll be waiting, engine running.”

“We meet back at the ambulance twenty minutes after entry,” Fang concludes. “Any longer than that, and we risk being discovered.”

The plan is clean and efficient, but when real-world variables intervene, even the best plans can fail.

“What if Rory isn’t in his room or I ’ m wrong about which floor he ’ s on?” I ask, voicing my deepest fear.

“Then text me on the burner. We’ll abort and regroup,” Fang answers immediately. “No heroics, no improvising. We get out, reassess, and try again later.”

Scalpel gathers the map, folding it with precision. “It’s time. The shift change starts in forty minutes. We need to be in position before then.”