Page 20 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

We arrive at a small house on the outskirts of New Orleans. It’s nondescript, the kind of place that fades into the background. Perfect for our needs.

“Is this one of the club ’ s safe houses?” I ask as Fang uses a keypad to unlock the door.

“It ’ s mine,” he answers simply. “Off the books.”

The interior is spartan but functional. Multiple computer monitors dominate the living room. Beyond it there ’ s a kitchenette with minimal supplies. As I walk past an open door, I glance in. It ’ s a bedroom. With one bed. Great. Hopefully the couch is comfortable.

Fang moves immediately to his computer setup. “We need new identities, flights, accommodations—all untraceable to either of us.”

I stand behind him, watching as he navigates through dark web marketplaces and encrypted forums with casual ease. Many of the sites are familiar. The cartel uses them too. “How long will it take?”

“For basic travel documents? Four hours. For good ones that’ll stand up to airport security? Six.”

I sigh and don ’ t bother asking if there ’ s a way to speed things up. Getting into Mexico undetected will be worth the wait. I hate that we ’ re in this position, but there ’ s nothing I can do about it.

“Check the closet in the bedroom for clothes. There should be some women’s clothes in there. Pack whatever you think you ’ ll need,” Fang says, still typing.

“Did your ex-girlfriend leave them behind?” I ask, curious.

“No. She never lived with me, and that was a long time ago.”

The dismissive tone in his voice makes it seem like that relationship is old news, so I don’t press the issue. Instead, I ask the next obvious question, “Did all your one night stands leave without their clothes?” I try to keep my tone playful, but there’s an edge to it.

“If you want to know why I have women’s clothing, it’s simple.

Sometimes I help people on the side, mostly women because that’s who I seem to attract.

The club helps as many people as possible, but some women’s stories don’t quite add up.

They don’t want to risk getting involved, but it doesn’t stop me.

The perfect victim doesn’t exist.” He shrugs.

“So, I help the ones that have sketchy stories.”

“Oh.” I glance toward the bedroom, wishing I’d kept my suspicious thoughts to myself.

“Anything else?” he asks impatiently.

“Nope.”

I head into the bedroom, find a backpack in the closet and fill it with the bare essentials—clothes that hang loose on my frame but will serve their purpose. In an adjoining bathroom, I find basic toiletries and add those too. Just soap, a new toothbrush, and toothpaste.

Fang pokes his head in and tosses a burner phone at me. “ Catch!”

“ Want me to pack a bag for you too?”

“ I already have one ready. Always do.” His smile makes my belly flip. Those eyes. God, why does he have to be so handsome? This would all be a lot easier if my mind didn ’ t drift into places it shouldn ’ t go.

Rejoining him in the living room, I pace while he works his digital magic.

Every few minutes I glance over his shoulder to see what he ’ s up to.

Each time I get close, a strange current passes between us—something I ruthlessly suppress.

There’s no room for distractions, not with Rory’s life at stake.

“Done,” Fang announces finally. “ We ’ ll pick them up in an hour at a local chop shop.”

The time passes slowly, but eventually we ride to get the black market passports.

Fang checks them over before paying the mysterious man who brought them.

Back at the safe house, we lock ourselves inside and sit on the couch.

Fang hands me one of the passports. I open it and gaze at the photo he took of me earlier.

“Meet Sarah Jensen and Michael Reeves, married business consultants traveling to Mexico City for a conference,” he says.

“Married?” Heat floods into my cheeks.

“Couples draw less attention, and it gives us a reason to stay close.” His eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. “Our flight leaves in three hours.”

That ’ s good. We won ’ t have to stay here tonight, so the question of who ’ s sleeping where won ’ t be an issue. I breathe a sigh of relief. “ Sounds good.”

The journey to the airport feels surreal. I ’ ve never been out of the country before, but that ’ s about to change. As Fang drives, I mentally prepare myself to become Sarah Jensen, a woman with no brother to rescue and no cartel hunting her.

Getting into character isn ’ t easy, but by the time we arrive in long-term parking, I ’ ve half-convinced myself I really am Sarah Jensen, businesswoman.

It ’ s actually kind of fun pretending to be someone else for once.

Sarah Jensen doesn ’ t have anything to be worried about.

She ’ s nothing like me. Happy and carefree. I can fake that.

Security is a gauntlet of potential exposure.

Each checkpoint is a moment where our fabricated identities could unravel.

Fang walks slightly ahead of me, his posture relaxed.

When the TSA agent studies my passport with narrowed eyes, Fang’s hand finds the small of my back—a gesture that reads as intimate to observers but serves to ground me in our cover.

“Relax,” he murmurs as we move away from the checkpoint. “You look like you’re marching to an execution.”

“Maybe we are.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Something shifts in his expression—concern, maybe, or understanding. “They don ’ t know we ’ re coming. They won ’ t expect it. Nobody saw us at the hospital yesterday. If that nurse was going to rat you out, she’d have called security while we were there.”

On the plane, our assigned seats place us in intimate proximity, our shoulders and thighs pressed together in the cramped economy row. The casual touch should be insignificant compared to the night we shared a bed, yet somehow it feels more intimate, more meaningful.

“Tell me more about your brother,” Fang says after takeoff, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

The request catches me off guard. “Why?”

“Because knowing more about him helps me understand what we’re up against—what matters to him, how he might respond in different situations.” He hesitates. “And because you look like you might vibrate out of your skin if you don’t talk about something other than getting caught by the cartel.”

I almost smile despite myself. Almost.

“He’s smart,” I say after a moment. “Too smart for his own good sometimes. Even though he ’ s very sick, he’s always reading or playing strategy games on his tablet. He dreams of designing video games someday.”

“ I ’ m surprised the cartel lets him connect to the internet.”

“ They don ’ t. Someone downloads the games to the tablet. They give him books to read to keep him occupied and happy. It ’ s easier to control a content person than a bored one.”

“ Very true. So, video games?”

“ Oh yeah…”

Fang listens with genuine interest as I talk about Rory’s fascination with world-building, and about his talent for creating complex characters despite his limited exposure to the world outside his hospital room.

I find myself sharing details I’ve never voiced to anyone.

Until now, I didn ’ t realize how lonely I was. It ’ s nice to have someone to talk to.

In turn, Fang tells me about the motorcycle club’s structure, the brotherhood that forms the backbone of his world.

He explains their code, their hierarchy, and the complex relationships between chapters.

His passion for technology emerges in tangents about security systems and network architecture.

Our conversation shifts between strategic planning and these personal revelations, creating a rhythm that feels almost normal. I catch him watching me once when I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His gaze lingers a moment too long. When our eyes meet, neither of us looks away immediately.

We make our connecting flight without any issues. A few hours later, the seatbelt sign illuminates as we begin our descent into Mexico City. Fang’s hand brushes against mine on the armrest—accidentally, perhaps, though he doesn’t move away.

“We’re going to get him back,” he says, his voice steady with conviction.

I don’t respond, but I don’t pull my hand away either. The weight of his presence beside me feels unexpectedly like an anchor in a storm I’ve been weathering alone for too long.

After we pick up a rental car, we head to the motel Fang located before we left the U.S.

It sits in a neighborhood where shadows gather thick at street corners and eyes follow us from darkened doorways.

The building leans slightly, as if centuries of Mexico City’s soft soil have slowly conspired to pull it groundward.

Paint peels from its facade in long strips like sunburned skin, and the neon sign above the entrance flickers with the erratic pulse of a dying firefly.

It’s perfect—exactly the kind of place the cartel wouldn’t bother monitoring, too insignificant for their notice.

Fang’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back as we approach, a gesture that maintains our cover as a married couple while subtly guiding me toward the entrance.

I allow it, though the pressure of his fingers sends unwelcome heat up my spine.

Although I hope there will be two beds in the room, I ’ ve got a feeling there ’ s only going to be one. After all, we ’ re ‘ married.’

The lobby smells of cigarettes and cheap cleaning solution, the kind that masks odors rather than eliminating them.

A ceiling fan whirs overhead, stirring the stagnant air without cooling it.

Behind a scratched plexiglass barrier, the desk clerk watches a telenovela on a small television, his attention lifting to us with obvious reluctance.

“ Necesitamos una habitación ,” Fang says, his Spanish carrying just enough of an American accent to match our cover as tourists. “ Para mi esposa y yo. ”