Page 22 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

Night settles over Mexico City like a velvet shroud, the darkness providing cover as Fang and I approach the clinic.

The building rises six stories of gleaming glass and steel—a physical manifestation of the cartel’s wealth and influence.

Security cameras track the perimeter with mechanical precision, their red lights blinking like artificial stars.

I adjust the fake ID badge hanging around my neck, the plastic cool against my fingertips. This was just one of the many ‘ supplies ’ Fang had in his go bag. The photo isn’t me, but it ’ s female and generic-looking enough that it could be me.

Beside me, Fang walks with the confident stride of someone who belongs, his own disguise transforming him from biker to corporate IT specialist with nothing more than slacks, a button-down shirt, and slicked-back hair.

We steamed our shirts in the shower so they wouldn ’ t be wrinkled before we left the motel room.

Looking like you fit in is the key to this type of subterfuge.

“Remember,” he murmurs as we approach the main entrance, “you’re Teresa Alvarez, my junior technician. You don’t speak unless spoken to directly. Most of these people are trained to look through support staff.”

I nod slightly, slipping into the role by hanging back a step.

The lobby gleams with polished marble and soft, recessed lighting—more luxury hotel than medical facility.

A security guard stands beside a metal detector, his posture deceptively casual, the bulge of a holstered weapon visible beneath his uniform jacket.

Behind a curved reception desk, a woman with immaculate makeup and sharp eyes watches our approach.

Fang steps forward, producing a tablet and work order with practiced ease. “ Buenas noches. Miguel Suarez and Teresa Alvarez, from NetCare Systems. We’re scheduled for the server maintenance tonight.”

The receptionist examines the documentation, then our IDs, her expression revealing nothing. My pulse quickens, but I keep my face neutral, eyes downcast like a subordinate. After what feels like eternity, she nods and makes a call, speaking too softly for us to hear.

“ Quinto piso ,” she finally says, handing back our credentials. “ Sala de servidores. César will meet you upstairs.”

We place the laptop and networking cables in a plastic bin then pass through the metal detector without incident. After retrieving our equipment, we head to the elevators. As the doors close behind us, I release a breath.

“That was almost too easy,” I whisper as we ascend.

Fang’s expression remains neutral, aware of the camera in the elevator’s corner. “The hard part’s coming. We need to lose César before we can access the patient database.”

The fifth floor opens to a sterile corridor lit by fluorescent panels that cast everything in a clinical glow.

A man waits by the elevator banks—César, presumably—with a clipboard and suspicious eyes.

He leads us down the hallway, past rooms with specialized equipment visible through glass panels.

I catalogue each turn, each security checkpoint, building a mental map for our escape.

“The servers are in here,” César says, stopping before a heavy door with a keypad. He punches in a code—I memorize the sequence automatically—and pushes it open to reveal a climate-controlled room humming with technology. “What exactly are you upgrading?”

Fang launches into a technical explanation about bandwidth optimization and backup protocols, his delivery so convincing that César’s eyes begin to glaze over.

I move slightly away, pretending to examine a network panel while actually scanning for surveillance cameras.

Two in the server room itself, one in the corridor outside.

If they ’ re being monitored by anyone offsite, then we ’ re going to have to move fast.

“I need coffee,” César finally says, interrupting Fang’s monologue. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Completely,” Fang assures him. “We’ll be at least an hour. The system needs to recompile after the update.”

César hesitates, clearly torn between his responsibility to monitor us and his desire to escape the technical jargon. “Don’t touch anything outside the approved workstation,” he warns before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, Fang turns to me. “We have to move fast. The patient database won’t be accessible from here. We need an administrative terminal.”

“Administrative offices would be on a higher floor,” I say, recalling the building plans we studied. “Executive level, sixth floor.”

Fang nods, already moving to the door. “If anyone stops us—”

“We’re looking for a better network connection point,” I finish. “Lead terminal was showing latency issues.”

We slip into the corridor and find the closest stairwell up.

Since the office is closed for the night, the floor is darker.

Only security lights illuminate the hallway, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

We move silently, checking doors until we find one unlocked—a corner office with the name “Dr. Alejandro Vega, Director” etched on a brass plate.

Inside, Fang heads straight for the computer while I take position by the door, listening for approaching footsteps. The office screams of wealth and privilege—leather furniture, original artwork, a view of the city lights that would cost millions anywhere else.

“Password protected,” Fang mutters, fingers already dancing across the keyboard. “Give me three minutes.”

“ You might only get one.”

He grunts in acknowledgement.

I keep my eyes on the frosted glass panel beside the door, alert for shadows moving in the hallway.

“I’m in,” Fang says. “Accessing patient transfer records now.”

“Hurry.”

Fang doesn’t look up, his focus absolute as he navigates through the system. “Need thirty more seconds.”

An eternity later, he types a final command, yanks a flash drive from the computer, and follows me to the door.

I peek out to make sure it’s clear. As we walk toward the stairwell, the sound of a door slamming in the stairwell freezes us both.

Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs, heading toward our floor. Security.

“Someone’s coming.” I scan the hallway desperately, spotting a supply closet across from the office.

“In here!” Grabbing Fang’s wrist, I yank him toward it, twisting the handle and shoving us both inside just as a security guard pulls open the stairwell door.

I shut the closet door as quietly as possible.

The closet is tiny, crammed with shelves of medical supplies that leave barely enough room for two people.

Fang’s body presses against mine in the darkness, his breath warm against my neck.

I can feel his heart hammering—or maybe it’s mine.

Our chests rise and fall in silent tandem as footsteps pause outside our hiding place.

The guard’s radio crackles, voices speaking rapid Spanish. He responds, then continues past the closet, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Neither of us moves immediately. Fang’s arms bracket me against the shelves, his body a solid wall of warmth in the cool darkness.

I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between us—his chest against mine, his thigh pressed between my legs, his breath stirring the hair near my temple.

The closeness ignites something dangerous in my blood, something I can’t afford to acknowledge.

“Think he’s gone?” Fang whispers, his voice low and rough beside my ear.

I suppress a shiver. “Give it another minute.”

We stand frozen in our intimate tableau, time stretching like heated glass.

I try to focus on the danger, on Rory, on anything but the way the feel of Fang’s muscles makes my skin prickle with awareness.

His fingers brush mine in the darkness—accidentally, perhaps—and we both inhale sharply at the contact.

When I finally ease the door open, the hallway is empty. We move swiftly to the stairwell, descending to the fifth floor where César might still expect to find us in the server room. Back in the corridor, we adjust our clothing and expressions, resuming our professional facades.

“Did you get it?” I ask as we approach the server room.

Fang pats his pocket where the flash drive rests. “Everything they have on patient transfers in the last week. We’ll need to decrypt it back at the hotel.”

César returns just as we’re finishing our pretend maintenance, a coffee cup in his hand, suspicion in his eyes. “Any problems?”

“Minor network fluctuations,” Fang says smoothly, packing up his equipment. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. The system should run more efficiently now.”

He watches us, following us downstairs and watches us leave. I don’t allow myself to breathe normally until we’re three blocks away, hidden in the shadow of a closed market stall.

“We need to get back to the hotel,” Fang says, his voice tight with urgency. “If they realize someone accessed the director’s computer—”

“They won’t,” I finish. “Not immediately. Probably not until tomorrow. But yes, let’s move.”

We take a circuitous route back to our hotel, changing direction multiple times to ensure we’re not followed. In our room, Fang immediately connects the flash drive to his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys as he breaks through the encryption.

I pace the small space, adrenaline still coursing through my system—from the mission, from the near-discovery, from those moments in the dark closet with Fang’s body pressed against mine. I push the memory aside, focusing on what matters—finding Rory.

“I’ve got something,” Fang says suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “Your brother was moved to a private clinic in Puerto Escondido. It ’ s on the west coast, west of Oaxaca. It ’ s about an hour and fifteen minute flight or a ten hour drive.”

“ When ’ s the next flight?”

“ Shit! We just missed one. Next one ’ s… tomorrow.”

“ Shit.”

“ We could drive but…”

“ We ’ d get there at about the same time. And we ’ d be tired,” I add.

“ Better to stay here tonight and rest.”

“ Does it say anything about his condition?” I lean over his shoulder to see the screen. There it is—Rory’s patient ID number, transfer details, even his current status: “Stable, under observation.”

Relief crashes through me like a wave, so powerful it weakens my knees. Without thinking, I throw my arms around Fang’s shoulders, hugging him tightly.

“He’s alive,” I whisper, voice breaking. “They’re keeping him alive.”

Fang stiffens in surprise, then he turns and his arms come around me, returning the embrace. We stay like that for a heartbeat too long, the contact shifting from gratitude to something else—something that makes me pull back abruptly, my cheeks warm.

“Puerto Escondido.” I clear my throat and step away. “You said that’s on the coast, right?”

Fang nods, his eyes lingering on my face before returning to the screen. “Remote enough to be secure, but accessible by good roads and an airport.”

“Why move him there?” I wonder aloud.

“According to these notes, the facility specializes in long-term care for chronic conditions,” Fang says, scrolling through the file. “It’s smaller than this clinic, more private. Easier to secure. We’ll need transportation, supplies, and a better plan than tonight’s,” Fang says.

“ Can you call Scalpel again?”

“ I ’ ll see what I can do.” He glances at me, then away. “You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

The mention of sleep brings an uncomfortable awareness of the single bed, of how we’ll need to share it again, this time with the memory of his muscular body pressed against mine in that supply room.

“ What about you?” I ask, but it comes out all breathy and soft. Not what I intended at all.

“ I ’ ll join you as soon as I have a plan for tomorrow.”

“ Okay.”

Later, I ’ m woken when the bed shifts under his weight. The mattress groans, and I try not to groan with it. He can ’ t help but press against me. There ’ s nowhere else to go.

“ Did I wake you?” he asks softly.

“ Yeah, but it ’ s okay.”

“ I still value my balls, so there ’ s nothing to worry about,” he murmurs against my ear.

A whole body shiver shimmies through me. I ’ m sure he felt every inch of me quiver. Pressing my lips together, I manage to keep myself from saying anything stupid.

When his breath eventually slows and becomes a rhythmic caress across my neck, I relax slightly.

I ’ m still wet and thick with desire, but what my body wants and what I want aren ’ t the same thing.

Getting into another relationship with a member of a motorcycle gang, no matter how altruistic they might appear, isn ’ t a good idea.

Men like Fang live for danger. I ’ ve spent enough time around dangerous men to last a lifetime.

It ’ s not something I want to keep doing.

Ultimately, that ’ s the only reason I ’ m keeping my hands to myself.

Silently grumbling, I try to put at least a breath of space between us, but he ’ s still right there. Hot, dirty, and… Ugh!

“ You keep wiggling against my dick and we ’ re going to have a problem,” he growls.

“ Are we?” I blurt, turning to face him.

“ Mina,” he whispers, reaching a finger up to trace my cheek. “ You should roll over and go to sleep before you say anything else.”

“ What if I don ’ t want to say another word?” My gaze drops to his lips—plump and so damn kissable. I can ’ t think. I can ’ t breathe. All I can do is wait to see what he ’ ll do.

As he slides his fingers into my hair and pulls my mouth toward his, my soft whimper fills the room.

This is so stupid and crazy, but I can ’ t bring myself to stop him.

Not when he brushes the first feathery kiss across my lips.

Not when he deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue across mine, begging for more.

Not even when he consumes my mouth with his.

I ’ m lost.

And stopping him is the last thing on my mind.