Page 24 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The humid air of Puerto Escondido hits me like a physical wall as we exit the airport, sweat instantly beading on my skin.

I scan the parking lot, cataloging potential threats while adjusting the thin cotton shirt clinging to my back.

Every face is a potential cartel soldier, every vehicle a possible trap.

My brother is less than ten miles from where I stand, but the distance feels infinite.

“Car rental’s this way,” Fang says, his hand briefly touching the small of my back before dropping away.

The casual contact sends electricity through my spine, an unwelcome reminder of last night.

We’re back to being colleagues now—professionals with a mission—not whatever we became in that shabby motel room.

I can ’ t think about it without remembering the way he made me come. Again and again.

I clench my fists and fight the rising heat in my belly. One night of passion is all we ’ ll ever have. Once our deal is over, I must walk away. Fang isn ’ t living the kind of life I want to live. We ’ re incompatible because of that fact. As much as I wish that wasn ’ t the truth, it is.

The rental agency is little more than a concrete shack with a faded sign and a bored-looking attendant scrolling through his phone.

Inside, a desk fan pushes hot air around the room.

I stand near the window so I can keep tabs on anyone approaching.

We used the same passports as before, but that doesn ’ t guarantee our safety.

Fang gives the attendant our reservation number in Spanish.

The attendant barely looks up as he processes a credit card Fang produces from a hidden pocket.

Earlier, he told me the plan. The card isn ’ t connected to the club and it ’ s impossible to trace.

It’s one of dozens he keeps for emergencies, each tied to an identity as thoroughly constructed as the one on his fake passport.

“Keys are in it,” the attendant says in heavily accented English, gesturing toward a silver compact car that’s seen better days. “Bring back with full tank.”

The car smells of artificial pine and cigarettes, the upholstery worn smooth by countless tourists. Fang takes the driver ’ s seat. I slide into the passenger seat, unfolding a map I purchased from an airport kiosk.

“Take the coastal highway north,” I instruct, tracing the route with my finger. “Then east on Route 200. The clinic is isolated, about two kilometers from the main road.”

Fang navigates through narrow streets lined with pastel-colored buildings, their vibrancy at odds with our grim purpose.

Puerto Escondido unfolds around us—a tourist paradise of beaches and palm trees, surf shops and open-air restaurants.

Couples walk hand in hand, concerned only with which beach to visit or where to find the best margarita.

I envy their oblivion, their freedom from knowing what lurks beneath paradise’s surface.

“You’re quiet,” Fang observes as we merge onto the coastal highway. The ocean stretches to our left, impossibly blue against the sandy beaches.

“Just focusing,” I reply, but the truth is more complicated. Last night replays in fragments—his hands on my skin, my name on his lips, the brief escape into something that felt like freedom. Now we’re back in the real world, where such indulgences get people killed.

The road curves along the coastline, palm trees swaying in the breeze, their fronds casting dappled shadows across the windshield.

Tourists in rented Jeeps pass us, surfboards strapped to their roofs.

A roadside stand selling fresh coconuts and mangoes creates a momentary traffic slowdown.

It’s beautiful in a way that makes the ugliness of our mission more stark—this paradise built atop cartel violence, funded by addiction and maintained through bloodshed and fear.

“Clinic ’ s around the next bend,” I say, squinting at the map. “We’ll need to—”

Fang’s eyes flash to the rearview mirror. “We’ve got company.”

I twist in my seat to see a black SUV with tinted windows gaining rapidly. The vehicle’s aggressive approach sends an immediate warning signal through my system—this isn’t a tourist late for a surfing lesson.

“How did they find us so quickly?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question. The cartel has eyes everywhere, especially in coastal towns where shipments come in.

“Hold on,” Fang says, his voice dropping into that controlled calm that means we’re in serious trouble.

He accelerates, putting distance between us and the SUV, but the more powerful vehicle closes the gap within seconds. I clutch the map in suddenly damp hands, the paper crinkling as my fingers tighten.

“Get down!” Fang shouts just as the SUV rams us from behind.

The impact throws me forward against my seatbelt, the map flying from my grasp. Our rental lurches sickeningly, tires squealing as Fang fights to maintain control. The SUV hits us again, harder this time, metal screaming against metal.

A window rolls down in the vehicle behind us. I catch a glimpse of a tattooed arm extending a semi-automatic weapon.

“DOWN!” Fang roars, one hand pushing my head below the dashboard as gunfire erupts.

The back window explodes inward, a rain of safety glass pelting the backseat. Bullets thud into the trunk, the sound impossibly loud in the confined space. I curl into myself, making my body as small a target as possible.

Fang drives like he was born for this—one hand on the wheel, the other periodically pushing me lower whenever he anticipates another volley. He weaves through traffic, using other vehicles as shields. The engine of our rental protests as he pushes it beyond its modest capabilities.

“Fuck,” he hisses as more bullets strike the car, punching more holes through the rear passenger door. “We can’t outrun them in this piece of shit.”

I risk a glance up to see his face locked in fierce concentration, eyes constantly shifting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. A bead of sweat traces the line of his jaw, but his hands remain steady on the wheel, his reactions precisely calibrated to keep us alive.

The SUV gains on us again, now close enough that I can see the driver’s sunglasses through the windshield. Fang makes a split-second decision, cranking the wheel hard to the right. Our car skids around a corner, tires screaming in protest, entering a crowded market street not meant for vehicles.

Pedestrians scatter, cursing in Spanish as we thread between food stalls and souvenir shops. The rental car’s driver’s side mirror tears off against a wooden cart, sending mangoes tumbling across our hood. Behind us, the SUV attempts to follow but struggles with the narrow passage.

Fang spots an alleyway barely wider than our car and makes another hard turn. The passenger side scrapes along the stucco wall, paint and metal peeling away with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. The mirror outside my window snaps off.

“Lost them,” Fang says as we emerge onto a quiet residential street, the SUV nowhere in sight. He immediately turns down another side street, then another.

I slowly uncurl from my protective position, glass fragments tinkling from my clothing. My hands shake as I brush them away, adrenaline making every movement jerky and uncoordinated.

“We can’t go to the hospital,” Fang says, voicing the obvious conclusion. “They’re waiting for us.”

I nod, despair threatening to overwhelm me. So close to Rory, yet still impossibly far. “They knew we were coming. They’ve been tracking us since Mexico City.”

“We need somewhere to regroup,” Fang says, his eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror, scanning for threats. “Somewhere we can figure out our next move.”

I look out at the unfamiliar streets, the beautiful tropical setting now feeling like one of Dante ’ s levels of Hell.

Fang reaches across the console and briefly squeezes my hand—a gesture so unexpected it momentarily short-circuits my fear. “We’re not done,” he says, eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. “Not even close.”

I turn my hand to grip his, the contact grounding me despite the chaos. He’s right. This isn’t over. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll find a way to Rory.

We head towards Playa Zicatela, a town just south of Puerto Escondido, and stop at a motel.

Playa Vista Motel has seen better days—probably sometime during the Carter administration.

It ’ s painted a garish pink, and the vacancy sign half-hangs from its post. It’s perfect.

The kind of place that accepts cash without questions, where the front desk clerk barely glances at our fake IDs because he ’ s too engrossed in looking at social media influencers on his phone.

“Room twelve,” the clerk mutters, sliding an old key across the counter. “Water pressure’s shit before nine AM.”

Water pressure is the least of our concerns.

I scan the empty parking lot as Fang completes the transaction. We abandoned the bullet-riddled rental car a few miles back, replacing it with an ancient pickup truck Fang “borrowed.”

Room twelve sits at the far end of the single-story structure, away from the office and the only other occupied room.

The room that greets us is a study in neglect—wallpaper curling at the seams, a tile floor chipped in so many places I doubt I ’ ll remove my shoes.

The single queen bed caves in on itself, as if it ’ s seen too much, too many bodies tangled in sordid affairs.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, dropping my backpack on a chair that wobbles dangerously.

Fang doesn’t respond, already unloading his equipment onto the rickety desk beneath a window with yellowed blinds. His hands move with certainty, like this is a drill he’s performed a thousand times.