Page 28 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

Three sharp knocks on the motel door send my heart racing. I glance at Fang, who nods once, his hand sliding to the gun at his waist before approaching the door. He checks the peephole, then steps back, shoulders relaxing a fraction.

This is it.

The club has arrived.

The door swings open, and Vapor strides in first, his presence immediately filling our shabby motel room like a storm front rolling in. Behind him, leather cuts creak and boots thud against worn carpet as the rest of the brothers file in, each face set with grim determination.

I straighten my spine, conscious of how I must look to them—the cartel hacker they barely know, asking them to risk their lives on foreign soil.

Vapor’s piercing blue eyes find mine immediately, his gaze calculating and intense.

He gives me a slight nod, not quite approval, but acknowledgment at least.

Ice enters next, his platinum hair catching the cheap motel lighting, making him look even more otherworldly than usual.

He carries a small projector under one arm, which he hands to Fang without a word.

Behind him comes Bones, massive and imposing, his dark skin gleaming with sweat from the tropical heat.

Diablo follows, his eyes scanning every corner of the room with professional suspicion.

Tank is the last through the door, younger than the others but no less dangerous, his linebacker build making the already small room feel claustrophobic.

I peek past them and see a dozen more men hanging out near a couple of vans in the parking lot. They obviously couldn’t rent bikes, because that would have been a huge red flag for the cartel. Riding down would have taken too long.

“Lock it,” Vapor orders, cutting off my view.

Tank secures the door behind them, standing guard beside it like a sentinel.

The air in the room changes, charged with purpose and testosterone and the distinct smell of leather and gun oil. These men have brought war with them, and I’m suddenly, intensely grateful they’re on my side.

“Let’s get started,” Vapor says, his voice slicing through the tension. He doesn’t raise it, doesn’t need to. When he speaks, everyone listens. “Fang, show us what we’re dealing with.”

Fang connects his laptop to the projector Ice brought, the blue light washing over his focused face as he types. A moment later, the hospital’s blueprints blooms across the dingy motel wall.

“This is the clinic,” Fang explains, standing beside the projection.

“Three floors, private security, owned through a shell company that ties back to the cartel. Main entrance here—” his finger traces the front of the building “—with two secondary exits here and here. Expect security checkpoints at every entrance, as well as armed guards inside and out.”

I watch the brothers lean forward, studying the layout intensely. There’s nothing casual about their focus. These men are violent professionals.

“Rory’s most likely here,” I add, stepping forward to point at the second floor. “Based on the communications we intercepted a few hours ago, they’ve got him in the long-term care wing, probably a private room near the nurses’ station for maximum supervision.”

Bones crosses his massive arms over his chest. “Guards inside the room?”

“My guess is there’s at least one at all times,” Fang answers. “Rotating shifts, heavily armed.”

Ice studies the blueprints, his silver-blue eyes narrowing. “Security cameras?”

“Everywhere,” I say. “But the system runs on an isolated network. I can hack in once we’re inside and loop the feed in critical areas.”

“If we go in hot, how many men are we talking?” Diablo asks, his gravelly voice matching his menacing appearance.

Fang switches to another image—the clinic’s security rotation schedule I helped him steal from their servers. “Minimum of twelve armed guards on night shift. Plus whoever they’ve added specifically for Rory.”

“So fifteen, maybe twenty,” Vapor concludes, his face revealing nothing. “I’ve faced worse.”

“I’ve got something that might help make transporting Rory easier,” Ice interjects. “Borrowed a Mexican ambulance on the way from the airport. It’s stashed in a vacant garage three blocks from here. Scalpel’s watching it.”

“He’s here?” I gasp.

“Yeah,” Vapor says, skewering Fang with a look. “We’ll chat about that later. But he’s here to help.”

A ripple of approval moves through the room.

An ambulance means legitimate access, reduced suspicion, and faster extraction.

Having an actual doctor on board is ideal.

This is great news overall, but I don’t miss Vapor’s anger.

He must have found out about Scalpel trying to help us in NOLA.

Fang’s going to have to explain that later.

“What about weapons?” Tank asks from his position by the door.

Vapor nods to Diablo, who unzips a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed before. “Nothing that can’t be concealed. Handguns with suppressors, combat knives, two compact submachine guns. We’re not looking for a war; we’re looking for a surgical extraction.”

“How’d you get all that through airport security?” I ask.

“Flew private and paid off a few people along the way,” Vapor says.

“What if they tip off the cartel anyway?” Fang asks.

“They know we’re coming. That’s a given at this point. If someone rats us out, so be it. Either way, we’re getting her brother out of there,” Bones says.

“Communications?” Tank asks.

“Encrypted earpieces,” Fang replies, opening the small case Bones carried in. “Short-range, but secure. No chance of the cartel intercepting our chatter.”

Vapor steps closer to the projected blueprints, studying them with the focus of a general planning a critical campaign.

“Here’s how we play it,” he says, and the room falls completely silent.

“Ice and Bones take point in the ambulance—paramedics responding to a call. Tank and Diablo secure the perimeter, take out external cameras, create a diversion if needed.”

This sounds very familiar. Fang and I tried the exact same thing with Scalpel in New Orleans. It would have worked if Rory had been there. I just hope he’s still in this hospital. Chasing him around the world isn’t going to work. This has to end now.

Vapor turns to me. “You and Fang go in with the first team. You’ll need to access their system, identify exactly where your brother is, and disable security measures. Fang, you stay with her, keep her covered.”

Fang nods, his expression solemn. “And you?”

“I’ll be your extraction insurance,” Vapor says with dangerous calm. “If things go sideways, I’ll make sure we all have a way out.”

For the next hour, we refine the plan, dissecting each step with meticulous precision.

Bones and Ice ask questions about Rory’s medical condition, including how to transport him safely.

Scalpel already knows the details, but they want to have the knowledge too in case something happens to the doctor.

Ice and Fang discuss the clinic’s electronic security, mapping out how to bypass it.

Diablo and Tank calculate timing for each phase of the operation, how long until cartel reinforcements might arrive if alerted.

Throughout it all, I watch these men work with a cohesion that can only come from absolute trust. They finish each other’s sentences, anticipate questions before they’re asked, respectfully challenge assumptions when necessary.

I realize with startling clarity that this is what Fang has found in the club—not just brotherhood, but purpose.

A place where his particular skills are valued, where his obsessive attention to detail saves lives rather than marking him as an outsider.

“We move at ten,” Vapor finally announces, checking his watch. “That gives us three hours to prep. Any questions?” His eyes sweep the room, landing on each brother in turn before settling on me.

I shake my head, throat suddenly tight with emotion. These men are risking everything for my brother—a stranger to them—based solely on Fang’s word and perhaps some kind of club code I don’t fully understand.

“Then we’re set,” Vapor says with finality. “Meet at the garage at 2200 hours. Fully equipped, fully committed.” He looks directly at me. “We’re bringing your brother home tonight, Mina. That’s a promise.”

The club brothers file out with determined nods, boots heavy on the thin carpet. Vapor is last, pausing at the door to exchange a meaningful look with Fang.

“Thanks, Pres.,” Fang says before Vapor leaves.

The motel room feels hollow after the bikers leave, like a theater after the final curtain, too quiet, too empty, yet somehow still vibrating with the energy of what just happened.

I listen to their boots retreating down the walkway.

A few seconds later, the vans’ engines start up but then fade as they pull out of the parking lot.

We decided not to stay together in case the cartel somehow located us.

It would be better not to draw too much attention to the motel.

Besides, after the long flight, the other guys could use some rest.

The blueprints still glow on the wall, a ghostly reminder of what we’re about to attempt.

Fang moves to the bed, unzipping a small black case to reveal several handguns nestled in foam cutouts.

His movements are precise, mechanical—checking chambers, testing actions, counting ammunition.

I pace the narrow strip between the bed and bathroom door, my nerves too raw to allow stillness.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that carpet,” Fang says without looking up, his voice gentle despite the teasing words.