Page 30 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The van slides through the night like a shark through dark water, headlights off, as we approach the hospital.

Through the windshield, I can make out the modern three-story building rising against the inky sky, its windows glowing with clinical light.

My fingers tap a nervous rhythm against my thigh as I mentally review the blueprints for the hundredth time.

I can see a thousand ways this could go wrong, but we ’ ve prepared as much as we could.

From now on, all we can do is execute the plan.

A few minutes ago, Vapor drove us past the hospital.

Four armed guards were patrolling the main entrance, their silhouettes sharp against the illuminated glass doors.

More cartel soldiers circled the perimeter, automatic weapons slung across their chests.

We expected a lot of firepower, but the cartel ’ s not messing around.

I’ve faced bad odds before but tonight feels different.

There ’ s more than just my life at stake.

My club brothers and Mina are counting on me to make all the right moves once we ’ re inside.

Rory, a completely innocent pawn in this war, doesn ’ t even know what ’ s coming.

His life ’ s at risk too. I can ’ t fuck this up.

“Two minutes,” Vapor’s voice comes through my earpiece, calm and measured despite what we’re about to do. “Final check, everyone.”

Around me, the van transforms into a war room.

Diablo checks the action on his Glock, the metallic click unnervingly loud in the confined space.

Beside him, Tank adjusts his tactical vest, massive hands moving with surprising delicacy as he secures extra magazines.

Scalpel, Ice and Bones follow us in the ambulance, a legitimate vehicle for an illegitimate extraction.

Mina sits opposite me, her face half-hidden in shadow.

Her fingers move methodically over her weapon, checking the magazine, the action, the safety.

The motions are practiced, efficient—cartel training showing through.

She catches me watching and holds my gaze, her eyes reflecting the dim light from the dashboard.

Neither of us speaks; there’s nothing left to say that matters more than what we’re about to do.

The van slows as we reach our staging position, half a block from the hospital’s service entrance. Through the tinted windows, I watch another guard make his rounds through the parking lot, flashlight beam sweeping across the pavement.

“Comms check,” Vapor orders. “Sound off.”

“Diablo, clear.”

“Tank, clear.”

“Fang, clear.”

“Mina, clear,” she says, her voice steady despite everything.

A chorus of other MC men sound off from the second van. Scalpel, Ice, and Bones confirm they’re good from inside the ambulance, which is trailing behind the other vehicles. We stop in the staging location.

Vapor nods, satisfied. “Listen up. One last time.” He turns in his seat to face us, his blue eyes intense under the slicked-back raven hair.

“Main team creates a diversion at the front entrance—big, loud, unmistakable. Tank, Diablo, and I lead that charge. Ice and Bones secure our exit path and the ambulance. Fang, Mina, you slip in through the service entrance during the chaos and find Rory. Radio Scalpel and let him know which room he ’ s in. ”

My throat tightens as I realize what he’s not saying—that he’s putting himself at the point of highest danger, drawing fire so Mina and I have a cleaner shot at Rory.

It’s what a club president does, what I’ve seen Vapor do countless times, but it still hits me in the chest. Everyone is putting their life on the line for this. It has to work.

“Hospital security will lock down immediately,” Vapor continues, “but they’ll focus on the main threat first. That gives you”—he looks directly at Mina and me—”a narrow window. Ten minutes, max. Any longer, and reinforcements arrive. Any longer, and we’re all dead.”

Mina’s jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping beneath her skin. I reach across the space between us and take her hand. Her fingers are cold despite the warm night, but they grip mine with startling strength.

“We’ll get him,” I tell her quietly as Vapor continues outlining tactical positions to the others. “In and out.”

“I know,” she whispers, but her eyes betray her fear—not for herself, but for Rory, for me, and for everyone risking their lives tonight. She squeezes my hand once more before releasing it. Clutching her weapon, she sits on the edge of her seat.

“We ’ re dealing with three main obstacles,” I say, focusing her attention on the practical. “Service entrance guard, potential roaming security, and whoever’s directly guarding Rory. We handle them quietly if possible, loudly if necessary.”

She nods, her expression hardening into the focused mask I’ve come to recognize—Mina the survivor, the fighter. She ’ s pushing aside her role as Rory ’ s sister until the job ’ s done. It’s the same compartmentalization I use when a mission requires absolute focus.

Vapor finishes his briefing and checks his watch. “Questions?”

Silence fills the van. There are always last minute questions before a mission this dangerous—uncertainties, variables, potential failure points—but asking them now wouldn’t change anything. We’ve planned as much as we can. The rest is execution and luck.

“Then we move on my mark.” Vapor pulls on a black tactical glove, then reaches back to clasp Tank ’ s massive forearm in the club’s traditional gesture of brotherhood.

The gesture passes around the van before it gets to me.

When I reach for Mina, she hesitates only briefly before completing the circle, her small hand gripping Vapor’s forearm.

“For family,” Vapor says. “Both blood and chosen.”

“For family,” we echo, and I watch Mina’s throat work as she repeats the words.

In the sudden silence, I can hear my own heartbeat, rapid but controlled.

Adrenaline sharpens my senses—I can smell gun oil and leather, see every detail of Mina’s face as she takes a deep, steadying breath.

The weight of my weapon presses against my side.

I have extra clips in my pockets. Hopefully it ’ s enough firepower to blast a path to Rory.

“Go time,” Vapor says quietly into his comm.

We move like shadows, slipping from the van in practiced formation. In ten minutes, Scalpel, Ice, and Bones will meet us at the loading dock. If all goes well, we ’ ll have a new patient for Scalpel.

Vapor, Tank, and Diablo break toward the main entrance, moving with casual confidence, like men who belong exactly where they are. They ’ ve got their guns hidden, so the guards don ’ t immediately react.

Mina and I run toward the service entrance. A single guard stands beside the door, smoking a cigarette, his rifle held loosely in one hand. Above us, stars glitter in the velvet sky, indifferent to what’s about to happen.

Vapor’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Get in, get the kid, get out.” A pause, then: “Stay alive, brother.”

Before I can respond, the night erupts. Gunfire cracks from the direction of the main entrance, followed immediately by shouts and the wail of alarms. Lights flare to life around the hospital perimeter, emergency protocols engaging as Vapor’s team creates exactly the kind of chaos we need.

The guard at the service entrance straightens, dropping his cigarette and bringing his rifle up as he speaks rapidly into a radio. His attention is fully focused on the commotion at the front of the building. Mina’s eyes meet mine. I nod once. Together, we move toward the door.

The cartel man turns just as we approach, his eyes widening in recognition or alarm—I don’t wait to find out which.

He brings his rifle up, but I’m already moving, driving my shoulder into his midsection.

The impact forces air from his lungs in a surprised whoosh.

He staggers back but manages to squeeze off a shot that cracks past my ear like a whip.

My ears ring with the proximity of the bullet as I draw my weapon and fire twice in rapid succession.

Both rounds find their mark in his chest. He crumples to the ground, eyes already vacant, radio crackling with unanswered questions.

I grab Mina’s hand and pull her through the door before anyone responds to our gunshots.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting the sterile corridor a harsh white.

The blueprint I’ve memorized unfolds in my mind like a digital overlay—service corridor connects to main east-west hallway, then up the stairwell to second floor where long-term care patients are housed.

We move quickly, our footsteps echoing on the polished linoleum despite our attempts at stealth.

“This way,” I whisper, tugging Mina toward a junction where the service corridor meets the main hallway.

The distant sounds of Vapor’s diversion filter through the building—gunfire, shouting, the persistent wail of alarms that sets my teeth on edge.

The hospital’s emergency system cycles through automated announcements in Spanish, instructing staff to follow lockdown protocols.

We pause at the corner, and I risk a quick glance down the main corridor. Empty for now, but that won’t last. The diversion is drawing most of the security to the front, but some will remain to protect high-value areas—like where they’re keeping Rory.

“Critical patients are on the second floor, north wing,” I remind Mina as we break from cover and sprint toward the stairwell. “Room numbers starting with 2C.”