Page 31 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The stairwell door swings open just as we reach it.

A security guard appears, his hand already reaching for his sidearm when he spots us.

Mina reacts with cobra-like speed, her body a blur of precise movement.

One hand strikes his wrist, deflecting the weapon while her other delivers a vicious chop to his throat.

The guard gags, stumbling forward. Mina follows through with a knee to his solar plexus, then an elbow to the back of his head as he doubles over.

He collapses without a sound, unconscious before he hits the floor.

“Cartel trained you well,” I observe as we drag his body behind a nearby supply cart.

“For all the wrong things,” she replies, retrieving the guard’s access card from his belt. “But useful now.”

We take the stairs two at a time, the sounds of chaos growing more distant as we ascend. My earpiece crackles with sporadic updates from the team at the front—Vapor directing suppressing fire, Tank calling out enemy positions. They’re buying us time with more bullets and chaos.

The second-floor corridor stretches before us, doors lining both sides. Most rooms are dark or empty. The nurse’s station sits abandoned, monitors still glowing with patient vitals, chairs pushed back in haste. They must have fled when the first shots rang out.

I check one of the rooms—empty bed, machines powered down. The second contains an elderly man who stares at us with frightened eyes. I close the door quickly. Third room, a woman sleeping despite the alarms, medication keeping her oblivious to the danger.

Not Rory.

“We need to narrow this down,” Mina hisses, frustration edging her voice as we check a fourth empty room. “We can’t search every room before security regroups.”

She’s right. I scan the corridor and spot a computer terminal at the nurse’s station, still logged in and active. “Cover me,” I tell her, sliding into the chair while she takes position at the junction of corridors, weapon ready.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through the hospital’s patient management system.

It’s basic stuff—no sophisticated security, just a standard database of patient information and room assignments.

I pull up the current patient roster for the north wing, scanning for anything that might indicate Rory—recent transfers or unusual treatment protocols.

“Anything?” Mina asks, eyes never leaving the corridor.

“Working on it,” I mutter, diving deeper into the system. “They wouldn’t list him under his real name, and he’ll have extra guards.”

I switch tactics, searching for rooms with additional security protocols.

A pattern emerges—Room 2C-14 has been flagged for restricted access, requires special clearance, and houses a male patient on regular dialysis.

The patient name listed is “Miguel Vargas,” but the admission date matches when Rory was transferred here.

“Got him,” I announce, already rising from the chair. “Room 2C-14, end of the hall.”

My hand goes to my earpiece. “Scalpel, we’ve located the target. Room 2C-14, second floor, north wing. Meet us there.”

“Copy,” comes the terse reply. “Three minutes out. Encountering resistance.”

As if to emphasize his point, a fresh volley of gunfire erupts from the floor below, followed by Vapor’s voice cutting through the chaos: “Six minutes left. Clock’s ticking.”

Mina and I move quickly down the corridor, checking room numbers as we pass.

2C-8, 2C-10, 2C-12… The hallway curves slightly, and as we round the bend, I spot them—two cartel soldiers stationed outside Room 2C-14, both armed with submachine guns, their postures alert due to the chaos elsewhere in the building.

They see us at the same moment, bringing their weapons up with deadly efficiency. I shove Mina toward the minimal cover of a linen cart as bullets tear into the wall behind us, spitting plaster and tile into the air.

Returning fire from my crouched position, I manage to hit one guard in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Mina rolls from behind the cart, her weapon barking twice. The wounded guard drops, but the second adjusts his aim toward her new position.

Time slows to a crawl as I process the angles, the distances, the milliseconds we have before he squeezes the trigger.

I launch myself into a sliding tackle that would make a professional soccer player proud, colliding with the guard’s legs as Mina’s bullet grazes his arm instead of finding center mass.

His weapon discharges into the ceiling as he falls, plaster dust raining down on us.

I’m on him before he can recover, driving my knee into his stomach while pinning his gun arm to the floor. He’s strong—cartel enforcers usually are—and bucks beneath me, nearly throwing me off. I slam the butt of my pistol into his temple once, twice. He goes limp.

“Clear,” I pant, rising to my feet as Mina secures the other guard’s weapon.

We approach Room 2C-14, both of us breathing hard, adrenaline making my hands tremble slightly as I reach for the door. Mina’s eyes meet mine, a universe of emotion compressed into that single glance—fear, hope, determination. I nod once, and she pushes the door open.

The room is dimly lit. Various types of medical equipment cast eerie shadows on the walls.

A dialysis machine hums steadily beside the bed, tubes snaking from its mechanical kidney to the thin figure lying motionless beneath sterile white sheets.

For a terrible moment, I think we’re too late—the figure is so still, so pale.

Then he turns his head, eyes widening as they fix on Mina. His face is gaunt, cheeks hollowed by illness, skin nearly translucent against the pillowcase. But his eyes—his eyes are alive, alert, and so similar to Mina’s that the family resemblance is unmistakable despite his weakened state.

“Mina?” Rory whispers, his voice barely audible over the machinery. Confusion, disbelief, and the faintest flicker of hope cross his features in rapid succession. “What’s happening?”

Mina steps forward, her weapon lowering, her facade of strength crumbling as she looks at her brother for the first time in months. Her voice, when she speaks, contains all the emotion she’s been holding back since this mission began. “We’re taking you home, Rory.”

I position myself in the doorway, dividing my attention between the corridor and the reunion happening behind me.

Mina rushes to her brother’s side, her movements suddenly gentle as she reaches for his hand.

The juxtaposition is jarring—the same hands that efficiently incapacitated a guard moments ago now tremble as they touch Rory’s pale fingers.

I keep my weapon ready, ears straining for approaching footsteps above the persistent wail of alarms. We found him, but we’re still deep in enemy territory with a fragile package to extract and a ticking clock counting down our chance of survival.

“Is this real?” Rory asks. “Are you really here?”

“I’m here,” she confirms, leaning down to carefully hug him. Her voice catches as she adds, “I’m so sorry it took so long.”

Rory’s thin arms wrap around her shoulders, his face burying against her neck in a gesture so vulnerable it makes my chest ache.

“They said you weren’t coming,” Rory whispers. “That you’d abandoned me.”

“Never,” she says fiercely, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “I will always come for you, Rory. Always.”

I check my watch—seven minutes have elapsed since we entered the building. The distant sound of gunfire has intensified, suggesting Vapor’s team is facing significant resistance.

“Mina,” I say softly, hating to interrupt but aware of our narrowing window. “We need to move.”

She nods, instantly shifting back into operational mode, though her hand remains on Rory’s arm. “We’re getting you out of here,” she explains. “Right now. These people are helping us.”

Confusion flickers across Rory’s gaunt face. “But my treatment—the machines—”

Movement in the hall catches my attention. I spin, weapon raised, only to lower it immediately as Scalpel jogs toward me. Blood spatters his tactical vest, though he appears uninjured. His clinical gaze sweeps over Rory, assessing his condition with professional detachment.

“Patient status?” he asks, already moving to examine the dialysis equipment.

“Conscious, oriented, but weakened,” I report. “Can we move him?”

Scalpel nods, his movements precise as he begins disconnecting tubes and wires in a specific sequence. “Hemodialysis in progress but nearly complete. He’s stable enough for transport if we’re careful.” He glances at Rory. “I’m a doctor. I’ll make sure you’re okay during the move.”

“A doctor with a gun,” Rory observes weakly, eyeing the weapon holstered at Scalpel’s side.

“Welcome to Mexico,” Scalpel replies dryly, continuing his work. “I need two minutes to disconnect him properly. Rushing risks clotting or hemorrhage.”

I nod, checking the corridor again before pressing my earpiece. “Vapor, status?”

Static crackles, then his voice comes through, punctuated by gunfire. “Pinned down in the main lobby. Cartel brought reinforcements earlier than expected. Heavy resistance. Get the kid out through the service exit. We’ll hold them here.”

I exchange glances with Mina, both of us understanding what Vapor isn’t saying—that the diversion has become a full-scale battle, that our brothers are fighting for their lives to give us this chance. Her jaw tightens with resolve.

“Almost done,” Scalpel announces. “He’ll need dialysis again within twenty-four hours, but he’s stable for now.”

He grabs the wheelchair parked in the corner of the room and rolls it over. Together, we carefully transfer Rory from the bed. He’s lighter than he should be, his body frail beneath the hospital gown. Mina wraps a blanket around his shoulders, then steps behind the wheelchair.

“Service corridors,” I instruct, checking the hallway before gesturing them forward. “Main routes are compromised.”