Page 33 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

I squeeze past the partition separating the front cab from the patient area, my heart racing faster than the ambulance’s engine.

Rory lies on the gurney, thin and pale under the harsh interior lights, tubes and wires connecting him to a jungle of medical equipment.

His eyes track my movement, clearer than I expected but still clouded with confusion.

He’s here. He’s really here.

After days of struggling to get to him, my brother is within arm’s reach. Relief hits me like a physical wave, threatening to wash away all the strength I’ve carefully maintained.

“Mina?” His voice is a dry whisper, barely audible above the rumble of tires on asphalt and the steady beep of monitors. “Are you really taking me away from them?”

I collapse onto the small fold-down seat beside his gurney, grabbing his hand between both of mine. His skin feels too cool, too thin, like tissue paper stretched over bird bones. I can see every blue vein, every tendon. He’s lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose.

“Yes,” I manage, my throat constricting around the words. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

Scalpel works methodically on Rory’s other side, adjusting IV drips and checking readings on a portable monitor.

His movements are precise, clinical, but there’s a gentleness to them, not something I expected from a man who rides with a motorcycle club.

But he was a doctor first, and I guess he ’ ll never really lose his bedside manner.

“How is he?” I ask Scalpel, not taking my eyes off Rory’s face, afraid he might disappear if I look away for even a second.

Scalpel glances up. “Stable, for now. Kidney function is poor but manageable. He’s dehydrated, malnourished, but his vitals are stronger than I anticipated.” He checks something on one of the machines. “They were treating him well. Just enough to keep him alive.”

“Because he was bait,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue.

“Because you would have burned their world to the ground if they’d let him die,” Scalpel corrects, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “They knew what you’re capable of.”

The ambulance swerves slightly, and Rory winces as the movement jostles him. I tighten my grip on his hand, as if I could somehow absorb the pain for him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Rory. I never should have left you alone. I should have found a way to get to you sooner.”

“Hey, hey,” Rory murmurs, his free hand shakily reaching up to touch my face. His fingers brush a tear from my cheek. “You came. That’s all that matters. I knew I could count on you.”

The tears flow freely now, tracking hot paths down my cheeks.

I’ve held myself together through gunfights and car chases, through infiltrating cartel strongholds and facing down killers, but here—with my brother alive and speaking to me—I finally break.

Sobs wrack my body, my shoulders shaking with the force of them.

“I was so scared,” I confess, words spilling out between gasps for breath. “When they took you from the hospital, when I couldn’t find you… I thought—”

“I knew you’d find me,” Rory interrupts, his voice weak but steady. “Remember when I got lost at the state fair when I was five? You found me then too.”

A choked laugh escapes me. “That was different. You were just hiding in the livestock pavilion because you wanted to pet the rabbits.”

“Still counts,” he insists, the corner of his mouth lifting in that crooked smile I’ve missed so desperately. “You’ve always been my protector.”

Scalpel tactfully busies himself with equipment on the far side of the ambulance, giving us as much privacy as possible in the cramped space. The vehicle rocks as Fang takes a curve, the centrifugal force pressing me against the metal wall.

“We’re getting away from them for good,” I promise, wiping tears from my face with my sleeve. “I’m taking you somewhere safe, somewhere they can never find us again.”

Rory’s eyes search mine, looking for the truth. “What about your deal with them? They said if you didn’t work for them, they’d stop paying for my treatments.”

“Fuck their deal,” I say fiercely. “I’ve got new friends now. People who can help us. People who have helped us already.” I glance toward the front of the ambulance where Fang is driving. “I’m never going back to the cartel, Rory. Never.”

His face relaxes slightly, some of the tension easing from his features. “Good,” he whispers. “I’ve hated what they made you do. All these years, knowing you were—” He breaks off, coughing, and Scalpel immediately moves in to check his oxygen levels.

“Don’t talk too much,” Scalpel advises, adjusting something on one of the machines. “Your body’s been through a lot. Rest now.”

Rory nods weakly, but his eyes stay fixed on me. “These new friends of yours,” he says after a moment, his voice barely audible. “They seem intense.”

“They are,” I admit with a small smile. “But they’re the good kind of intense.”

“And the driver?” Rory asks, a hint of his old mischief sparking in his eyes despite his condition. “Who ’ s he?”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks, wondering what Rory has picked up on. Before I can respond, the ambulance suddenly lurches, swerving violently to the right. Scalpel braces himself against the wall while I grab Rory’s stretcher, stabilizing it instinctively.

“Hold on!” Fang shouts from the driver’s seat.

An instant later, the night erupts with the sharp crack of gunfire.

The metallic ping of bullets striking the ambulance’s exterior makes my belly drop.

The window on the right rear side spiders with cracks but doesn’t shatter.

Scalpel ducks down, pulling a weapon from his holster in one fluid motion.

“They found us,” I hiss, looking into Rory’s suddenly terrified eyes. “But they’re not taking you again. I promise.”

The ambulance swerves again, Fang pushing it to its limits as he tries to evade our pursuers. I look at Scalpel, who jerks his head toward the front seat.

“Go,” he says, positioning himself protectively beside Rory. “I’ve got him. Do what you need to do.”

I press a quick kiss to Rory’s forehead, then turn toward the front of the ambulance.

After lunging through the partition into the front cab, I brace myself against the dashboard.

Fang swerves the ambulance hard to the left.

The vehicle groans in protest. It was never designed for evasive maneuvers at this speed.

Through the windshield, I see what he’s trying to avoid—two black SUVs closing in fast, their sleek bodies gleaming like predatory beasts under the intermittent streetlights. Men lean from the windows, the metallic glint of their weapons catching the light before disappearing back into shadow.

“Is Rory okay?” Fang asks without taking his eyes off the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.

“Scalpel’s with him,” I reply, throwing myself into the passenger seat. “He’s stable for now.”

Another burst of gunfire peppers the side of the ambulance. I flinch instinctively, though I know the bullets can’t penetrate the reinforced sides—at least not yet. If they start using something heavier than handguns, we’re in trouble.

The dashboard is a Christmas tree of warning lights—engine temperature climbing into the red, transmission sending urgent signals of distress. Fang is pushing this medical tank beyond what it was ever meant to endure, and it’s crying out in mechanical protest.

“They must have had a backup team waiting,” Fang mutters, yanking the wheel hard to avoid an oncoming car. Horns blare behind us as the ambulance cuts across two lanes of traffic. “Clever bastards.”

The lead SUV accelerates, pulling alongside us on the left. A man with a tattooed face leans out the window, aiming what looks like an automatic pistol at our tires. Fang sees him too and jerks the wheel, sideswiping the SUV hard enough to send the gunman tumbling back inside his vehicle.

“We can’t outrun them,” Fang says, voice tight but controlled. “Not in this thing.”

I pull my weapon out of my waistband and check to see how many bullets I have left. “Keep it steady for three seconds,” I tell him, already rolling down my window. Air rushes in, thick with humidity and the metallic tang of recent gunfire.

“Three seconds in three… two…” Fang counts down, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.

I lean out the window, bracing my left arm against the door frame to steady myself.

The wind whips my hair across my face, but I ignore it, narrowing my focus to the lead SUV now gaining on our right side.

Time seems to slow as my cartel training kicks in—the calculations of speed, distance, and trajectory happening automatically in my brain.

“One!” Fang shouts, momentarily straightening our course.

I squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The first bullet shatters the SUV’s driver-side window, finding its mark in the driver’s shoulder.

The second hits the front tire with a satisfying pop.

The effect is immediate and catastrophic—the SUV lurches violently, the driver losing control as the vehicle veers sharply to the right.

It hits the curb, flipping once, twice, then a third time before coming to rest on its roof, glass and metal debris spraying across the empty sidewalk.

“One down!” I shout, already swinging around to target the second SUV. But it’s hanging back now, the driver more cautious after witnessing his companion’s fate. I fire three more shots, but the distance is too great, the angle too poor.

“I need a better shot!” I yell over the wind.

Fang nods, understanding immediately. He slams on the brakes, the ambulance protesting with a screech of abused tires.

The sudden deceleration sends me forward against the dashboard, but I’m ready for it, maintaining my grip on the weapon.

The pursuing SUV, caught by surprise, closes the gap too quickly.

Perfect.

I take aim at the driver, now clearly visible through the windshield—a man with a shaved head and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. I recognize him with a jolt. Mako, one of the cartel’s best hunters. He recognizes me too, his eyes widening a fraction before I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet never reaches him. The slide locks back—empty.

“Give me your gun!” I yell to Fang, ducking back inside as Mako raises his own weapon.

Without hesitation, Fang pulls a second pistol from an ankle holster and tosses it to me.

I catch it with practiced ease, my fingers finding the grip naturally.

In one fluid motion, I lean back out the window and fire twice.

The first shot misses, but the second finds the SUV’s front tire, blowing it out with a loud bang.

Mako fights to maintain control, but physics works against him. The SUV skids sideways, leaving black streaks of rubber on the asphalt before slamming into a brick wall with bone-crushing force. The front end crumples like an accordion, steam hissing from the ruined engine block.

“Go!” I shout, pulling myself back into the ambulance.

Fang doesn’t need to be told twice. He floors the accelerator, and the ambulance lurches forward, the engine screaming in protest but responding.

We speed past the wreckage, leaving the cartel vehicles behind us.

In the side mirror, I see figures moving around the second SUV—survivors, but in no condition to continue the pursuit.

“You okay back there?” Fang calls through the partition.

“We’re good,” Scalpel’s voice responds, sounding surprisingly calm. “Patient’s stable. Nice driving.”

“Nice shooting,” Fang counters, glancing at me with something like awe in his expression. A grin spreads across his face—the wild, adrenaline-fueled smile of someone who’s just cheated death. “Who taught you to shoot like that?”

I return his smile, feeling the same rush of survival euphoria. “At least the cartel was good for something,” I reply, ejecting the magazine and checking the chamber. Only one bullet left. Hopefully I won ’ t need it.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says, his eyes returning to the road as he navigates toward the outskirts of the city.

I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuine warmth. “Too late for that. You pissed me off the moment we met.”

“And yet here we are,” he says softly, the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Here we are,” I agree, glancing back through the partition where I can just make out Rory’s form on the gurney, Scalpel hovering protectively nearby.

We’ve rescued Rory, survived the cartel’s immediate pursuit, and found people willing to risk everything to help us. The road ahead is still uncertain, filled with threats I can barely imagine, but right now, in this moment, we’re alive. We’re together. And for now, that’s enough.

I reach over and briefly squeeze Fang’s arm, the touch conveying what I’m not ready to say aloud. He nods, understanding without words.

“Let’s get your brother out of Mexico,” he says, pressing the accelerator harder as we leave the city lights behind and race toward the private airport.

“ I can ’ t wait to go home,” I say, turning to look out the window.

Home.

What a strange concept. I haven ’ t felt at home in over a decade.

What would home even look like for me and Rory?

Until now, I haven ’ t given it any consideration, but I need to figure it out.

Rory still needs medical care, but Scalpel’s going to help us with that.

I ’ ll have to avoid being seen until the cartel finds someone else to focus on.

Beyond that, I ’ m free to start a new life.

Sliding a glance at Fang, I wonder how he ’ ll fit into this equation. I ’ m not sure about the details, but I do know one thing —I ’ m not ready to walk away from Fang… and suspect he feels the same way.