Page 38 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

My office isn’t my office anymore. It’s ours.

Mina’s presence has transformed the once-spartan space into something different—still functional, still centered around technology, but now bearing subtle traces of her.

Her desk is right next to mine, but unlike mine, hers is cluttered with trinkets: A coffee mug with chipped enamel that she refuses to replace, a small potted succulent that somehow survives despite the lack of natural light, and a bunch of silly plastic dolls that look half-demonic.

I ’ m still not entirely convinced those things don ’ t come alive at night.

Bones assures me they ’ re not voodoo dolls, but there ’ s all kinds of weird shit in this world.

Monitors cover the rest of her desk, along with her laptop, which is sleeker and more elegant than my clunky custom build.

At some point I need to do another upgrade to my system.

Not gonna lie, I ’ m envious of her setup.

She asked Vapor if she could order some tech stuff.

He gave her a credit card and told her to get whatever she needed. And boy, did she.

We sit in synchronized silence. The only sounds are our keyboards clicking and the low hum of cooling fans as we hunt through digital landscapes for the man who nearly destroyed both our lives.

“Too bad that alert turned out to be another dead end earlier,” Mina mutters, pushing back from her desk with a frustrated sigh.

Her fingers rake through her hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled.

“Juan’s financial trails are still cold.

Nothing’s moved through his known accounts since he went missing. ”

I nod, eyes still fixed on my center monitor where lines of code scroll past, each one a digital tripwire I’ve set across the dark web.

“If he ’ s alive, he’s gone old-school. Cash only, probably.

Smart move, but limiting. Eventually he ’ ll pop back up, or we ’ ll find proof he ’ s dead.

The fact that no one has taken over the NOLA cartel makes me think he ’ s alive and in hiding. ”

“ Agreed,” she says.

After rescuing Rory, we’ve spent every spare moment building a digital net to catch Juan Vasquez.

My algorithms crawl through surveillance footage from traffic cameras, ATMs, and security systems across three states.

My data scrapers monitor every mention of his name or known aliases on messaging platforms. Mina’s intimate knowledge of cartel communication patterns has helped me refine the searches, narrowing parameters to filter out false positives.

My phone pings with a distinctive tone—not a text or call, but an alert from one of my most sophisticated detection systems. Both of us freeze, then our eyes meet. That particular sound means something big.

“Which one?” Mina asks, already moving to look over my shoulder.

“Facial recognition,” I reply, fingers flying across the keyboard to pull up the alert. “Houston grid, southeast quadrant.”

The algorithm I designed searches through publicly accessible security cameras, analyzing faces against a database of known cartel members. It’s a processor-intensive operation that often yields nothing but ghosts and shadows. But this time—this is different.

“Got you,” I whisper as the images populate my screen.

The match is unmistakable—Juan Vasquez, captured on a gas station security camera three days ago.

He looks different than his file photos—thinner, with a beard and glasses—but the recognition software assigns a 97.

8% probability match based on facial structure.

More importantly, it’s tracked his vehicle to a compound thirty miles outside Houston city limits.

“That’s not just a sighting,” Mina says, her voice tight with restrained excitement. “That’s a location.”

I’m already pulling up satellite imagery, the resolution grainy but sufficient to reveal a sprawling property surrounded by a high wall. Multiple buildings, a few vehicles. Isolated enough to be defensible, close enough to civilization for convenience.

“That’s not all,” I tell her, switching to another screen where a different algorithm has been quietly compiling data. “Look at the power usage patterns for that address.”

“ I know that place. I ’ ve been there. Call Vapor,” Mina says, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “This is it.”

I reach for my secure phone and punch in Vapor’s number. He answers on the second ring.

“This better be good,” he growls, the background noise suggesting he’s at the main bar inside the clubhouse.

“It’s better than good,” I reply. “We found him.”

Four minutes later, Vapor pushes through the office door, his presence instantly filling the small room. His eyes are sharp and alert, despite the late hour and the faint smell of whiskey that accompanies him.

“Show me,” he says without preamble.

I gesture to the largest monitor where I’ve assembled the evidence: the facial recognition match, the satellite imagery now enhanced and time-stamped, the suspicious power and communication patterns.

“He’s at a compound outside Houston,” I explain, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

“Heavily secured, but isolated. Mina ’ s been there.

I’ve identified guard rotation patterns from thermal imaging.

Apparently, we ’ re not the only ones interested in this place.

Got satellite data from the Feds. They ’ ve been watching the place for months.

” I pull up another window showing heat signatures moving in predictable patterns around the perimeter.

“We ran through the last few weeks. Looks like eight-hour shifts, four guards per rotation. Mina says it ’ s standard cartel protocol. ”

“ It is,” she confirms.

Vapor leans closer, his expression intensifying as he absorbs the information. “Security systems?”

“Top of the line,” I reply, bringing up schematics I’ve pieced together from various sources. “Motion sensors, infrared cameras. But—” I allow myself a small smile, “—they’re all networked. Networked means hackable.”

“You’ve been there?” Vapor asks, turning his attention to Mina.

She nods, her eyes never leaving the screen.

“Three years ago. It’s one of the cartel’s secure locations, used for high-level meetings and housing valuable assets.

” Her finger circles a building at the compound’s center.

“This is the main house. Juan would be here, probably in the master suite on the second floor, northwest corner. Best vantage point of the grounds.”

I watch her face as she studies the image, noting the slight tightening around her eyes—whatever memories this place holds aren’t pleasant ones.

“Security blind spots?” Vapor asks.

Mina’s finger moves to the eastern wall. “Here. The terrain creates a shadow zone for the motion sensors. And there’s an access road for deliveries on the south side—less monitored than the main entrance.”

I’m already adding her insights to my notes, updating the digital model of the compound that’s taking shape on my screens. “If I can access their network, I can create temporary blind spots in the camera coverage, maybe even trigger false alarms to direct attention away from our entry point.”

Vapor straightens, his decision already made. “How soon can you have a complete tactical assessment?”

“Two hours,” I say confidently. “I’ve got programs running to compile detailed schematics of their security setup, and I’m pulling architectural records for the buildings.”

“Take three. Get as many details as you can,” Vapor replies, checking his watch. “I’m calling Church. Main conference room.” He looks between Mina and me, his expression grave. “If this pans out, we move tomorrow night. No more waiting. No more hunting shadows.”

Mina’s hand finds mine under the desk, her fingers intertwining with mine in a grip that’s almost painful in its intensity. This is what we’ve been working toward since our return from Mexico. We’ve come so close to capturing or killing him before. Now we’ve got another shot at it.

“Three hours,” I confirm, already turning back to my screens, my mind racing through protocols and programs, plotting digital pathways into Juan Vasquez’s sanctuary.

As Vapor leaves to assemble the team, Mina leans close, her breath warm against my ear. “We’re going to get him,” she whispers, her voice a blend of vengeance and vindication.

I nod, fingers already flying across the keyboard. Juan Vasquez has been a ghost for months, but ghosts leave traces. Digital breadcrumbs. And I’ve been collecting them, patiently, methodically, building toward this moment. The hunt is over, now it ’ s time to get him.

The clubhouse conference room has undergone a metamorphosis since the last time Vapor called Church.

Gone are the casual trappings of brotherhood meetings—the ashtrays, the scattered beer bottles, the relaxed atmosphere.

In their place, a ruthless efficiency has emerged.

Maps I printed a few minutes ago cover the massive oak table, weighted down by tactical gear and weapons.

Three laptops connect to a projector system, throwing high-definition images of the Houston compound across the wall.

The air tastes different too—charged with purpose and the metallic tang of gun oil as brothers check and clean their weapons with practiced hands.

Vapor stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding attention without effort.

Ice flanks him on the right, his silver-blue eyes cataloging every detail of the projected schematics.

Bones occupies the space to Vapor’s left, his massive frame hunched forward as he studies the compound layout, muttering calculations under his breath.

Diablo and Tank arrive together, their expressions shifting from casual to focused as they cross the threshold and sense the room’s energy.

“Sit,” Vapor says, gesturing to the empty chairs. “Fang’s got something.”