Page 9 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

“They wouldn’t,” I say, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “Not yet. They’re efficient, but not that efficient. Moving a patient in critical condition takes planning, especially if they want to keep it quiet.”

“Critical condition?” Something shifts in his tone—a softening so subtle I almost miss it.

I don’t answer, can’t afford the distraction of explanation, not when every second counts.

Instead, I pull up a map of hospital facilities with cartel connections, cross-referencing with payment records from their financial database.

Twenty-three facilities blink red on the screen, each a potential prison for my brother.

“Too many,” I mutter, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Need to narrow it down.”

I create a new query, filtering for specialized equipment—the dialysis machines and monitoring systems my brother needs to survive. The map refreshes, red dots disappearing one by one until only eleven remain. Better, but still too many to check manually before the cartel realizes what I’m doing.

A new idea strikes, and I pivot to a different database—the cartel’s shipping records.

If my brother is about to be moved, I need to get a look at their logistics.

The cartel documents everything; their criminal enterprise runs with corporate efficiency.

Every asset, every transaction, every movement is recorded somewhere.

Fang leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek as he watches the data flow across the screens. “What are you looking for now?”

“Transportation records,” I explain, fingers never pausing. “Medical equipment transfers. Patient transport logs.” I pull up a timeline of shipments, eyes scanning for patterns. “If they lock me out before I find him or if they move him, we ’ ll have something to go on.”

“ Wouldn ’ t they just kill him instead?”

“ No. They ’ ll use him.” I hesitate before adding, “ Against me.”

“ He ’ s worth more alive,” Fang mutters with disgust.

“ Exactly.”

The search narrows further—eight facilities, then five, then three. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. So close. Three possible locations where my brother might be held, three chances to save the only person who matters to me in this world.

I dig deeper into the most recent files, searching for anything that might confirm his location. And then—

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. A single entry from two weeks ago: “Asset Cobra-380 stabilized. Transport to Facility 7 complete. Maintenance requirements updated.”

“I think I found him,” I whisper, my voice brittle and tight. The words catch in my dry throat, emerging as little more than a rasp. My fingers tremble more violently now, hovering over the keys as I stare at the confirmation I’ve been searching for.

“Where?” Fang closes the distance between us, his massive frame casting a shadow over the keyboard as he leans in to study the screen.

His presence should feel threatening—this man who’s kept me prisoner, who still doesn’t trust me—but in this moment, he’s just another set of eyes confirming what I desperately want to believe.

A slew of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. Hope and fear tangle in my chest until I can barely breathe. After years of blind compliance, of coding and hacking whatever the cartel demanded while never knowing where my brother was, I finally have something concrete. A location. A facility code.

I never dared to try to find him before. They just sent me proof of life videos. And if I did something particularly good, they ’ d blindfold me and take me to see him. But it ’ s been months since the last time that happened.

“Facility 7,” I manage to say, pointing to one of the three remaining red dots on the map. “It’s a private clinic on the outskirts of New Orleans. Officially specializes in long-term care for coma patients. Unofficially…” I swallow hard. “It’s where they keep their most valuable assets.”

Fang’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, studying not just the information but my reaction to it. “How do you know this is real? Could be misinformation, a trap.”

“It matches,” I say, pulling up additional files that confirm the pattern. “Equipment transfers, specialist rotations, security details. All consistent with a high-value asset in long-term care.” I click through to another file. “Plus, there’s this.”

A medication list appears on screen, and I highlight three specific entries. “These are his meds. Exact dosages, exact combinations. He has a rare kidney condition—these are custom-compounded for his specific needs. No one else would be on this exact protocol.”

Something flickers across Fang’s face—recognition, perhaps, or memory—gone before I can properly identify it. His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing just beneath the skin as he processes what I’ve shown him.

“If this is real,” he says slowly, “what’s your plan? You can’t just walk into a cartel-controlled facility and ask for your brother back.”

I turn to face him fully, meeting those emerald eyes behind their thick frames. “No,” I agree, “I can’t. But we can.”

The air between us vibrates with tension as the implication of my words settles in the space between us. I’ve found what I needed. Now comes the harder part—convincing this man, this stranger who has every reason to distrust me, that saving my brother is worth the risk to him and his club.

His expression gives nothing away, but I can almost see the calculations running behind those intense eyes. Risk versus reward. Trust versus caution. The potential value of having a cartel hacker in his debt against the danger of walking into what could very well be a trap.

“We’ll need proof,” he finally says, neither accepting nor rejecting my proposition. “And a better plan than just showing up with guns drawn.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Maybe.”

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. And right now, with my brother’s location glowing on the screen before us, that’s enough to keep hope alive for one more moment.