Page 25

We zip along widened walkways and across what must be an internal courtyard, passing other personnel in similar carts. It feels surreal, like being on an exclusive and very secretive college campus.

We arrive at a building marked “Physical Training” and step into what might be the most impressive gym I’ve ever seen.

The space is enormous—the size of a football field. A running track circles the perimeter, while the center houses various training stations: sparring mats, weight areas, what looks like an obstacle course, and—most impressive of all—a massive climbing wall that spans the entire far side of the room, at least a hundred feet high.

“Wow,” I breathe.

Gabe grins, clearly pleased by my reaction. “Not bad, right?”

“This is where you train every day?” I ask, taking it all in.

Hank nods. “Physical readiness is non-negotiable in our line of work.”

“Over here,” Gabe directs, leading me toward a seating area near one of the sparring sections. “You can set up while we check in.”

I set my laptop down and settle into the chair, angling myself for a good view of the training floor. The setup is perfect—table, space to work, even power outlets within reach, but the moment I flip open the screen, my stomach sinks.

Damn it.

I pat the side pocket of my bag, then the main compartment, fingers rifling through everything twice, three times.

No charger.

A sharp thread of frustration coils in my chest. I forgot to grab it after Gabe’s lesson.

I check again, shoving aside notebooks, pens, and a granola bar I forgot I had. My pulse picks up, and an irrational sort of panic creeps in. My work, my focus—I need this.

A frustrated sigh escapes before I can stop it.

“Forgot something?”

The voice comes from behind me, low and amused.

I turn to find a tall, lean man with sharp features and observant eyes watching me with undisguised curiosity.

“My charger,” I admit. “Left it at Hank and Gabe’s place.” I check my battery—still at 75%, but I worry it won’t last long.

“You’re Ally Collins,” the man says, extending a hand.

I shake his hand, noting the firm grip and assessing gaze. “That’s me. And you’re?—”

“Ethan, team leader of Charlie team. Those two troublemakers work for me. We’ve met before, although I doubt you’d remember,” he says. “I was there, at your first rescue, at the motel.”

“You carried me out,” I realize, memories clicking into place. “And you led the Kazakhstan extraction.”

He nods, a small smile breaking through his solemn demeanor. “That’s right. You were a lot more… aware the second time around.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“The guys mentioned you’d be joining us today,” he continues.

“Hope that’s okay,” I say, suddenly uncertain.

“More than okay. It’s good to put a face to the mission.” He glances at my computer. “Having trouble?”

I sigh, frustrated. “It’s been acting up. Battery draining faster than normal, everything’s sluggish. Your tech team is going to look at it later.”

“Mitzy will sort you out,” he says confidently. “Meantime, make yourself comfortable. We’re about to put on a show.”

Before I can respond, a commotion draws my attention. Hank and Gabe jog over with three other men, all in workout gear, engaged in what appears to be good-natured ribbing.

“All I’m saying is that if you’d been watching your six instead of showing off, you wouldn’t have caught that round to the vest,” one of them says—a compact, powerful-looking man with close-cropped dark hair.

“And if you hadn’t been so busy counting your shots, you might have noticed the second target,” Gabe retorts, but there’s no heat in it.

“Ladies, ladies,” drawls a tall blond with an easy smile. “Can we save the bickering for after I embarrass you all on the wall?”

“In your dreams, Blake,” says the fourth man with an intense focus that reminds me of Hank.

Ethan clears his throat, and the group straightens almost imperceptibly. “Gentlemen, Miss Ally Collins is joining us today. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Five pairs of eyes turn to me. I resist the urge to shrink back from all that testosterone. Instead, I lift my chin and offer a small wave.

“Dr. Collins,” Ethan continues, “meet Charlie team. Rigel—” the compact dark-haired man nods, “—Blake—” the tall one grins, “—and Walt.” Malia’s beau. He offers a respectful nod.

Blake steps forward first, extending his hand. “Heard a lot about you.” His smile is genuine, though a twinkle in his eye tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“Rigel,” the next man says, his handshake firm and efficient.

Walt approaches last, his expression warming as he takes my hand. “We have someone in common.”

“Malia,” I say immediately, remembering how she talked about him during our captivity. “She mentioned you… a lot . ”

His smile widens. “She’s been asking about you. Wants to meet up when you’re settled.”

“I’d like that,” I say, genuinely pleased at the prospect of seeing a friendly face.

“Ally’s going to work while we train,” Hank explains.

“Speaking of which,” Ethan says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s start with sparring pairs. Hank and Walt, Gabe and Blake, Rigel with me.”

I settle back in my chair, opening my document as the men spread out to different mats, but instead of focusing on my thesis, the display before me captures my attention fully.

I’ve seen Hank and Gabe in action before—my rescue was proof enough of their capabilities—but watching them train is something else entirely. The controlled power, the fluid movements, the precision of each strike and block—it’s like watching a deadly dance.

Hank and Walt circle each other with predatory focus. They move with a relaxed intensity that speaks to years of training, each step deliberate and measured. Walt strikes first—a lightning-fast punch that cuts through the air. Hank deflects it with a subtle shift of his forearm, the impact making a sharp crack that echoes in the gym. He counters with a sweep that nearly takes Walt off his feet, a move so seamless it seems choreographed.

Walt recovers with incredible agility, using momentum to spring back and launch a combination of strikes that would overwhelm an average fighter.

But Hank is far from average.

He’s a study in efficiency. He catches Walt’s arm in a lock that has Walt tapping out with a begrudging smile.

They reset, and the dance continues. There’s something beautiful in their controlled violence—a precision that transforms combat into art. They move with a speed that seems impossible for men their size, trading blows that would incapacitate an ordinary person.

On the adjacent mat, Gabe and Blake present a different style altogether. Where Hank and Walt are precision and control, Gabe and Blake incorporate more showmanship, more taunting, but are no less lethal.

“Getting slow in your old age?” Blake goads, dodging a strike with a flashy spin.

Gabe narrows his eyes, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. “Just warming up.”

They clash again, a flurry of strikes so rapid my eyes can barely follow. Blake has height and reach, using both to keep Gabe at a distance, but Gabe is quicker and more adaptable, finding openings where none seem to exist.

Blake throws a high kick that would have connected with Gabe’s head if he hadn’t ducked at the last second. In that split-second opening, Gabe sweeps Blake’s supporting leg, simultaneously grabbing his shoulder.

Suddenly, Blake is airborne, flipped over Gabe’s shoulder to land with a thud that makes me wince.

“That all you got, pretty boy?” Blake laughs, bouncing back to his feet.

I can’t help but stare, fascinated by the raw display of skill. These men move like their bodies are weapons—precisely calibrated and expertly wielded. It’s both terrifying and mesmerizing.

My laptop screen dims—battery warning. Only 18% left now, after barely twenty minutes of use. I frown, closing unnecessary applications to conserve power.

“Impressive, aren’t they?”

I look up to find Rigel standing beside me, breathing hard but barely sweating after his round with Ethan.

“Terrifying is more like it,” I admit.

He grins, dropping into the chair beside me. “Wait until you see the wall drill. That’s where Hank really shines.”

I glance over at the massive climbing wall. “Is that what’s next?”

“Vertical assault simulation,” Rigel confirms. “We rotate positions and practice different scenarios. Today’s gonna be hostage extraction.”

My throat tightens. “Oh. ”

Something in my voice must give me away because Rigel’s expression softens. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up… you know.”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s fine.” Then, forcing lightness into my tone, “I know what to expect if it happens again, right?”

He studies me for a moment. “Most civilians would be falling apart after what you’ve been through.”

“Who says I’m not?” I counter.

“Hank and Gabe, for one thing.” He laughs—a genuine sound. “But fair enough. You’ve got grit.”

“Thanks,” I say, surprised by the compliment. “I have good people looking out for me.”

“Good men,” he counters. “But, if they haven’t mentioned it yet, Guardian HRS has a robust post-trauma recovery program,” Rigel adds, his tone warm and gentle. “If you ever want to talk to someone specializing in this kind of thing, we’ve got the best.”

Before I can respond, Ethan’s voice rings out. “Wall drill. Positions, gentlemen.”

Rigel gives me a mock salute. “Duty calls. Enjoy the show—these two never pass up a chance to compete.”

I watch as the team gathers equipment—climbing gear, what looks like training weapons, and communication headsets. My laptop screen goes completely black. The battery finally gives up. I sigh, close my laptop, and set it aside.

So much for getting work done.

But as I watch the men prepare for their drill, I can’t bring myself to be too disappointed. Seeing Hank and Gabe in their element is mesmerizing in a way—professional, focused, part of something bigger than the two of them.

Ethan climbs up to a platform halfway up the wall, apparently playing the role of hostage. Blake and Walt take positions at various points on the structure, clearly the “hostile forces” in this scenario.

“Standard extraction protocol,” Ethan calls down. “Rigel on comms, Hank on point, Gabe covering. Begin on my mark.”

I lean forward, invested in how this plays out. It’s one thing to know theoretically what they do—it’s another to witness the reality of their training, to see the precision and trust that factored into my rescue.

“Mark!” Ethan calls.

And they move.

Hank takes the lead, scaling the wall with terrifying speed. His fingers find holds where none seem to exist, his body flowing up the vertical surface like gravity is merely a suggestion. Every movement is economical—no wasted energy, no hesitation, just pure, focused power driving him upward.

Gabe follows a different route, slightly to the left, keeping pace with equally impressive skill. Where Hank moves like water, Gabe climbs with explosive bursts of energy, covering ground in powerful lunges that defy physics.

“Hostile at your ten o’clock, Hank. Cover fire needed, Gabe.” Rigel directs from below, his voice calm and steady as he calls out positions based on Blake and Walt’s movements above.

It’s choreographed chaos—Hank dodging a “hostile” (Blake) while maintaining his upward momentum, Gabe providing cover with what must be a training weapon given the lack of actual gunfire. They communicate with hand signals and terse words, a language all their own.

Blake puts up an impressive defense, using his long reach to block Hank’s advance. It seems like the mission might stall for a moment, but then Hank does something I barely follow. He swings outward from his handhold, using momentum to launch himself up and around Blake’s position. It’s a move that requires inhuman strength and perfect timing, the kind of thing you’d see in action movies but never expect in real life.

Meanwhile, Gabe engages Walt, who’s set up a sniper position on a ledge. Gabe scales a seemingly impossible overhang, muscles straining as he pulls himself up and over. He and Walt engage in close-quarters combat on a tiny platform barely big enough for one person, let alone two fighting men. The skill required—to battle effectively while balancing on a narrow ledge a hundred feet up—is mind-boggling.

I hold my breath as Hank reaches Ethan, securing a line to the “ hostage” while Gabe provides cover from his position. Their coordination is flawless—as if they can read each other’s minds, anticipating needs before they arise.

The speed with which they complete the extraction is staggering—under three minutes from start to finish, with Ethan safely on the ground and both “hostiles” neutralized.

“Not bad,” Ethan says, unclipping from the line. “Gabe, you hesitated at the north junction. Blake would have had a clear shot if this were real.”

Gabe nods, accepting the criticism without argument. “Got caught watching Hank’s line. Won’t happen again.”

“Hank, good adaptation on the fly when the primary route was blocked.”

Hank inclines his head in acknowledgment.

“Again,” Ethan says, already moving back toward the wall. “Switch positions. Gabe on point, Hank covering.”

I watch three more iterations of the drill, each with different configurations, before they finally call a break. All five men are drenched in sweat now, breathing hard but looking satisfied.

Gabe drops into the chair beside me, running a hand through his damp hair. “Enjoying the view?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice.

“It’s… educational,” I say carefully.

Hank appears on my other side, passing Gabe a water bottle before taking a long drink from his own. “Your laptop die?”

I nod, frustrated. “The battery drained way too fast. I couldn’t get through editing a single section.”

“We’ll hit up Mitzy after this,” Gabe promises. “Her team can work miracles.”

“Speaking of,” Hank says, checking his phone with a frown. “My battery’s almost dead too.”

Gabe pulls out his phone. “Same here. Funny, I charged it last night.”

Ethan calls the team back to attention with a clap of his hands. “One more drill, then showers,” he announces. “Combat circuit, full team.”

Hank squeezes my shoulder. “This won’t take long.”