Page 33

Hank and Gabe’s absence is a physical ache, a hollowness that follows me through Guardian HRS like a shadow. It’s been twenty-four hours since they left, and the lack of communication is starting to wear on me. I check my phone obsessively, even though I know they can’t call during operations.

“They’re fine,” Malia assures me as we close up Guardian Grind for the night. “They look out for each other.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The rational part of my brain knows she’s right. Charlie team is elite, trained for exactly these situations. But the knot in my stomach refuses to loosen.

“Ready for another movie night?” Malia smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Safety in numbers. That’s what Stitch said.”

“Who’s Stitch?”

“Sorry, I forget you’re new here. Stitch is amazing. She’s a hacker. Got caught hacking into the NSA, was going to spend decades locked up, but Mitzy got her paroled,”

“Paroled?”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s the right term, but Mitzy worked something out with the Justice Department. If Stitch agreed to work for Guardian HRS, her sentence was commuted ? Anyway, she and Jeb are a thing. Jeb was on Charlie team before a building basically came down around him and Stitch. He works with her and the techies now.”

“Wow. Now that’s a story.”

”Yeah. Technically, she’s a Charlie’s Angel, too. And speaking of … with Charlie team still out, it’s another movie night tonight.”

“I should get my things from Hank and Gabe’s place first,” I say, glancing at the time. “Need anything while I’m out?”

“Just get back before dark,” Malia replies, her voice dry but her eyes serious. “Rebel’s bringing wine, and Sophia’s making her lasagna. The comfort carbs are already spoken for.”

I promise to return soon, then step outside into the golden late-afternoon light. The breeze carries the scent of ocean salt and sun-warmed asphalt, but there’s something else in the air, something wired and tense. Like even the sky is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

One of the newer Guardian officers—Darren, I think—falls into step beside me.

“I’ll walk you, ma’am,” he says, his gaze already scanning. Calm but alert.

With Hank and Gabe gone and Sentinel whispers rising, I’m not about to turn down backup.

We reach the outer gate just as a sleek black SUV pulls up, followed closely by a second vehicle. The lead car’s window lowers, revealing a familiar profile behind mirrored aviators.

“Harrison,” I say, already feeling a sliver of the tension in my shoulders ease.

He steps out with his usual precision, tall and imposing in a dark suit despite the heat. My father’s personal security chief, Harrison, has always been a wall of calm authority. I used to resent the way he tracked my every move. Now, I take comfort in it.

As the rear door opens behind him, he offers me a thin black case. “Your replacement laptop.”

I blink. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I did,” he cuts in gently. “Per your father’s request. Fully encrypted. No wireless capability until cleared by Guardian’s systems.”

I take it carefully, the weight of it more reassuring than I expect. A clean slate. A controlled system. Something I can trust.

“Thank you.”

He gives a nod. “Let’s get what you need.”

The drive to Hank and Gabe’s is short and silent, except for Harrison murmuring a brief check-in to his team over comms. When we arrive, he doesn’t move right away.

Instead, three of his people exit the trailing vehicle, fanning out toward the house without a word.

“We’ll perform a quick sweep before you go in,” Harrison says. “Standard procedure.”

I nod, not even pretending to resist. “Of course.”

I stay seated in the SUV as his team moves with professional efficiency—one around the back, another to the side entrance, a third up the front walk. Less than five minutes later, I see the hand signal through the windshield.

Harrison opens the door. “You’re clear.”

Inside, the house is still. Too still. Without Gabe and Hank, it feels like the place is holding its breath. I move quickly—clothes, toiletries, a pair of worn slippers, just enough to feel like me. No lingering.

In the bathroom, I pause, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Dark circles shadow my eyes, and tension lines my mouth. I haven’t been sleeping well, even before Hank and Gabe left. The stress of my upcoming thesis defense combined with the increasing electronic malfunctions and security concerns has left me perpetually on edge.

I finish packing and am about to leave when I notice Hank’s hoodie draped over a chair. Without thinking, I grab it, bringing it to my face. The fabric smells like him—sandalwood, clean sweat, that indefinable scent that is uniquely Hank. I fold it carefully and add it to my bag, needing this small connection to him.

When I return to the SUV, Harrison waits with the door open. I slide inside with the new laptop cradled in my arms and my overnight bag at my feet .

As we pull away, I don’t look back.

Not because it hurts.

Because I know they’ll be back.

They have to be.

On the drive back to Guardian HRS, I stare out the window as Harrison navigates the winding coastal road.

The fading light casts long shadows across the landscape, its beauty at odds with the unease crawling beneath my skin.

Jenna’s apartment is already bustling when I arrive. Sophia orchestrates dinner preparation while Rebel sets the table. Mia arranges wine glasses, and Violet entertains Luke with a board game in the corner. The normality of it—women gathering for dinner and conversation—feels surreal against the backdrop of heightened security protocols and missing operators.

“You look exhausted,” Jenna observes, taking my bag and setting it in the guest room. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”

“Last night,” I lie.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Right. And I’m secretly a ballet dancer.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, helping Sophia with the salad. “Just stressed about my defense.”

“If by ‘fine’ you mean ‘running on fumes and caffeine,’ then sure,” Rebel calls from the dining area. “You’ve got the thousand-yard stare of someone who hasn’t slept properly in days.”

I start to protest, but Sophia places a gentle hand on my arm. “We get it,” she says softly. “When Blake’s away, Luke is the only reason I sleep at all. Worrying is part of loving them.”

Something about her simple understanding breaks through my defenses. “I keep having these feelings that something’s wrong,” I admit. “Not just worry—something specific. Like we’re missing something important.”

“About the San Diego operation?” Mia asks, pausing her wine-pouring.

“About everything.” I struggle to articulate the formless dread that’s been my constant companion.

“Well, we’re safer together,” Jenna says firmly. “Now, let’s eat before Sophia’s lasagna gets cold.”

Dinner is a surprisingly comfortable affair, the wine and good food easing some of my tension. The conversation flows easily between sex, gossip, and stories about our men that have us all alternating between laughter and sighs.

Only when Luke has been tucked into bed and the dishes cleared away does the mood shift toward more serious matters.

“Any word from San Diego?” I ask Rebel, who seems most connected to the communication channels.

She shakes her head. “Radio silence, which is normal for this kind of operation. Stitch said we might not hear anything for another day or two.”

I don’t know why, but the nagging sensation of missing something crucial intensifies, like an equation I can’t quite balance despite having all the variables.

As the evening winds down, Malia and I retire to Jenna’s guest room. Rebel leaves with Violet. Mia and Sophia return to their respective quarters.

“Are you okay?” Malia pulls back the sheets.

“I’m good.”

“You sure? You look distracted.”

“I’m just not used to the guys being gone. I’m not handling it as well as the rest of you.”

“I wish I had something wise to say, but try to get some sleep, okay? You look like you need it.”

I promise to try, though we both know it’s an empty assurance. I change into pajamas and climb into bed, Hank’s hoodie clutched against my chest. The familiar scent calms me, and despite my racing thoughts, exhaustion soon pulls me under.

The dream starts as it always does—with the alarms blaring in Kazakhstan. I run down endless corridors, the walls pulsing with red emergency lighting. The familiar terror claws at my throat as I search for the USB drive, for an exit, for any way out of the nightmare.

But this time, the dream shifts. The corridors aren’t the Kazakhstan facility anymore. They’re Guardian HRS walkways, the ones I walk every day. The figure pursuing me isn’t a faceless guard—it’s Mike, his friendly repairman’s smile replaced by cold calculation.

“You can’t hide, Dr. Collins,” he calls, his voice echoing strangely in the empty halls. “Your research…”

I try to run faster, but my legs move with dream-like sluggishness. I round a corner and find myself in The Guardian Grind, but it’s wrong somehow—the windows shattered, tables overturned, emergency lights casting everything in a bloody glow.

Rebel lies motionless on the floor, a dart protruding from her neck. Malia struggles against black-clad figures, her desperate screams muted as if underwater. Jenna fires at shadowy attackers before collapsing beside a large, still shape I recognize with horror as Max.

“No!” I try to shout, but no sound emerges.

Mike appears before me, his expression triumphant. “Did you really think you were safe here?” He advances slowly. “Guardian HQ has already fallen. You just don’t know it yet.”

I back away, stumbling over debris, the taste of metallic fear coating my tongue. The air smells wrong—chemical, antiseptic, like the gas they used when they first took me in Kazakhstan. I can feel it filling my lungs, making my limbs heavy, my thoughts scattered.

As consciousness begins to fade in the dream, Malfor crouches beside me. “Your research and I have much to discuss, Dr. Collins,” he says, his cold smile burning into my memory. “And so do your Guardian friends when they realize what they’ve lost.”

The world fades to black, and I feel myself being lifted, carried away from everything I love.

I wake with a violent jolt, my heart hammering so hard I fear it might break through my ribs. Sweat soaks my clothes, and I’m gasping for air as if the dream’s gas has followed me into wakefulness.

“Ally?” Malia’s concerned voice comes from beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I choke out, struggling to orient myself. “ Just a nightmare.”

She switches on the bedside lamp, illuminating her worried face. “That seemed like more than ‘just a nightmare.’ You were thrashing and making these awful sounds.”

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to banish the vivid images. The dream felt different from my usual PTSD episodes—more specific, more immediate, like a warning rather than a memory.

“What time is it?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Almost four.” Malia sits up, studying me with concern. “You want to talk about it?”

I hesitate, uncertain how to explain the specifics of the dream without sounding paranoid.

“It was about Kazakhstan at first, but then… it changed. We were here at Guardian HRS, and the repair technician was hunting us. There was an attack. You, Rebel, Jenna… everyone was being taken.”

Saying it aloud makes it sound absurd, the product of an overactive imagination and too much stress. But the details cling to me—the smell of the gas, the metallic taste in my mouth, the exact words Mike spoke as he stood over me.

“First off, Mike is harmless. He’s like a marshmallow. Second, no one is infiltrating Guardian HQ. This place is tied up tighter than Fort Knox. Have you thought about seeing someone about your trauma?”

“Gabe mentioned it… Skye did, too.”

“Maybe it’s something you should consider. I see a therapist, so does Malikai.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, Walt insisted, and after I started going, I convinced my brother to go. It really does help.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Malia’s hand finds mine in the semi-darkness. “It’s just your brain processing everything that’s happening. The security concerns, Hank and Gabe being away, your thesis stress—it’s a lot for anyone to handle. ”

“It felt so real,” I whisper, unable to shake the residual terror. “Like it wasn’t just a dream. Like it was… ”

“A premonition?” Malia suggests gently. “Ally, you’re a scientist. You know that’s not how the world works.”

She’s right, of course. I’ve spent my academic career pursuing quantum physics precisely because I believe in a universe governed by explainable forces, not psychic visions or prophecies. The nightmare was just my subconscious mind’s way of processing anxiety.

But as I lie back down, promising Malia I’ll try to sleep, the chill of premonition lingers.

I don’t dream again that night, but I don’t really sleep either. When morning comes, I’m still turning the nightmare over in my mind, analyzing it like a complex equation. There was something about it—something beyond the normal terror of PTSD—that refuses to let go of me.

“You look like hell,” Jenna observes bluntly when I emerge from the guest room. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee while checking something on her tablet. “Didn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” I admit, pouring myself a large mug of coffee. “Bad dreams.”

“Malia mentioned.” Her eyes assess me with uncomfortable precision. “Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Just stress.” But even as I say it, my fingers tighten around the mug, betraying my unease.

Jenna doesn’t push, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. None of them do. As the morning progresses and the others wake, I catch concerned glances and whispered conversations that stop when I enter a room. They’re worried about me, which only heightens my own anxiety.