Page 59

The warmth of Jenna’s apartment welcomes me after a long day. The smell of homemade pasta sauce and garlic bread makes my stomach rumble. Despite the heightened security at Guardian HQ and the obvious tension among the operatives, gathering for dinner and a movie seems profoundly normal—a pocket of peace in an increasingly uncertain world.

“Did you bring the wine?” Malia asks, taking the paper bag from my hands as I step inside. “Because after the week I’ve had, I’m going to need more than one glass.”

“Two bottles,” I confirm, shrugging off my jacket. “And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

Jenna’s apartment has been transformed from its usual pristine order into something cozier, with throw pillows scattered across the couches and blankets draped over chairs. The dining table is already set for eight, mismatched wine glasses lined up like soldiers preparing for duty.

“Ally,” Sophia calls from the kitchen, waving a sauce-covered spoon in greeting. “Come taste this and tell me if it needs more basil.”

I dodge Rebel, who’s arranging a frankly intimidating array of snacks on the coffee table, and make my way to Sophia. The sauce is rich and fragrant, clinging to the spoon she offers.

“Perfect,” I declare after tasting. “Though maybe a touch more salt?”

Sophia beams, adding a pinch to the pot. “This is my grandmother’s recipe. One of the few things from my old life I’ve managed to hold onto.”

The simple statement hangs between us—a reminder that everyone in this room carries ghosts, memories of lives disrupted or destroyed. Yet here we are, making new memories, forging connections from the ashes of what we’ve lost.

A crash from the living room makes us both jump, followed immediately by a sharp yelp and Zephyr’s angry voice.

“I told you no stomping!” The seven-year-old is not thrilled, but I like her style. She’s going to be fierce someday.

The sound of quick footsteps across the hardwood comes first—then Zephyr barrels into the kitchen, wild curls bouncing, her eyes flashing with indignation. She’s nearly seven now, all knees and elbows and stormy opinions.

Close behind is Luke, Sophia’s five-year-old, his brows drawn low, mouth twisted in frustration.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” he mutters, arms crossing tightly. “My foot went the wrong way.”

“Even accidents deserve apologies,” Sophia says gently, crouching to his level with a towel still in her hands.

Luke shifts from foot to foot, stealing a glance at Zephyr. “Sorry I knocked it down. Want to build a bigger one? Like, way taller than the couch?”

Zephyr considers him with narrowed eyes—already calculating structural reinforcements and aesthetic improvements—but then nods, relenting.

“Fine. But I get to do the base this time. And no stomping.”

The simple exchange—the learning of empathy, the offering of reconciliation—strikes me with unexpected weight. These children, born into danger and delivered from darkness, are being raised with intention, shaped by protectors who teach them both courage and kindness.

“Dinner in ten,” Jenna announces, sliding a tray of garlic bread into the oven. “Ally, could you help Malia with the salad?”

Max follows me around the kitchen, his soulful eyes tracking my every move, clearly hoping I might drop something edible. His constant presence is comforting—another layer of protection in an already secure building.

“Any word from the guys?” Rebel asks, joining us in the kitchen to grab more napkins.

“Radio silence,” I admit, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the knot of worry tightening in my stomach. “Whatever that emergency call was about, it’s keeping them busy.”

A momentary shadow passes over the room—the shared anxiety of loving men whose jobs routinely put them in danger. Then Malia claps her hands, dispelling the tension.

“No sad faces tonight. This is strictly a girls-plus-adorable-children night. The guys can fend for themselves.”

We carry dishes to the table, the simple act of serving food bringing a sense of normalcy that feels increasingly precious. The conversation flows naturally—Mia sharing stories about a research breakthrough at the lab, Rebel describing her latest sparring match with Ethan, Sophia updating us on Luke’s newest obsession with firetrucks.

“To Charlie’s Angels,” Malia declares, raising her wine glass in a toast. “The most badass support system a girl could ask for.”

“To survival,” Sophia adds, her eyes momentarily distant before focusing again. “And finding family in unexpected places.”

We clink glasses, the simple ritual sealing something profound between us. I look around the table—at these women who were strangers mere months ago and are now essential to my sanity—and feel a surge of gratitude so intense it nearly brings tears to my eyes.

“Speaking of unexpected,” I say, setting down my glass, “I got the date for my thesis defense. One week from today.”

Cheers erupt around the table, Malia reaching over to squeeze my hand .

“Our resident genius is going to blow them away,” she declares with absolute confidence. “Finally, Miss Alexandra Collins will be Dr. Collins, quantum physics whatever-whatever, extraordinaire.”

“Dr. Ally Collins,” Jenna says, testing the title. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll have to make a special coffee drink to commemorate the occasion,” Malia adds. “Something with quantum in the name. Extra espresso, obviously.”

The warm tide of their support washes over me, momentarily easing the anxiety that has been my constant companion since the kidnapping. With these women—these survivors—I can almost believe that a normal life is possible again, that the shadow of Malfor doesn’t stretch quite so far.

After dinner, we migrate to the living room, the children already in pajamas and clutching stuffed animals as we debate movie options.

“Nothing with explosions,” Rebel insists, claiming a corner of the sofa. “I get enough of that at work.”

“And nothing sad,” Mia adds. “I’m still recovering from what Sophia made us watch last time.”

“It was a cinematic masterpiece!” Sophia protests, settling Luke beside her in the oversized armchair.

“It was emotional terrorism,” Rebel counters, though her smile softens the accusation.

We eventually settle on a light-hearted comedy—something with enough humor to keep the adults entertained but tame enough for little ears. Luke and Zephyr are tucked between Sophia and Violet, their eyes growing heavy even as they insist they aren’t tired.

Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzes with a text from Harrison: Outside your door with the documents from your father. Need your signature tonight.

I tilt the screen toward Jenna. Her brow furrows.

“He didn’t call ahead?”

“He texted earlier,” I say, already rising, heart ticking up a notch. “Said it was paperwork Dad needs signed.”

Jenna stands too, all instinct and sharpened edges. Her time with Carter reshaped her reflexes—she doesn’t move, she assesses. Max mirrors her, already trotting ahead, alert.

At the door, Max freezes. His entire body locks—ears flatten, tail rigid. A low growl curls from his chest, guttural and unrelenting.

Jenna stops dead. “Max?” Her voice cuts like a blade, hand hovering near where she used to carry her weapon.

I move beside her, my attention fixed on the dog who’s never once growled at someone I trusted.

I peer through the peephole. Harrison stands outside, flanked by three men in dark suits. The earpieces, the identical posture—it looks like a damn presidential escort.

“It’s just Harrison,” I murmur. “My dad’s chief of security.” I force calm into my voice. “He’s been with us since I was a kid.”

Max doesn’t care. His growl deepens, a warning.

Primal.

Jenna’s frown carves deeper. “Why would your father send his top guy—with backup—for a signature?”

A flicker of unease slithers through my gut. I pull out my phone and text:

Harrison is here with documents. Did you send him?

Before I can hit send, a message from Harrison lights up the screen:

Everything okay? The documents are time-sensitive.

“Give me a sec,” I tell Jenna, backing away from the door, fingers flying.

My father replies almost instantly:

Yes, I sent Harrison with the trust amendments. SEC filing deadline hits at 5 a.m. We need your sign-off to avoid penalties.

I hold the screen up. “He says it’s the trust paperwork. Filing deadline in the morning.”

But Jenna’s not convinced—and neither is Max. The dog is a statue, vibrating with tension, teeth just shy of bared.

“Harrison’s been around forever,” I say again, quieter now. Doubt is a bitter taste on my tongue. “Maybe Max is just reacting to the other guys?— ”

“No,” Jenna cuts in. “Max isn’t scared. He’s guarding. There’s a difference.”

My pulse kicks harder. Still, I move toward the door. “I’ll open it—but stay ready.”

I unhook the chain. Turn the deadbolt. Crack the door.

Harrison stands there, expression composed, hands at his sides. But his smile—it’s tight.

Wrong.

“Your father didn’t want to risk sending this electronically,” he says. “May I come in? Won’t take more than a minute.”

I hesitate. No briefcase. No folder. No envelope.

My heart misses a beat.

“You don’t have the documents,” I say flatly.

Harrison’s gaze flicks to the hallway behind me. “They’re in the car. I thought I’d explain them first.”

A lie. I feel it.

I step back instinctively?—

—and his hand goes for his jacket.

Max explodes forward, all snarling rage and unleashed power. The door slams open as the dog hits Harrison like a missile, teeth sinking deep into his forearm just as he yanks a pistol free.

The gun drops. Harrison screams.

“Gun!” Jenna shouts, diving, sliding, snatching the weapon off the floor.

Outside, his men react—draw weapons.

Move fast.

Inside, chaos.

Rebel’s voice cuts through it all, sharp as a whip: “Sophia, Violet—kids! Now!”

I stumble backward as Harrison crashes into the wall, Max still latched to his arm, blood streaking the carpet. The snarl ripping from the dog’s throat is furious, protective, and absolutely feral.

Jenna’s already on her feet, gun raised, back to the wall, eyes on the hallway. “They’re coming in!”

The first man steps into view?—

Jenna doesn’t hesitate.

She opens fire. Bullets slam into the wall.

“Ally, back—now!” Her voice cuts through the chaos, hard and urgent.

I scramble as shots crack overhead. Malia flips the heavy coffee table with a grunt, dragging me down behind it as bullets chew through the air.

Rebel is already armed—where the hell did that knife come from? She’s death in motion.

Mia clutches her phone, fingers flying.

Sophia and Violet vanish into the hallway, ushering the kids toward the panic room tucked behind Jenna’s bedroom closet.

Glass explodes inward—shards rain down like razors.

Black-clad soldiers flood through the windows, silent and surgical, tactical rifles raised.

A howl—high, sharp, agonized—rips through the room.

Max.

My stomach drops as I see him collapse, his massive body twitching. A dart sticks grotesquely from his thick neck. He doesn’t move.

“Tranqs!” Jenna shouts, slamming a fresh mag into the pistol. “They want us alive!”

That doesn’t make it better.

It makes it worse.

A flicker of movement—a sleeve, marked with a familiar symbol. 哨兵.

Sentinel.

Malfor has found us.

My brain stalls for half a second. Just long enough for a figure to lunge over the barricade. I swing the first thing I grab—a brass lamp—full-force. It crashes into the man’s ribs with a sickening crunch. He grunts and drops.

Rage burns away fear. Hank and Gabe drilled this into me.

React. Survive.

Rebel’s a blur beside me, her blade singing. One attacker stumbles back, clutching a torn forearm. Another comes from behind?—

“Behind you! ”

Rebel pivots like she’s dancing, slamming her elbow into his throat. He drops, choking on his own breath.

But they keep coming. One down, two more swarm in.

A metallic clatter?—

A canister rolls to a stop at my feet.

Hissing.

White gas floods the room.

“Don’t breathe!” Jenna’s voice slices through the haze.

I try—I really try—but something slams into my gut and knocks the air clean out of me. I gasp, and the gas rips into my lungs like fire. My vision swims. My limbs go numb.

Rebel takes a dart. Yanks it out, snarling. Still moving. Still fighting.

Until she takes another.

Her knees buckle. She sinks, blade falling from limp fingers.

Malia’s groggy. Mia slumps. The world spins.

Jenna’s the last to fall. She fires until the slide locks back, swinging the empty gun like a club. She’s fury and instinct and will—until she stumbles forward, crashes into the wall, and slides down, gasping.

I try to crawl. To do something. But my arms are lead. The ground tilts.

And then?—

A shadow steps through the blown-out door. Calm. Unhurried.

Harrison.

Blood pours down his right arm, soaking the sleeve where Max tore through flesh and muscle. His face is pale from blood loss, but his eyes?—

Cold. Dead. Calculating.

Not a trace of the loyal protector I’ve known my whole life. Not a flicker of hesitation or remorse.

He moves like nothing hurts. Like the blood is someone else’s. Like he’s done this before.

His gaze sweeps the destruction—bodies, glass, smoke—and settles on me. What little strength I have left coils in useless resistance.

“Impressive,” he says smoothly, his voice warped by the ringing in my ears. “But ultimately futile.”

I want to scream. Spit. Fight.

But my mouth won’t work. My body’s gone slack. My vision tunnels.

He crouches.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.

The mangled flesh of his forearm drips steadily onto the floor beside my face. I want to recoil, scream, crawl away—but I can’t move. My limbs are sandbags. My lungs burn.

“Malfor sends his regards,” Harrison murmurs.

A smile plays at the edges of his mouth—sharp, cruel, personal.

Then everything goes black.

Consciousness returns in fragments—the rhythmic vibration beneath me, the smell of metal and fuel, the low hum of an engine. I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel weighted. My mouth is dry, my thoughts sluggish and disjointed.

When I finally manage to pry my eyes open, I find myself in what appears to be the cargo hold of a plane or helicopter. My wrists and ankles are bound with zip ties, and a quick glance around reveals that I’m not alone. Malia, Jenna, Rebel, and Mia are similarly restrained nearby, all showing varying signs of returning consciousness. Stitch is there too, a thin line of blood trailing from her temple down her cheek.

They got to her before she could reach us.

“Welcome back,” a voice says from behind me. I twist awkwardly to see Harrison sitting on a bench along the wall, casually checking something on a tablet, his arm now bandaged. “You’re recovering faster than expected. Impressive.”

“What do you want?” My voice comes out as a rasp, my throat parched from the gas.

He sets the tablet aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Malfor is quite eager to meet you, Miss Collins. He’s particularly interested in your research on quantum entanglement. It has… applications beyond what you’ve considered.”

The mention of Malfor sends ice through my veins. “Where are you taking us?”

“Somewhere safe,” he replies with that same infuriating calm. “You should rest. It’s a long flight.”

“My friends,” I say, looking at the others.

“They’re fine. Valuable bargaining chips, nothing more.” He stands and moves toward the front of the cargo hold. “Your teammates, though—they’re quite important to our operation.”

Before I can ask what he means, the aircraft hits turbulence, jostling us all. Malia groans nearby, her eyes fluttering open.

“Ally?” she whispers, disoriented.

“I’m here,” I assure her, trying to inch closer despite my restraints. “We’re all here.”

One by one, the others begin to stir. Jenna is the most coherent, her training apparently helping her resist the effects of the sedative. Her eyes immediately begin scanning our surroundings, assessing threats and possible escape routes.

“Everyone accounted for?” she asks.

“Sophia, Violet, and the children aren’t here,” I reply, keeping my voice low.

Relief flashes across Rebel’s face at this confirmation, quickly replaced by a grimace of pain as she tries to move.

“They hit me with something stronger,” she mutters, glaring at the guards stationed at the front of the hold. “Bastards.”

“Stitch is here. She’s hurt,” Mia says.

The aircraft banks sharply, and I catch a glimpse of ocean through a small porthole. We’re flying over water, which means we’re heading away from the mainland. The realization sends a fresh wave of fear through me.

“Stay calm,” Jenna says, reading my expression. “Guardian protocols are clear. When operators go missing, they send everything they’ve got to find them.”

“But the teams are all deployed on that emergency call,” I remind her.

“Which they’ll quickly realize was a diversion,” she counters. “Trust me, they won’t stop until they find us.”

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, the way Hank taught me during training sessions. In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. The simple rhythm centers me, clears my mind. If I’m going to help us escape, I need to stay sharp, to observe everything.

When I open my eyes again, I meet Jenna’s gaze and see approval there. She gives me a slight nod, and somehow, in that small gesture, I find strength.

“Why us?” Malia asks, her voice barely audible over the engines. “Why now?”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Harrison appears again, standing over us with that same cold smile. He looks around at each of us. “A Guardian’s weakness isn’t his technology or his missions.”

He crouches down, his eyes cold as they lock onto mine. “It’s you. The women they love, the ones they would die to protect. You’re their weakness.” His voice drops to a whisper. “This isn’t an operation—it’s revenge.”

The truth of it hits hard. We weren’t taken for intelligence or for ransom. We were taken because the most effective way to destroy Guardian HRS—to destroy the men of Charlie team—is by taking what they love most.

Us.

The plane banks again, flying us toward whatever nightmare Malfor has prepared. And somewhere out there, our men are walking into a trap built from their own devotion.

They will come for us.

And that’s exactly what Malfor wants.

The story doesn’t end here—

It explodes in Book Two.

Malfor thinks he’s won.

He thinks snatching the women of Charlie Team was a show of power. A final move.

But what he’s really done… is declare war.

Because when you take what the men of Charlie Team protect with their lives—what they love —you don’t walk away.

You run.