Page 1 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

ONE

The Empty Apartment

HANK

The meeting runs long.

Three damn hours of grim faces and bad news delivered under fluorescent lights that buzz just loud enough to irritate. Forest lays it out, Mitzy supports with live drone feeds and intercepted chatter, but the message is clear even before CJ drives the final nail in.

Malfor is back. Bolder. Smarter.

And targeting us.

“The ambush in San Diego was targeted,” Forest says. His voice is gravel, low and certain. “They weren’t after the asset. They wanted Alpha team.”

Alpha team walked into a trap in San Diego. Routine extraction turned hostile in under ninety seconds. One operative wounded. Civilians nearly compromised. The attackers left behind zero trace—but they wore Sentinel insignia under their gear. A direct strike against Guardian HRS.

A message.

Malfor’s resurfaced, and he’s making moves. Big ones.

We hear it loud and clear.

But there’s nothing concrete. No new locations. No new names. Just whispers in the dark and the echo of too many unanswered questions.

By the time we’re dismissed, my skin’s tight with tension and my jaw’s wired shut. We need intel.

Movement. Action.

But there’s none of that yet.

We walk out of the bullpen into the humid night air, tension still riding high. Muscles tight. Minds wired.

So we do the only thing we can: we regroup.

“Still time to crash the girls’ sleepover.” Gabe elbows me as we step out of the bullpen. “That scoreboard’s gathering dust.”

“Only one name on that board, and that’s not fair.” Blake snorts.

“Yeah,” Walt mutters, shooting a glance at Gabe. “Some of us would’ve liked a shot before deployment.”

Rigel stretches his arms overhead, cracking his neck. “Pretty sure Ally’s tally needs a penalty. Two-on-one? Not exactly fair odds.”

“Hey, we play the hand we’re dealt.” Gabe doesn’t bother hiding his grin.

“You want points on the board, you earn them,” I add, casual as ever, and loving the fact that there’s no way Ally’s going to lose on that leaderboard. Gabe and I are very generous lovers.

Laughter sparks like a match. Easy. Familiar. Laced with heat and the promise of something to chase.

Walt jerks a thumb toward the motor pool. “Golf carts?”

Ethan’s grin is pure mischief. “Last one there does tomorrow’s gear checks for the whole damn team.”

“Pack your patience,” Rigel says, already jogging. “I’m not going down easy.”

We explode toward the carts like overgrown teenagers with too much testosterone and not enough adult supervision. Blake shoves Walt sideways and vaults into the driver’s seat. Ethan slides in behind Rigel. Gabe and I are dead last.

The engines hum to life, and in seconds, we’re tearing across the compound like we own the night.

“You’re driving like a rookie,” I shout at Gabe over the roar as we lurch forward.

We tear after the others, wind slashing across our faces, gravel biting the wheels. Ahead, Rigel and Ethan swerve, cutting tight around the maintenance shed. Blake and Walt are already veering toward the staff housing shortcut.

The six of us—Charlie team—charging toward Jenna’s apartment like we’re about to breach Heaven’s gates. Wind in our faces. Laughter in our throats.

Gabe floors it.

The engine snarls, and we surge forward.

I brace as we bounce over a pothole, gaining. Fast.

Up ahead, Blake’s cart skids wide, trying to block Rigel’s path. Ethan flips him off mid-turn.

“Left!” I yell.

Gabe yanks the wheel, and we shoot through a gap between the two carts, narrowly missing Blake’s back bumper. Walt whoops behind us, the sound swallowed by wind and the crackle of tires on gravel.

The trees blur in our periphery—tall, dark sentinels flashing past in streaks of shadow and moonlight.

We’re neck and neck by the time Jenna’s building appears.

Gabe hits the brakes hard, skidding into a perfect slide. We may have started last, but that’s definitely a win.

Everyone piles out laughing, breathless, adrenaline still firing through our veins.

“You clipped us at the finish,” Rigel says, brushing dust from his shirt.

“Clipped you? We flew past.” Gabe grins.

“Dream on,” Walt mutters. “And gear checks? That’s all yours, Ethan.”

“Like hell,” Ethan fires back, pointing at the dirt smudged across Gabe’s front tire. “He cheated the inside line.”

“Still got the job done,” Gabe says, climbing out. “That’s what matters.”

We head toward the building together, still laughing, the good-natured ribbing rolling easily between us.

Overgrown kids with scars, bonded by fire, forged in chaos, and racing to the women who’ve somehow made warriors like us believe in something more.

We pile into the lift. Someone makes a crack about Walt’s snoring. Gabe jabs back with a story that has Blake snorting.

The elevator ride up is filled with banter, half-laughed threats, and silent anticipation. When the doors open, I step into the hallway, and silence slams into me like a freight train.

The air. Too still.

The hall. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that isn’t empty. It screams .

Gabe freezes beside me. The others follow, the weight of silence smothering every joke, every grin.

Ethan’s arm shoots out, halting Walt. Rigel’s gaze sweeps the corridor.

No sounds bleed into the hallway. No laughter. No music. Just a vacuum.

Hollow.

My hand drifts toward my sidearm without thought. Gabe tenses beside me.

Ethan falls in behind, face hardening. Rigel scans the hallway, a subtle shift in stance. Blake’s smile fades. Walt’s jaw ticks.

We know this feeling.

Combat silence.

Then we see it.

Jenna’s door.

Hanging off its hinges. Splintered. Bent inward.

The frame hanging half-on, half-off its hinges. A spiderweb of bullet holes stitched across the wood. One wine glass lies outside the threshold, shattered, red soaking into the rug like blood.

Tactical formation. No words needed.

Ethan takes the left. Blake and Walt flank right. Rigel covers the rear. Gabe and I go for breach.

I push what’s left of the door open with the muzzle of my Glock.

My stomach drops.

Hell greets us.

Furniture overturned. Blood smears the floor like someone dragged a body—maybe more than one. Bullet holes pockmark the walls. Glass crunches underfoot, glittering like ice in the scattered light.

The air reeks of cordite, gas, blood, and sweat. And beneath it… Something heartbreakingly domestic.

Garlic. Pasta. Wine.

They were having dinner.

The food’s still on the table. Plates half-full. A bottle is knocked over, bleeding red across the floorboards.

My throat closes as I move deeper. Wine glasses on the counter. A paused movie. One of the kids’ drawings is still taped to the fridge. The kind of night you never think will end in violence.

And blood. So much blood.

Long, wet smears across the cream carpet. Palm-sized splashes across the wall. A chair shattered in the corner like someone tried to throw it—tried and failed.

Gabe steps deeper inside, weapon raised, eyes tracking the destruction. “Clear right.”

“Clear left,” Ethan calls.

Then I see Max.

Jenna’s German Shepherd sprawled in the wreckage, unmoving. He lies on his side near the hallway, motionless. A dart protrudes from his thick neck, fur soaked dark around the edges. I drop to one knee. My fingers search.

“Alive,” I grit. “Tranqed. Not shot. Pulse is there.”

Relief buzzes through me, sharp and shallow.

“Hallway’s got defensive spatter,” Rigel reports from behind me. “Someone fought back. And hard.”

“Overturned table used as a barricade,” Blake says. “They tried to hold them off.”

“Three sets of drag trails,” Walt adds. “They didn’t walk out of here. They were carried.”

The others sweep through behind us. Silent now. Controlled.

Rigel appears from the kitchen, holding up a bent brass lamp. “Improvised weapon. The base is cracked. Someone got a hit in.”

“They fought hard.” Blake kneels beside a shattered lamp.

And lost.

Rage hits like a freight train.

I force it back.

Not now. Focus.

“Calling it in.” Ethan pulls out his phone. “Mitzy, we need footage. Now.”

“Of what?” Mitzy’s voice crackles through, confused.

“Jenna’s apartment.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Security breach. Multiple assailants. Multiple…” His voice catches. “Multiple hostages taken.”

A sharp intake of breath across the line. Then steel replaces shock. “On it. Pulling feeds. Getting you everything from the last four hours.”

Wine glasses. A half-finished movie is paused on the TV. A stuffed bunny sits under the table.

Zephyr’s.

God no. Not the kids.

I move toward Jenna’s bedroom, mind parsing the layout, the angles, the tactics. The closet door is ajar. The faint red glow of the panic room lock is lit.

“Someone’s inside,” I call. “Panic room’s sealed.”

“It’s Gabe. The rest of the Charlie team is with me.” Gabe presses the intercom hidden in the closet. “Open up.”

No response.

“It’s Hank.” I lean in. “You’re safe now. They’re gone.”

“Gabe? Hank? Is it really you?” A soft voice sounds from the other side of the door.

“Yes.”

A beat. Then a soft click. The door hisses open.

Sophia stands tall, pale but alert, a sidearm steady in her grip. Behind her, Violet holds Zephyr and Luke, their eyes wide with terror.

They’re safe.

The only ones.

And that’s when it slams home—hard and brutal.

Everyone else is gone.

The panic cracks inside me, molten and vicious, but I hold the line.

“Sophia,” I say tightly, “what happened? We need to know everything.”

“Harrison,” she spits the name like poison. “He showed up with documents. Claimed they were from Ally’s dad for her to sign. Max knew something was wrong. He started growling before the door even opened. Then everything exploded.”

She’s trembling. Trying not to.

“Sophia?” Blake races down the hallway toward us. His face crumples with relief when he sees her alive.

He gathers Sophia and Luke into his arms, crushing them against his chest. Sophia breaks then, a sob tearing from her throat as Luke buries his face against Blake’s neck. The boy’s small shoulders shake with silent tears.

Ethan pushes past me, his usual composure cracking as he spots Violet and Zephyr. He crosses the distance in three long strides, gathering them both into a protective embrace. Zephyr’s tiny hand clutches the front of his tactical vest, her face streaked with tears.

“Tell us everything,” Ethan says, his voice gentle but urgent.

Sophia takes a deep breath and straightens her spine. Her hand finds Blake’s, squeezing once before she steps forward to face us all.

“He pulled a gun.”

“Who?” Ethan asks.

“Harrison. Max attacked. Jenna disarmed him, but then a team came in—flashbangs, gas, tactical sweep. Full black-ops extraction. No kill shots. Just tranquilizer darts.”

“They wanted them alive,” Gabe mutters.

“Rebel got us to the panic room. The last thing I saw—” Sophia swallows hard. “Was Harrison, bleeding, standing over Ally like he didn’t feel a thing.”

“Did they say anything?” I ask.

“No. But there was a symbol on their gear.”

“Let me guess. Chinese characters?”

“It was Sentinel,” Sophia confirms, her eyes haunted. She’d recognize it anywhere—she spent years under Malfor’s control. “I saw it on their tactical vests when they breached.”

“Malfor.” Gabe’s voice is quiet, lethal.

The room spins with that word.

The broken furniture.

The blood.

The open wine bottle.

The silence.

We failed them.

We all did.

I clench my jaw hard enough to hurt.

Mitzy’s voice cracks through Ethan’s phone. “I’ve got footage. Security feeds from the hallway and the exterior of the building. They didn’t try to hide their faces or wipe the video.”

Ethan gathers us around his phone, the screen casting blue light across our grim faces as the footage plays.

It’s Harrison.

Robert Collins’s head of security.

Leading a tactical team straight to Jenna’s door.

Professional. Precise. Military-grade gear. Gas masks. Tranq rifles.

“Timestamp?” I ask.

“Ninety minutes after you left for the meeting.”

It was a distraction.

The mission. The briefing. All of it.

To get us out of the way.

The feed switches to the hallway. Women being dragged out, unconscious. Ally. Jenna. Mia. Rebel. Malia.

Gabe’s face hardens, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “This wasn’t about intel or assets,” he says, voice cold. “Malfor went after what matters most. He took our women.” His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white. “A direct attack. Personal.”

Ethan starts barking orders: “We need to get Max stabilized. Blake and Walt, secure the perimeter. Hank and Gabe, sweep the building. Mitzy, we need every feed you can give us.”

Gabe moves beside me. His face is stone.

Charlie team locks eyes. One by one. No need for speeches.

This is war.

They took our women.

And now?

We’re going after them.

The rage is white hot now. Purposeful.

Relentless.

We’re bringing the war to Malfor’s doorstep.