Page 13 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTEEN

Training Exercise Gone Wrong

GABE

Charlie team gears up for what should be a routine training exercise. I know what it is—something to keep us busy while the techies try to figure out where the fuck Malfor’s keeping our women.

The magazine clicks into place with the same sound it’s made a thousand times before. Familiar. Reliable. Except today, even that small mechanical certainty feels wrong.

Everything feels wrong when the most important person in your world is missing.

The practice drill is a standard building clearance exercise. A simulated hostage rescue. The kind of drill we’ve run a hundred times and can execute in our sleep.

But my hands shake slightly as I check my rifle’s action, and I have to force myself to focus on the mechanics. Muscle memory takes over when conscious thought fails.

The kill house sits at the far end of Guardian HQ’s training grounds—a modular structure designed to simulate urban combat scenarios. Today, it’s configured as a three-story office building with multiple entry points, blind corners, and designated “hostage” locations marked by sensors.

Simple scenario: terrorists have taken civilian hostages on the second floor. Charlie team’s job is to neutralize threats and extract the friendlies without casualties. Basic Guardian HQ doctrine—coordinated entry, systematic clearance, overwhelming tactical superiority.

We should dominate this.

“Final equipment check,” Ethan announces, his voice carrying the crisp authority of mission command.

Around us, the team performs their pre-deployment ritual—magazines seated, comms tested, gear secured. Walt adjusts his medical kit. Blake checks his breaching charges. Carter inspects his rifle optics with the methodical precision of a man who’s never missed a shot that mattered.

The familiar choreography should be comforting.

Usually is.

But today, every movement feels like we’re all going through motions while something fundamental has shifted beneath us.

I watch Hank at the tactical display, studying building schematics with that focused intensity I’ve seen a thousand times.

His jaw works silently—the tell that means he’s processing multiple variables, building contingency plans for contingencies.

When he catches me watching, his expression hardens into something cold and professional.

We haven’t spoken directly since yesterday’s briefing room blowup. Haven’t looked at each other except when necessity demands it. The space between us thrums with unresolved tension, words that cut too deep to heal with simple apologies.

“Primary breach point, south entrance,” Ethan announces, studying the tactical display. “Gabe and Walt, you’re first through. Hank follows with Blake and Carter. Rigel provides overwatch from the north stairwell.”

Standard formation.

Proven tactics.

Precisely the kind of methodical approach that’s kept us alive through missions that should have killed us.

It’s also precisely the kind of careful, calculated precision that’s been eating at me for three days.

Hank nods his approval of the plan. “We’ll take our time with this one. Methodical approach, systematic clearance. No unnecessary risks.”

Take our time.

The phrase sticks in my throat like glass. Three days ago, “taking our time” meant Ally was safe in her lab, probably wrestling with some quantum equation. Now it means going through training motions while she’s…

I force the thought away, but my jaw clenches involuntarily.

“Questions?” Ethan asks, scanning the team.

The word hangs in the air.

Questions?

I’ve got plenty of questions. Like, why are we running practice drills while our women are in hell? Like, why does every conversation include phrases about “proper intelligence” instead of action?

“All good,” I say, but the words come out clipped.

Walt glances over, that careful expression that means he’s reading the temperature in the room. Blake’s watching me too, probably noticing the way my hands keep flexing into fists.

“Breach in three,” Ethan’s voice crackles through comms as we approach the kill house. “Wait for my signal.”

I stack behind Walt at the entry point, muscles coiled with three days of accumulated frustration. Through my earpiece, Rigel confirms overwatch position. Blake reports breaching charges armed, and Carter settles into his position with the team.

Everything is by the book. Everything is calculated. Everything is designed to minimize risk through overwhelming coordination.

Everything feels like wasted time while Ally suffers.

“Two,” Ethan continues the countdown.

My finger taps against my rifle’s trigger guard. The movement is small, unconscious, but Walt notices. He shoots me a look over his shoulder—a question and a warning combined.

But I’m thinking about quantum signatures and all the hours we’ve spent talking instead of moving.

“One.”

Instead of waiting for the coordinated assault, I hit the door early. Alone. Without backup.

Frustration overrides years of tactical training.

The entry explodes inward as I breach the threshold, rifle up, scanning for targets.

The simulated environment unfolds before me—furniture arranged to create firing lanes, mannequins positioned as hostile targets, and sensors that will register hits and determine mission success or failure.

I should wait for backup. Should establish positions and advance systematically.

Instead, I push deeper into the structure, hunting targets with single-minded intensity.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hank’s roar fills the comm channel, raw fury bleeding through his usual control.

But it’s Ethan’s voice that cuts through the chaos: “Gabe, fall back and regroup. That’s an order.”

The first simulated hostile appears around a corner—a pop-up target designed to test reaction time and accuracy. I engage immediately, double-tap to center mass, moving forward before the target even registers the hit.

“Gabe, fall back NOW,” Ethan commands, team leader authority demanding compliance.

But I’m already committed. Already moving toward the stairwell, where intelligence suggests the hostages are being held. Already proving that sometimes action beats analysis.

It feels good to actually do something.

The second hostile catches me in a crossfire I should have anticipated. Would have anticipated if I’d waited for backup, if I’d followed protocol, if I’d trusted the team to do their jobs while I did mine.

The training laser tags me center mass.

I’m dead.

Simulation over.

Mission failure.

“Target down,” the automated system announces with mechanical indifference. “Exercise terminated.”

Static fills the comm channel. Not the comfortable silence of a team that’s just executed flawlessly, but the poisonous quiet that comes after someone has fucked up catastrophically.

---

The debrief room feels smaller than usual when we file in fifteen minutes later. CJ stands at the head of the conference table like a judge about to pronounce a sentence. He shows no emotion, but the way his fingers drum against the tabletop telegraphs controlled fury.

We take our seats—a team that just failed a basic exercise we should have dominated. The shame radiates off everyone like heat from a fever.

“Explain to me,” CJ begins, his voice carrying the weight of command authority and bitter disappointment, “how my best team just failed a drill that Academy recruits complete successfully.”

Silence stretches across the room. Walt stares at his hands. Blake’s jaw works silently. Carter’s cop instincts tell him to stay quiet and let someone else step on the landmine.

Ethan shifts in his chair, team leader responsibility weighing on his shoulders. “There was a breakdown in?—”

“My fault.” The words come out before Ethan can finish. “I jumped the gun.”

“Explain.” CJ’s flat stare locks onto mine.

The honest answer?

I’m sick of analyzing everything to death while our women suffer. Sick of Hank’s careful variables and contingency plans when what we need is action. Sick of “methodical approaches” and “systematic clearance,” when every second we waste planning could be Ally’s last breath.

The honest answer is that I snapped because I can’t stand one more second of tactical patience while the woman I love is in hell.

“No excuse,” I say instead.

But everyone knows the real story. That I’m coming apart at the seams and taking it out on the person closest to me. That I’ve been picking fights with Hank for three days because doing something—even something destructive—feels better than doing nothing.

That when you’re drowning in helplessness, the easiest target is the man who’s always been your anchor.

Hank’s hands clench into fists. Ethan’s heavy gaze darts between us, reading the fracture lines that started the moment our women disappeared. The way Walt and Blake exchange looks like they’ve been watching a slow-motion car crash, waiting for the inevitable impact.

“Charlie team is suspended from active deployment pending remedial training,” CJ announces, his words hitting like physical blows. “You’ll spend the next week running basic exercises until you remember how to function as a unit.”

Suspended.

The word tastes like ash. While Ally suffers in Malfor’s hands, we’ll be playing training games because I couldn’t control myself for five fucking minutes.

“CJ,” Ethan begins, “if we could just?—”

“The decision is final.” CJ’s tone brooks no argument. “When you can complete a basic hostage rescue without going cowboy, we’ll discuss operational deployment.”

He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Gabe, stay behind. The rest of you are dismissed.”