Page 14 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)
FOURTEEN
Compromised
GABE
The team files out in silence, leaving me alone with CJ’s judgment. They gather outside—Ethan’s shoulders rigid with command stress, Walt shaking his head, Blake’s fists clenched.
And Hank. Standing apart from the others, staring back at the building with an expression that makes my chest tighten.
“Seventy-six hours,” CJ says quietly, settling back into his chair. “Seventy-six hours since the women were taken, and you just sabotaged your team’s readiness to get them back.”
The words hit like armor-piercing rounds. “I?—”
“You’re compromised.” The assessment cuts through my attempt at explanation. “Emotionally, tactically, operationally. The Gabe I know would never abandon his team in a firefight.”
“The Gabe you know never had to watch the woman he loves disappear.”
“Neither has the rest of your team.” CJ’s voice stays level, which makes it worse. “You think you’re the only one suffering? The only one desperate to bring them home?”
The question hits because I do think that. Have been thinking that. Wrapped so deep in my rage that I’ve forgotten everyone else is bleeding too.
“What I think,” CJ continues, “is that you’re so busy being angry at Hank for not moving fast enough that you’ve forgotten how to be angry at the right target.”
“Hank’s not the problem?—”
“Hank’s the only reason this team functions.
He’s your anchor. His planning keeps you alive.
His discipline compensates for your impulses.
” CJ leans forward. “And now you’re destroying it.
Tearing apart the most effective partnership in Guardian HQ because you can’t handle the fact that getting Ally Collins back requires patience instead of explosives. ”
The truth burns like acid. Because everything I’ve accomplished, every mission I’ve survived—it’s all been built on the foundation of Hank’s steady presence.
“Learn some fucking patience.” CJ stands, moving toward the door. “Because right now, you’re more dangerous to your team than Malfor is.”
He pauses at the threshold. “One week. One week to remember who you are and why your team trusts you with their lives. Fuck this up, and I’ll transfer you to a desk where your emotional compromises can’t get good people killed.”
---
My teammates wait in the hallway. Not dispersed. Not gone. Standing there like they’ve been holding a vigil for my sanity.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with three days of accumulated tension and the fresh wound of our suspension.
“Meeting room,” Ethan says quietly. “Now.”
We file back into the conference room we just vacated. The air still carries the weight of CJ’s disappointment, but something else has shifted. Something darker.
Blake settles into his chair, jaw tight. “Getting emotional won’t fix this, Gabe.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Emotional?” Like I’m some fucking rookie who can’t keep his shit together. I’m in his face before I realize I’ve moved, chest bumping against his. “Six women are gone, Blake. Our women. And you want me to stay calm like some fucking robot?”
My hands ball into fists, knuckles cracking. Every muscle coiled for violence. “Easy for you to say, isn’t it? Sophia’s safe. Luke’s safe. You don’t have skin in this game.”
The words are out before I can stop them, before I can think about what I’m saying.
“What the hell did you just say to me?” Blake’s chair hits the floor as he surges to his feet.
The room goes electric. Everyone else freezes.
“Whoa, hold up, Gabe—” Ethan starts, hands raised.
“Not cool, man,” Rigel says sharply. “That’s way out of line.”
Carter steps forward. “Gabe, you need to apologize right now.”
It’s all a buzz of static.
“Not taking it back. You heard me.” But even as the words come out, I know I’ve crossed a line. “Your family’s tucked away nice and safe while?—”
“How dare you?” Blake’s voice drops to something dangerous, deadly quiet.
His hands slam into my chest, shoving me back a step.
“How fucking dare you talk to me like I don’t bleed with you.
” Another shove, harder this time, making me stumble.
“Like I don’t breathe with you. Like, I don’t fight with you. Like, I wouldn’t die for you.”
But I surge forward again, shoving him back just as hard. “Yeah? Then where the fuck were you when they needed you? Where were you when Harrison walked through our front door?”
“Those women are like sisters to me, you piece of shit. Ally’s my little sister.
Jenna’s my little sister. Rebel, Mia, Malia, Stitch—every single one of them.
And if you think for one goddamn second that I don’t feel every moment they’re gone like a knife in my chest, then you don’t know me at all. ”
The raw pain in his voice hits like a physical blow, but rage has its hooks in me now, driving me forward past reason, past brotherhood.
“Then why aren’t you doing something about it?”
“Whoa, you’re totally out of line.” Carter springs to his feet, defending his twin. “Take that back.”
I round on Carter, heat blazing through my chest like napalm. “You’re just a freaking stand-in. You’re not even really part of this team.” I’m in his face now, jabbing my finger into his chest with each word. “You got fast-tracked because your girlfriend got taken. That doesn’t make you one of us.”
Carter’s jaw tightens, cop instincts warring with the urge to hit back. “That woman out there is my world, and I’ll be damned if I let you or anyone else tell me I don’t belong in the fight to get her back.”
“And what’s your brilliant plan, Carter?” The words come out like venom. “More cop psychology? You think you can talk Malfor into giving them back?”
“And what would you have us do?” Blake’s control starts to fray. “Storm off half-cocked without a plan?”
“Better than sitting on our asses making plans that get transmitted to the enemy in real time.”
“Look, we’re all frustrated—” Rigel spreads his hands, trying to find middle ground.
“Frustrated?” The word comes out like a roar. I take a step toward him, fists still clenched. “Frustrated is when your coffee order gets fucked up. This is systematic failure on every level.”
“That’s enough.” Ethan stands, movement sharp.
“Is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like we’re all real good at talking and real shit at actually doing anything.”
That’s when Hank speaks.
Cool. Measured. Clinical as always.
“We need actionable intelligence before we can mount an effective operation.”
The sound of his voice—that same controlled precision he uses when the world is burning—detonates what’s left of my restraint.
“Actionable intelligence?” I spin toward him, heat blazing through my chest. “We need ACTION. Period. While you’re sitting there analyzing variables, Ally could be dead. They all could be dead.”
“We follow protocol.” Hank delivers each word with military precision.
“Fuck protocol.” The words explode between us like shrapnel. “Six women kidnapped because we didn’t see the infiltration coming.”
Hank’s jaw tightens—the only sign my words hit their target. “Operating without intelligence gets people killed.”
“Operating without urgency gets people killed.” I step closer, invading his space. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Everything’s just another equation to solve.”
“And everything’s just another target to blow up for you.” His voice drops, carrying an edge I recognize. Dangerous territory. “That’s not how we get them back.”
“At least I want to get them back.” The words explode out of me, spittle flying. “At least I’m not sitting here calculating acceptable losses while Ally is being tortured.”
Hank’s eyes go flat, deadly calm. “You think I don’t want Ally back? You think I’m not dying inside thinking about her in that bastard’s hands?”
“I think you’re too fucking controlled to feel anything.” I’m chest-to-chest now, close enough to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “I think you’ve compartmentalized getting her back into a tactical problem.”
“You’re too fucked up to think straight.” His voice stays level, which makes it worse. “Emotion compromises judgment. Always has with you.”
“Emotion?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just raw violence looking for a target. “You want to see emotion? You want to see what happens when I stop thinking and start feeling?”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Everyone else fades into background noise. None of it matters.
Just me and Hank.
Staring at each other across a chasm that’s been building for days.
“Outside.” Hank’s voice cuts through the static in my skull. “Now.”
“Fuck off.” The words come out like a snarl. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
His hand clamps down on my arm like a steel trap, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to bruise.
“You want to fight about this? Then we fight. But not here. Not when you’re like this.” His voice drops to that command tone that’s gotten us through a hundred operations. “Get the fuck outside, Gabe.”
“Let go of me.” I try to jerk away, but his grip tightens.
“Move.” He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. The authority in it cuts through my rage like a blade. Even pissed off and spiraling, part of me recognizes the hierarchy in our relationship.
I plant my feet, try to resist, but Hank’s got leverage and momentum. He drags me toward the door, my boots sliding against the polished floor.
“You’re tearing apart the team when we need to be united.” His grip never loosens as he hauls me down the corridor. “You want to lose your shit? Fine. But you do it with me, not them.”
The team watches in stunned silence as Hank marches me out of the conference room like I’m some kind of unruly animal. My face burns, but the fury burning in my chest is stronger.
---
It’s been seventy-six hours, fifty-seven minutes.
Charlie team is suspended.
Ally is still missing.
And the partnership that defined my life is lying in pieces because I couldn’t control my rage for five fucking minutes. All because I forgot that when you’re drowning, you don’t drag down the people trying to save you. Least of all, your anchor.