Page 15 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIFTEEN

The Fight

GABE

The Guardian HRS gymnasium occupies an entire football field. It’s an industrial space with exposed steel beams overhead, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across rubber flooring. Spray mats cover the center area—a familiar arena where we’ve worked through countless conflicts over the years.

But this feels different. Charged. Dangerous.

Ethan follows us in. He knows what this is. What it could become. His presence serves as both witness and insurance—someone to call a halt if we cross lines we can’t uncross.

“This is about the exercise,” Hank says as we enter the gym. “About you going rogue.”

“This is about you being too fucking careful while our women are out there getting tortured.”

“And this is about you thinking with your dick instead of your brain.”

That’s when I know we’re going to fight. Really fight. Not spar, not train. Fight like enemies instead of brothers. Hank wants to get personal?

Well, I can give him that.

“Strip down,” Hank says, already pulling off his tactical shirt.

I shed my gear, muscles coiled with three days of accumulated rage. The familiar ritual should calm me. Usually does. But today the anger burns hotter, more personal.

We step onto the mats.

Hank moves first—a testing takedown attempt that I counter easily. Standard grappling. Light contact. Feeling each other out.

But my energy’s too high, my movements too aggressive. What should be controlled technique comes out sharp and violent. When I go for an arm drag, I use more force than necessary.

Hank responds by using precise counters that make me look sloppy.

Which pisses me off more.

“Talk to me.” Hank slips out of my attempted triangle choke.

Slippery fucker.

“Nothing to talk about.” I explode up from the mat, reset our positions. “We should be hunting that bastard instead of rolling around on fucking mats. She’s out there.” The words come out strangled as I break his grip. “Probably hurt. Scared. And we’re twiddling our thumbs on training exercises.”

“Rushing in blind gets everyone killed.”

The calm certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. All that rage I’ve been containing, all that helpless fury at watching Ally disappear into Malfor’s hands—it needs somewhere to go.

I throw a real punch.

Not sparring contact. Not training intensity. A real hit meant to hurt.

Hank slips it by millimeters, counters by taking me down hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. His knee settles across my chest, pinning me down.

“You done?” he asks.

Instead of answering, I buck hard, use my hips to throw him off balance, then scramble to my feet. This isn’t sparring anymore.

This is fighting.

“You don’t get it,” I growl, circling him like a predator. “You never get it. Everything is just a tactical problem to solve. But she’s not a fucking variable, Hank. She’s?—”

“What?” His voice carries an edge now, control fraying. “What is she, Gabe?”

“Mine.” The word tears out of me raw and primal.

“What the fuck?” Hank’s voice explodes, all that controlled precision shattered.

“Yours? She’s yours?” His hands slam into my chest, driving me backward.

“I’ve heard a lot of me’s and mine’s out of you lately.

You’re a fucking bastard, she’s OURS . I’m dying on the inside just like you, and you going off the deep end isn’t helping anyone. It sure as shit isn’t helping Ally.”

He lands a series of punches—hard, precise hits to my ribs, my shoulder, each hit punctuating his words. I block what I can, but his rage finds its target.

“That better be the last fucking time you claim her as your own, fucktard. She belongs to both of us.”

“Shit, is that what this is about? A pronoun?”

“When you start claiming her as yours instead of ours , you bet that’s what this is about.

” His voice breaks on the last word—raw, guttural, not just anger but pain.

I barely register the shift before his fist slams into my jaw.

White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes as my head jerks to the side with a crack.

“She belongs to both of us,” he snarls, following it up with a punch to my ribs that knocks the air from my lungs. “Not just you. Not just me. Us . She doesn’t belong to you.”

“Shit, it was just a?—”

His fist crashes into my face again, fiercer this time. No holding back. No warning. My vision blurs, and blood fills my mouth. I stumble, trying to stay upright, but he’s already moving.

He drives his knee into my gut. My body folds, instincts screaming, but there’s no time to recover. His elbow slams down across my back like a battering ram, dropping me hard to the mats.

I hit with a grunt, stunned. The room spins.

“You selfish piece of shit,” Hank spits, voice cracking like thunder. “You think you’re the only one who loves her? You think you’re the only one who’s fucking destroyed?”

Another kick to my ribs as I try to get up. Real violence. Calculated brutality from a man who’s spent years learning exactly how to hurt people.

“I held her when she had nightmares about Kazakhstan. I watched her smile when she felt safe again. I felt her trust when she submitted to me.” Each word comes with another strike—fists, knees, elbows. “She’s mine too, you fucking psychopath.”

I roll away, blood in my mouth, but Hank follows. Relentless. His boot catches me in the shoulder, spinning me across the mat.

“Every second she’s gone, I die a little more. Every breath feels like I’m drowning, but I don’t get to fall apart because someone has to think clearly enough to get her back.”

He drops down, pins me with his knee across my throat. Pressure building. Stars dancing at the edges of my vision.

“And you…” His voice drops to something deadly, unrecognizable. “You want to throw it all away because you can’t handle sharing her with me. Is that what this is? You think she’s fucking yours?”

“She may call you Sir, but she kneels for me. Suffers for me.” I drive my elbow into his ribs, hard. “She cries for me.”

Hank freezes for a split second—just enough.

I twist, break the chokehold, and slam my forearm into his throat as we flip. We’re both bleeding, panting, torn between killing each other and collapsing under the weight of what we’ve lost.

I refuse to tap out. Use dirty techniques to break free. Elbow strikes that would be illegal in competition. The controlled violence we usually share becomes something uglier. More personal.

“This isn’t about Ally,” Hank says, breathing harder now. “This is about you needing someone to blame.”

“Fuck you.”

We crash together again, grappling to hurt. Sweat makes our grips slippery. Breathing comes in sharp bursts. My shoulder screams where it impacts the mat wrong.

“You want to know what this is about?” I hook his leg and take him down harder than necessary. “This is about you sitting there like a fucking robot while the woman we love suffers.”

“And you losing your shit helps, how exactly?” The clinical tone in his voice—even now, even with me trying to hurt him—destroys the last of my control.

I land a solid hit that actually rocks him. Hard enough to split his lip.

Blood on his mouth. Surprise in his eyes.

For a heartbeat, we both freeze.

Then Hank’s counter comes harder than it needs to. A warning. His elbow connects with my ribs hard enough to make me see stars.

We’re both breathing hard now. Sweat-slicked. Real anger bleeding through. We’re about to cross a line we can’t uncross.

“Stop.” Ethan’s voice cuts through our labored breathing. “Both of you. Just fucking stop.”

We separate slowly, warily. Like animals backing away from a fight that almost turned lethal.

Hank wipes blood from his lip. I press a palm to my ribs, feeling for damage.

We stare at each other across a chasm that feels like miles.

“We’re falling apart.” The admission tastes like eating lead, but it’s fitting. I’ve been an ass, and not just to Hank. I owe several apologies. “When we need each other most, we’re fucking falling apart.”

“Yeah.” Hank’s voice carries cold fury. “Because you can’t lock down your emotions long enough to think straight. Because you’d rather tear apart the team.”

The silence stretches.

That’s when it hits me. The solution burns through the rage and frustration like white phosphorus.

“We need somewhere these fucking things can’t hear us.”

Hank’s eyes sharpen, tactical wheels already turning.

“We’re infested. ” Hank takes a step back and wipes blood from his mouth. “Or did you snooze during that part of the briefing?”

“Don’t be an ass. I didn’t snooze.” I press my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the rage and pain. “But we need somewhere they can’t hear us. Somewhere without electronics, without… Fuck!”

My brain spins through options. Guardian HRS is compromised. Every building, every room, every piece of equipment is crawling with those microscopic spies. Even if we go off-compound, how do we know we’re clean? How do we know they haven’t spread to our vehicles, our gear?

“Forest mentioned a Faraday cage.” Hank wipes blood from his split lip.

“Maybe, but who knows if these quantum things follow normal electromagnetic rules?” I pace across the mats, boots squeaking against rubber. Think, dammit. Somewhere without tech. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere, the nanobots couldn’t have spread.

“Water,” I say suddenly. “Saltwater disrupts electronics. If we go somewhere remote enough…” An idea starts forming, pieces clicking together like an explosive device assembly.

“The beach.” The solution crystallizes as I speak. Below Insanity. Doc Summers’ and Forest’s place. No tech down there. Nothing but sand and saltwater and the sound of waves.”

For the first time in three days, something like hope flickers in Hank’s expression.

“We’ll need to get everyone clean first.” Hank slips back into operational mode as if we didn’t just try to kill each other. “EMP exposure to fry any nanobots. Then move to a secure location for actual planning.”

“Now you’re talking.”

But Hank’s eyes stay cold. Blood trickles from his split lip, and when he wipes it away, his gaze never leaves mine. He’s compartmentalizing what happened between us, filing it away for later reckoning.

I know that look. I’ve seen it when he’s about to eliminate a target.

“Hank—”

“We’re not done with this conversation.” His voice cuts through my attempt at reconciliation. “Don’t think for a second this is over. What we need to focus on right now is how to get them back. Until then, I’m not dealing with your shit.”

He stands slowly, favoring his ribs where I landed a solid hit. When he looks at me, there’s something broken in his eyes. Something that might never heal.

“You think I’m going to forget what you said?” His voice stays deadly quiet, but I hear the fury underneath. “You claimed her like I was nothing. I won’t forget. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

The words hit harder than any punch he threw because I know Hank. When he says never, he means it.

“Look. I fucked up, and that’s not what I meant. I would never cut you out of what we have with Ally. I was lost and confused and enraged and fucked in the head. She’s ours . Always will be.” I run a hand through my hair to hide its shaking.

Did I fuck it all up? I hope not.

But I can’t take back the words I said. Somehow, I’ll have to make it up to Hank. To him. To Blake. To Carter. Hell, to the whole damn team. It’s time I stop my personal pity party and get to work.

The fracture between us doesn’t evaporate—it widens. Every breath, every heartbeat drives the wedge deeper. He won’t forget what I said about Ally being mine. Won’t forgive the claim I tried to make.

“I’m not going to apologize for loving her, but I know I fucked up. I’ll lock it down.”

“You better.” He points vaguely in the direction of Charlie team’s bullpen. “And you’ve got apologies to make. The shit you said to Blake? To Carter?” Hank shakes his head. “Fix it. As for us, Ally needs both of us. You can’t give her what she needs. You’re not enough for that.”