Page 20 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

NINETEEN

Faraday Cage

GABE

The gondola lurches as we hit the steeper section of track, wheels grinding against the rails with a metallic shriek that cuts through the ocean air.

Carter grips the safety rail beside me, but I let the momentum rock me forward, watching the cliff face slide past in layers of weathered stone and stubborn vegetation clinging to impossible angles.

The Pacific stretches endlessly ahead of us, afternoon sunlight turning the surface into hammered silver. Waves roll in steady sets, crashing against the rocky shoreline with enough force to send spray fifty feet up the cliff face. Beautiful, violent, relentless.

Like everything else in my life right now.

Below, the beach resolves into focus—small stones instead of sand, mixed with tide pools, scattered driftwood, and the small platform where this ride ends.

My ribs ache where Hank landed solid hits in the gym. The split on his lip is healing, but the fracture between us feels like it’s widening.

We bump to a stop, and Carter pushes the door open. The ocean breeze hits immediately, carrying the sharp scent of kelp and brine. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries mixing with the constant rumble of waves against stone.

I step off the platform onto uneven ground, boots crunching on a mixture of sand and rock. The beach stretches maybe two hundred yards before the cliff face curves away, creating a natural amphitheater protected from the worst of the wind.

And there, right in the center of it all, sits the most elaborate unlit bonfire I’ve ever seen.

Massive logs form a perfect circle, each one easily four feet across, weathered smooth by years of salt air. Inside the circle, stacks of driftwood and split lumber form a pyramid that stands eight feet tall.

Ready to light. Waiting for a match.

Everyone else lounges around the setup like they’re at some kind of tactical beach party.

Blake sits on a piece of driftwood that’s been worn into a natural bench, idly tossing pebbles toward the tide pools.

Rigel examines something in the rocks, probably cataloging marine life out of habit.

Walt and Ethan stand near the water’s edge, boots just out of reach of the advancing foam.

Hank leans against one of the massive logs, arms crossed, staring out at the horizon. Still not looking at me.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter to Carter as we approach the group.

He shrugs. “Looks like someone planned a barbecue.”

The whole scene has a weird communal vibe to it, like we’re here for some kind of team-building retreat instead of a tactical operation.

Which makes no fucking sense, because moving to the beach doesn’t solve our nanobot problem.

If those things are still active, they’re reporting our location, our conversations, our plans back to Malfor just as efficiently as they would anywhere else.

My suggestion about finding a secure location was supposed to be about isolation, not—whatever this is.

“Alright, gather ’round.” Mitzy’s voice cuts through the sound of waves and wind. She stands near the bonfire, toolkit in one hand, that characteristic grin spreading across her face. “Everyone, take a seat. Time for show and tell.”

The team moves slowly, settling onto logs and driftwood with the kind of reluctance that comes from too many briefings in uncomfortable locations. I find a spot on a sun-bleached log, deliberately not looking to see where Hank positions himself.

“So what’s going on?” Brady asks, voicing what we’re all thinking. “Why are we down here playing summer camp?”

“Yeah,” I add, my voice sharper than intended. “Last I checked, moving to a different location doesn’t magically solve our surveillance problem.”

Mitzy’s grin widens. “Oh, but it does. See, that’s the beautiful thing about this whole setup.” She gestures toward the gondola platform. “Do any of you know what a Faraday cage is?”

A few nods around the circle. Most of the guys have at least basic knowledge of electromagnetic principles.

“For those who don’t,” Mitzy continues, stepping into the center of our makeshift circle like she’s lecturing a physics class, “a Faraday cage is an enclosure made of conductive material that blocks electromagnetic fields. Named after Michael Faraday, who figured out in the 1830s that electricity flows around the outside of a conductor, not through it.”

She pulls a small device from her toolkit, something that looks like a handheld radio crossed with a smartphone.

“The principle is simple. Build a metal cage, and electromagnetic radiation—radio waves, microwaves, even electromagnetic pulses—can’t penetrate to the inside.

The electrical current flows around the cage, leaving the interior completely shielded. ”

Blake shifts on his driftwood bench. “Okay, but what does that have to do with?—”

“Everything.” Mitzy’s eyes find mine across the circle. “Gabe, when Ethan called and told me about your suggestion—finding a place where we could talk where the nanobots wouldn’t listen—it just lit up my mind.”

The pieces start clicking together in my head, but I let her explain.

“See, you may not have realized it, but that gondola is its own little Faraday cage. When you stepped in and took the ride down, we turned on the electromagnetic shielding. Inside that shielded environment, we emitted a small, controlled EMP burst.”

She holds up the device in her hand. “That EMP should have eliminated any nanobots on your person or embedded in your gear. Fried their circuits. Turned them into microscopic pieces of dust.”

The implications surged through me like a tidal wave. “You EMP’d us? Without warning?”

“Small burst. Targeted. Completely safe for biological tissue and shielded electronics.” Mitzy waves off my concern. “But lethal to nanoscale surveillance devices.”

Doc Summers steps forward, medical kit in hand. “Which is why we need to do some confirmation testing.”

She and Mitzy move around the circle, Doc Summers taking skin swabs from everyone while Mitzy runs a scanner over our gear. The process is methodical and clinical. Swab, scan, move to the next person.

When they finish, Mitzy claps her hands together. “Okay, you guys are cut loose. This is going to take a couple of hours to process.”

“Cut loose?” Walt looks around the group. “What do you mean, cut loose?”

Carter starts to stand, probably heading back toward the gondola. “We can head back up while you?—”

“Nope.” Mitzy shakes her head. “Everyone has to stay down here.”

“What the fuck?” The words explode out of me. “What do you mean, stay down here?”

“We need to confirm that the nanobots were deactivated,” Doc Summers explains, already setting up what looks like a portable lab station on a flat section of rock. “If any of you go back up to the compound before we know for certain, you could re-contaminate yourselves.”

Forest appears from somewhere near the tide pools, carrying a case of medical equipment. “Think of it as quarantine. Better safe than sorry.”

“How long?” Ethan asks, his team leader instincts kicking in.

“Couple hours, minimum.” Mitzy connects cables between various pieces of equipment. “Maybe longer, depending on what the analysis shows.”

She straightens, dusting grit off her hands, and grins at all of us. “You guys are on your own. Check out the tide pools. Skip some rocks. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

The dismissal is clear. We’re stuck here until further notice.

I look around the circle at the rest of the team. Blake’s already wandering toward the water. Rigel’s examining something in the rocks again. Walt and Carter are discussing the merits of different driftwood configurations.

Normal conversation. Casual banter. The kind of shit guys talk about when they’re not focused on missions or operations or life-and-death situations.

Hank remains where he is, leaning against his log, staring at the horizon like it holds answers to questions I can’t even guess at.

The afternoon sun hangs lower now, maybe two hours from dusk. The tide pools reflect the sky in perfect miniature, and somewhere in the distance, a seal barks from the rocks.

We’re stuck here. All of us. With nothing to do but wait.

And talk.

And the one person I need to talk to is giving me the fucking cold shoulder.

I push off my log and walk over to where Hank’s still leaning against his, arms crossed, studying the horizon like it’s a tactical map.