Page 22 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

TWENTY-ONE

Clean Slate

HANK

We follow Ethan across the rocky beach toward the massive bonfire setup. Smooth stones shift under our boots, the kind worn round by decades of Northern California surf. Tide pools dot the shoreline like scattered mirrors, reflecting the late-afternoon sky in perfect miniature.

Gabe walks beside me, not behind, not ahead.

With me.

Charlie team spreads around the unlit bonfire like they’ve been waiting for orders. Blake’s eyes immediately catalog Gabe’s swollen left eye.

I grab a seat on one of the weathered logs. Gabe settles beside me. It’s the way things should be, the two of us gravitating toward each other.

But that moment from just minutes ago still burns in my mind. When I took a swing at Gabe and he just—took it. Didn’t counter. Didn’t try to block. Just absorbed the hit like he deserved it.

That’s not the Gabe I’ve known for years. The Gabe who fights like a cornered animal when pushed. The Gabe who never backs down from anything.

The guilt is eating him alive and making him dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with explosives or tactical expertise.

Mitzy steps forward with Skye, both wearing expressions I haven’t seen since this nightmare began. Something that looks dangerously close to hope.

“Alright, everyone’s here,” Forest announces, his face showing the strain of three sleepless days. “Mitzy, Skye. What’s the verdict?”

Mitzy’s grin spreads across her face—the first genuine smile any of us have seen since this nightmare began. Her psychedelic hair catches the afternoon light as she raises a tablet displaying microscopic analysis results.

“Gentlemen, I have excellent news.”

The circle goes dead silent. Good news became a foreign concept the moment Harrison betrayed us.

“The improvised EMP pulse we administered during your gondola rides was completely effective.” She turns the tablet so we can see the data. “Zero active nanobots detected on any personnel. Zero contamination in the electronics you brought down. Zero quantum signatures in any biological samples.”

Skye steps beside her, medical scanner in hand. “We’ve tested everyone twice. Skin samples, blood work, full spectrum analysis.” Her warm brown eyes move around the circle, meeting each of our gazes. “You’re clean. All of you.”

The words detonate through the group like incoming artillery fire. Ethan lets out a long breath he’s been holding for days. Blake actually laughs—short and sharp, but real. Walt’s shoulders drop as the tension he’s been carrying since Malia disappeared finally releases.

“About fucking time,” Ethan mutters, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“No more performing for that bastard,” Blake adds, something approaching relief creeping into his voice.

But even as the good news settles over us, reality reasserts itself. Being clean doesn’t bring the women home.

Ethan voices what we’re all thinking. “This is temporary, though. The moment we go back up to the compound…”

“Recontamination,” I finish, the implications crystal clear. “We’ll be compromised again within hours.”

Mitzy nods grimly. “Which is why, from this point forward, all critical meetings happen here. This beach is our clean zone. Our sanctuary. The only place we know with absolute certainty that we can speak freely.”

Forest moves to the center of the circle, command presence asserting itself.

“That’s not just a recommendation. That’s operational protocol.

Real meetings happen here, on this beach, where we know things are clean.

Up there, we’re performing for Malfor, and you need to think of it like that.

We’re starting a campaign of misinformation specifically for him.

Down here is where we do the real planning. Where we know it’s safe.”

“What about coordination with the other teams?” Rigel asks, always thinking about the larger tactical picture.

“Limited,” Forest admits. “We’ll maintain normal operational facades when we’re back up there. Standard briefings, routine communications. But anything that matters—anything that could compromise our ability to find them—gets discussed here.”

Sam rises from his position on a smooth boulder, drawing our attention—Forest’s slight nod transfers operational command.

“Listen up,” Sam begins, his voice carrying the weight of battlefield leadership I’ve heard in a dozen combat zones. “Being clean means we can finally plan without enemy surveillance, but we still have a fundamental problem.”

He pauses, letting the gravity of our situation settle over the group.

“The trackers in Stitch and Jenna aren’t broadcasting. They’re not responding to pings. Until we get a location, there’s nothing for the Guardian teams to do except wait for actionable intelligence.”

The admission burns through my chest, but it’s accurate. Without target coordinates, all our tactical expertise becomes meaningless.

Walt’s voice carries the weight of Malia’s absence. “So what do we do? Just sit here and wait?”

“No,” CJ interjects, his massive frame commanding attention as he steps forward. “We work the problem from every angle. And we’re not working alone anymore.”

“Collins?” Ethan asks.

Sam nods. “Ally’s father is deploying serious resources. Corporate assets, private contractors, research facilities. This just became a different kind of war.”

I process the implications. Robert Collins has the kind of financial backing that can move mountains when properly motivated. And losing his daughter twice to the same enemy? That’s the kind of motivation that reshapes entire landscapes.

“What kind of war?” Carter asks, his tactical mind already working through possibilities.

“Two-fronted,” Mitzy answers, excitement building in her tone.

“One part of this war will be conducted exactly as Malfor expects—where we have to assume he can see and hear everything we do. Our misinformation campaign. Traditional Guardian operations, visible deployments, obvious tactical responses.”

Blake leans forward on his driftwood seat. “And the other part?”

“Complete black operations,” Sam continues. “A close team of Mitzy’s best AI experts working with Collins’s nanotech specialists. Their mission is twofold—find a way to locate the women, and eliminate the nanobots entirely.”

“Or better yet,” Mitzy adds, her grin turning predatory, “use the nanobots to launch our own Trojan horse directly into Malfor’s infrastructure.”

I like it. Dual operational tracks—one visible, one invisible. Force Malfor to fight on multiple fronts while never knowing the true scope of our capabilities.

“Timeline?” I ask because operational parameters always matter.

Mitzy’s excitement dims slightly. “Unknown. The quantum entanglement technology is beyond anything I’ve reverse-engineered before.” She shrugs. “But with Collins’s specialists and resources backing us up, maybe we get lucky.”

“And in the meantime?” Walt’s question carries desperation he’s trying to hide.

“In the meantime, we maintain operational discipline,” CJ responds. “Visible operations continue as normal. Training drills. Guardian teams deploying on actual missions—all except Charlie team. We respond to calls, run missions, and maintain the image that we’re operating under normal conditions.”

“While the real work happens here,” Forest adds, approval clear in his weathered features. “Every piece of critical intelligence gets processed in this clean zone.”

I absorb the new operational paradigm, adjusting my mental frameworks to accommodate the shift. It’s sound tactical doctrine—compartmentalized intelligence, multiple operational tracks, strategic deception.

But the fundamental variable remains unchanged. Ally is still missing. They’re all still missing.

Rigel asks the question that’s been burning in all our minds. “Collins’s resources? What exactly are we talking about?”

Sam’s expression grows thoughtful. “Tech billionaire resources. The kind of money that can buy access to information networks, hire the best specialists, and deploy corporate assets in ways that complement our tactical capabilities.”

“Manpower?” Brady asks.

“Intelligence gathering,” CJ clarifies. “Collins has connections in the tech world that we don’t. Corporate espionage capabilities, financial tracking, and digital forensics. Different tools for a different kind of war.”

It makes sense. The most crucial advantage Collins brings isn’t just money or connections—it’s the ability to establish a completely clean facility.

Somewhere separate from all nanobots, where his specialists can work without Malfor’s surveillance.

We don’t have that luxury at Guardian HRS.

Every time we go back up that cliff, we’re compromised again, and if we do something about the nanobots, that tips our hand, letting him know we’re aware of the infestation.

“So we wait,” Gabe states, resignation bleeding through controlled fury. It’s the first time he’s spoken since we sat down, and his voice carries an edge I don’t like.

“We wait strategically ,” Sam corrects. “Every hour we’re clean is an hour we can use for preparation. For planning. When coordinates come in, we need to be ready to move fast and hit harder than Malfor expects.”

The circle settles into a different kind of quiet. Not the desperate silence of the past three days, but something approaching patience. The kind that comes when operators finally have a plan, even if that plan requires waiting for the right moment to execute.

The strategy feels solid. More solid than anything we’ve had since this nightmare began. But it still requires the one thing none of us wants to accept.

Patience.

“We’re setting up a temporary field office here,” Mitzy explains. “A way to search for evidence of where they are.”

“How?”

“Not sure, to be honest.” Mitzy shrugs. “But he took Stitch and Ally. Between the two of them, I have to think they’re going to do whatever it takes to send a message. Some way to tell us where they are.” She doesn’t say the obvious thing because none of us wants to hear it.

If Guardian HRS were going to find them, we would have already. We’ve exploited every advantage, yet we’ve nothing to show for it. Finding our women rests with them now.

The sun hangs lower now, painting the waves in shades of gold and crimson. Tide pools reflect the changing sky like scattered mirrors across the rocky shore. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, Ally and the others wait for rescue.

None of it is possible unless they find a way to reach us.

No comms. No trackers. No clean tech. Nothing but the minds of two people caught in Malfor’s cage.

We’re blind.

Deaf.

Waiting in the dark while the people we love are being used as pawns in a game we’re already losing.

No signals. No trackers. No way in.

If Ally and Stitch don’t find a way to send us a message—something clever enough to slip past Malfor’s surveillance and brutal enough to cut through the noise?—

Then this beach becomes our graveyard.

Not just for hope.

For them.