Page 23 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

TWENTY-TWO

Uneasy Allies

GABE

Two days back from the beach and nanobots have reestablished their microscopic surveillance network. Every breath is monitored. Every conversation is transmitted. Every tactical discussion feeds directly back to Malfor.

The knowledge sits in my gut like swallowed glass.

Hank falls into step beside me as we approach the Charlie team ready room.

We don’t talk about the beach. Don’t acknowledge the moment when guilt made me absorb his punch instead of defending myself. Right now, everything centers on Ally. Personal grievances get filed under “deal with later” until she’s home.

But we’re back and united, if a little bruised and battered. Hank and I will make it through this. I no longer doubt it.

The ready room buzzes with the kind of restless energy that comes from operators with nothing to operate on.

Blake sits at the table pretending to read equipment manifests, but I catch him reading the same line three times.

Walt stares at his coffee like it holds answers to questions he’s afraid to ask.

The mug trembles slightly in his grip—barely noticeable unless you know what to look for.

Rigel cleans gear that’s already pristine, the repetitive motion keeping his hands busy while his mind races.

Carter maintains his usual vigilant silence, but tension radiates off him in waves, and his fingers drum Morse code patterns against his thigh, probably spelling out violent threats against our enemies.

Hank drops into a chair, fingers drumming against the table. “So we’re just gonna sit here with our thumbs up our asses while they’re out there?”

“What else do you want to do?” Ethan glances at him. “Storm random buildings until we find them?”

“Better than this bullshit.” Blake doesn’t look up from his manifest, but his voice carries the kind of edge that comes from too much caffeine and too little sleep. “Sitting around talking about equipment rotations while our women are God knows where is exhausting .”

“You could always clean your rifle again,” Rigel suggests without looking up from his gear. “Pretty sure I saw a speck of dust on the barrel.”

“Fuck off,” Blake mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.

Walt shifts in his seat, the movement sharp and agitated. “It’s been days…” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s chewing glass.

“I know, man.” Carter’s voice is quiet, steady. “We all know.”

The silence that follows carries weight. Each of us is lost in our version of hell, our imaginations going wild with what might be happening to the women we love.

However, we can’t discuss it. Not here. Not with nanobots recording every word for Malfor’s entertainment.

“Anyone catch the game last night?” Ethan asks, the question so obviously forced that it would be laughable under different circumstances.

“What game?” Rigel plays along, understanding the need for normal conversation.

“I dunno. Lakers? Thought maybe the distraction would help.” Ethan’s admission carries more honesty than the casual question suggested.

“Did they even play last night?” Blake asks.

“No idea.” Ethan tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.

Walt snorts. “Nothing’s gonna help until they’re home.”

The honesty cuts through our attempts to pretend this is just another day. Because Walt’s right.

Food tastes like cardboard.

Sleep comes in fractured nightmares.

Even breathing feels wrong when the most important people in our lives are missing.

The conversation hangs in the air, loaded with implications we can’t voice. Plans we can’t discuss. Promises we can’t make out loud. But the understanding passes between us anyway—when this is over, Malfor won’t just pay for what he’s done.

He’ll suffer for it.

We’re each taking a piece of him.

A knock on the door interrupts the growing tension. CJ enters, carrying a carefully neutral expression that indicates he has intel he can’t share in this contaminated space.

“Gentlemen.” His eyes sweep the room, making contact with each of us. “I need everyone at Insanity this evening. Consider it a team-building exercise following your catastrophic failure the other day on the hostage drill.”

The phrasing is careful. Deliberate. Anyone listening would hear about plans for team-bonding activities. Those of us who know better understand precisely what he’s saying.

Evening fog rolls in from the Pacific as Charlie team makes the familiar trek to Insanity.

The gondola waits at the cliff edge like a portal between contaminated and clean worlds.

One by one, we step into the metal cage, submit to Mitzy’s EMP decontamination, and descend toward the only place on earth where honest conversation becomes possible.

The beach bonfire blazes against gathering darkness when we arrive.

Massive logs arranged in perfect formation, flames reaching toward stars emerging between breaks in coastal fog.

Sam and CJ stand near the edge of the fire, their faces painted by the dancing firelight.

Mitzy crouches beside her equipment array, psychedelic hair catching fire-glow as she monitors decontamination readings.

And there, sitting on weathered driftwood with silver hair immaculate despite the beach environment, is Robert Collins.

Ally’s father. Tech billionaire. The man whose resources could reshape this war. The man whose daughter sleeps in our bed and calls us both the loves of her life. Two men who navigate an uneasy truce.

His pale-blue eyes track our approach with the kind of sharp focus that built corporate empires. When they land on me, then shift to Hank, I catch something that might be resignation flickering across his features.

This is the reality he’s had to accept. His daughter chose both of us. Not one or the other—both. And whatever his personal feelings about that arrangement, he’s smart enough to know, that right now, we’re his best hope of getting her back alive.

“Mr. Collins, thanks for coming down here.” Sam takes point on what promises to be delicate diplomatic terrain.

Collins rises from his driftwood perch with easy confidence that speaks to expensive trainers and disciplined self-care. His handshake carries boardroom authority—firm, controlled, weighted with hostile takeovers and corporate negotiations.

“Forest gave me the basics, but I’m guessing there’s shit you couldn’t say over normal channels.” His voice commands even in this informal setting.

“More than shit. We’re completely fucked.” CJ’s response carries grim finality.

Collins’s eyes sharpen. “How fucked?”

“These nanobots aren’t just listening devices. They’re full infiltration tech. AI colonies designed for long-term intelligence gathering and network penetration.” Mitzy steps forward, tablet in hand, technical enthusiasm barely contained despite the gravity of our situation.

She activates the display, showing microscopic images that make my skin crawl with how thoroughly we’ve been violated.

“Every conversation for the past three months. Every planning session. Every private moment. That bastard has recordings of everything.” Her voice carries scientific fascination warring with human revulsion.

Collins processes this with the kind of clinical detachment that made him successful in cutthroat industries.

“Harrison.” The name carries more weight than a death sentence.

“Your head of security didn’t bring in the nanobots. The Kazakhstan survivors carried them in. Ally, Malia, Malikai—they were infected during captivity. The nanobots spread from there.” Sam’s confirmation cuts through Collins’s assumptions.

“Twenty years. Twenty fucking years I trusted that man with my daughter’s life.” Collins speaks more to himself than to us. The betrayal cuts deeper when it comes from someone who is supposed to protect.

I recognize the particular rage building behind his expression—cold fury that comes when trust gets weaponized against you.

“We need your help setting up operations outside Malfor’s surveillance network. A clean facility where tech specialists can work without contamination.” Mitzy steps forward, her technical expertise taking point on the explanation.

Collins’s gaze shifts between Hank and me, assessment sharp as surgical steel. “And in return?”

“We get your daughter back.” I let an edge creep into my voice. The implied challenge hangs in salt air between us— do you doubt we can do it?

Something passes across Collins’s features.

Not doubt exactly. More like distaste wrapped in paternal protectiveness.

He’s watching two men who share his daughter’s bed, who’ve seen her in ways that make fathers uncomfortable, who represent everything about her adult life that exists outside his control.

“The facility’s not a problem. I’ve got corporate research sites that can be completely isolated and secured within hours.

But we need to be clear about what we’re discussing here.

” His response comes after careful consideration.

“Whoever goes in can’t come out. They go in, get EMP’d to destroy any nanobots, then they stay locked inside working on a solution. Complete isolation until this is over.”

Collins’s jaw tightens. He’s accustomed to controlling situations through financial leverage and corporate influence. Guardian protocols don’t accommodate billionaire micromanagement. He shifts that attention to me and Hank.

“You love her.” His voice carries grudging acknowledgment.

“More than our own lives.” Hank’s confirmation rings with absolute certainty.

“Enough to die for her,” I add steel to the promise.

Collins nods slowly. “Then we’re on the same page.”

“So what can you give us?” Sam steps back into the conversation before tension can reignite.

Collins’s demeanor shifts back to corporate efficiency. “I’ve got a research campus in Palo Alto that can be completely cut off from all external networks. Clean rooms designed for quantum computing.”

“Faraday cage setup?” Mitzy’s eyes light up with technical enthusiasm.