Page 31 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Emergency Response

GABE

Mitzy’s alarm cuts through our mission planning like a fire alarm in a munitions depot. Everything stops. Every conversation dies. Every head snaps toward her analysis station where lights flash patterns I’ve never seen before.

“What kind of spike?” Sam barks, command authority cutting through sudden tension as he moves toward Mitzy’s equipment.

“Massive quantum entanglement activity,” Mitzy responds, fingers flying across her tablet interface. “The signature is coming directly from the target coordinates. Whatever’s happening there, it’s happening right now.”

I’m on my feet, moving toward her station with the rest of Charlie team. The equipment displays show wave patterns that look like seismic readings during an earthquake, except these measure quantum communications instead of ground movement.

“Could be facility preparation,” CJ suggests, his massive frame leaning over Mitzy’s shoulder to study the readouts.

“Or prisoner movement,” Forest adds grimly.

“Or execution prep,” Walt states with brutal honesty, voicing what we’re all thinking.

The words hit like incoming artillery. Ally could be dying right now while we sit here planning training exercises and forty-eight-hour verification protocols.

“How confident are we in this reading?” Hank asks, his analytical brain still processing data while mine screams for immediate action.

“Completely confident,” Mitzy responds without hesitation.

“This isn’t equipment malfunction or atmospheric interference.

Something major is happening at those coordinates.

The quantum activity suggests either massive data transfer or…

” She pauses, checking her readings again.

“Or they’re preparing to move the entire operation. ”

“Relocate?” Blake asks.

“Yes,” Mitzy confirms. “If Malfor knows we’re coming, he might be evacuating the facility. Moving the hostages. Destroying evidence.”

The tactical situation becomes crystal clear, like det cord laid out for maximum destruction. We have a window of opportunity that’s closing fast. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. Not the forty-eight hours we had planned for verification and preparation.

“We go tonight,” I state before anyone else can voice what we’re all thinking.

“Tonight?” Collins’s voice carries desperate hope mixed with fear. “Can we be ready?”

“We have to be,” I respond, my chest tightening with that familiar pre-explosion tension. “Because if we wait for perfect conditions, there might not be anyone left to rescue.”

Sam and Forest exchange looks. They feel the shift from deliberate planning to emergency response. CJ consults his tactical notes, already calculating revised timelines. Ethan’s team leader instincts engage, processing equipment requirements and coordination challenges.

“Cerberus won’t make it in time,” Sam observes, pulling out his secure communication device. “I’ll contact Mason, see if they can provide backup support from a secondary location.”

“We go without them if necessary,” I respond, because waiting for perfect backup could cost us everything. “Charlie team can handle primary and secondary objectives if we have to.”

Walt nods grimly. “Damn right we can.”

Blake’s already breaking down his weapon for transport. “Whatever’s happening to them, we end it tonight.”

“Equipment decontamination?” Rigel asks, always thinking about operational details.

“Mitzy’s portable EMP units,” CJ responds. “We’ll have to trust they work as advertised.”

The beach transforms into organized chaos as our carefully planned forty-eight-hour timeline compresses into six hours of rapid preparation.

Equipment cases get sealed for transport back to Guardian HQ.

Communication gear is disassembled and packed.

The makeshift command center we built over days gets dismantled in minutes.

“Back to Guardian HQ for final prep,” Forest announces. “Cover mission goes active immediately. We need to look like we’re spinning up for routine training exercises.”

The gondola ride back up the cliff carries a different energy than our descent hours ago. Instead of relief at reaching a clean space where we can talk freely, we’re heading back into contaminated territory with emergency deployment pressing down on us like a live explosive.

But we don’t have a choice.

The real preparation must occur where we have access to our complete equipment buildouts and transportation resources.

Guardian HQ buzzes with controlled activity when we arrive.

Alpha team runs building-clearing drills in the east wing, their movements sharp and aggressive.

Bravo team practices communication protocols in the west training facility, voices crackling through radio static.

Delta team conducts equipment familiarization exercises with new gear, weapons clicking and sliding as they test mechanisms.

To anyone watching—including Malfor’s surveillance network—it looks like routine training escalation across multiple teams.

But only Charlie team knows which training exercise is real.

“Full equipment decontamination in the armory,” CJ directs as we enter the main building. What he doesn’t say is that Mitzy’s EMP units are already set up and tested.

We know.

The armory has been transformed into a sterile processing zone.

Mitzy’s portable electromagnetic pulse devices create clean corridors, allowing us to prep mission-specific gear without nanobot contamination.

It’s not as thorough as the beach environment, but it’s functional for our immediate deployment needs.

“Assault kit plus demo charges,” I confirm, selecting weapons and explosives from the decontaminated equipment racks. My hands move with familiarity—rifle, sidearm, breaching charges, det cord, timers. Everything I need to blow holes in whatever stands between us and Ally and the other women.

“Communications package,” Rigel adds, testing radio frequencies and backup channels. His fingers dance across the equipment like a pianist warming up, each touch deliberate and practiced.

“Medical trauma kit,” Walt states, loading supplies that none of us want to think about needing. Bandages, surgical tools, morphine. The kind of gear that means someone’s coming home hurt.

“Insertion timeline?” Ethan asks, checking GPS coordinates and navigation equipment.

“Transport leaves in two hours,” Sam responds, consulting updated operational schedules. “Gets us on target during optimal weather and tide conditions.”

“Almost like it was planned,” I mutter, loud enough for Hank to hear.

His eyes meet mine across the equipment table. “What do you mean?”

“The timing,” I explain, trying to put my finger on what’s bothering me. “Quantum spike happens exactly when we’re ready to deploy. The weather window aligns perfectly. Tide conditions are optimal. The facility apparently is unprepared for an assault.”

“We know we’re walking into a trap,” Hank responds, but I catch something in his voice that suggests he’s thinking the same thing.

“I know, and the first step in avoiding a trap is knowing it’s there.” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s just, I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this.”

My words settle between us like an armed explosive device. Because the timing is convenient. Everything is aligning exactly when we need it to align.

The quantum spike is real, and if we don’t move tonight, we might lose our only chance.

“Pre-deployment briefing in thirty minutes,” Ethan announces. “Final coordination with air support and backup teams.”

I shoulder my gear and follow the team toward the briefing room, but the nagging feeling won’t go away. Something about this whole situation feels like a perfectly laid charge—all the components in place, timing synchronized, just waiting for someone to trigger the detonation.

The question is whether we’re the ones setting off the explosion, or if we’re walking directly into the blast radius.

“Transport status?” Sam asks as we gather in the secure briefing room.

“Four helicopters standing by,” CJ responds. “Primary insertion with Charlie team. Secondary with air support and emergency extraction capability.”

“Weather confirmed optimal,” Rigel adds. “Clear skies, minimal wind, calm seas.”

“Gear up,” Sam orders. “Wheels up in thirty.”

The team disperses, each member moving to collect specialized equipment for the mission ahead. I check my demolition kit one final time—custom charges, remote detonators, the specialized breaching tools we might need to access secured areas of Malfor’s facility.

Ninety minutes later, we’re boarding Collins’s private G650, the kind of luxury transport that seems incongruous with our tactical gear and weapons. But the jet’s range and speed make it ideal for reaching our Pacific staging area without military attention.

“Any word from Cerberus?” I ask Sam as we settle into the leather seats that seemingly cost more than my annual salary.

He checks his secure comm device. “Blackwood confirms they’re mobilizing, but they’re dealing with a logistic issue. Their transport had mechanical problems in Singapore. They’re securing alternative transportation now.”

“Timeline?” Hank asks, the concern evident in his voice.

“They’ll be approximately four hours behind us,” Sam responds. “Not ideal, but not mission-critical either. Our primary objective is extraction of our people. Cerberus was always going to handle the secondary objective.”

The secondary objective—securing or destroying Malfor’s quantum network infrastructure—is important, but not as important as getting Ally and the others out alive.

“They’ll make it,” CJ asserts with quiet confidence. “Blackwood’s never let us down before.”

The flight across the Pacific passes in a blur of final preparations, tactical briefings, and equipment checks. When we finally touch down at a private airfield on one of the smaller Hawaiian Islands, the sun is just beginning to rise, painting the horizon in shades of gold and crimson.

Four Black Hawk helicopters wait on the tarmac, their rotors already spinning lazily in preparation for immediate departure. Collins arranged them through private channels—former military aircraft now owned by a shell corporation that can’t be traced back to him or Guardian HRS.

“Comms check,” Mitzy calls, distributing the quantum-shielded communication devices she’s been modifying throughout the flight. “These should resist any attempt by Malfor’s systems to intercept or jam our signals.”

“Any update on Cerberus?” Hank asks as we move toward the waiting helicopters.

Sam checks his device again. “They’ve secured transport. ETA to our position is now three hours behind schedule. We’ll be on-site before they arrive.”

“Do we wait?” CJ asks the question we’re all thinking.

Sam considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “Negative. We proceed as planned. The extraction window is too critical to delay. Cerberus will join us when they can.”

“They’ll catch up,” I add, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else. “Blackwood’s resourceful.”

We load into the helicopters—each Guardian team taking their own bird.

Hank and I board the third helicopter with the rest of Charlie team, while Alpha, Bravo, and Delta spread out among the remaining three.

Sam and CJ, along with Mitzy and her techies, remain on the tarmac.

Their role as command leadership keeps them at the staging area, where they’ll coordinate the entire operation from a secure tactical center.

“Mission is a go,” Sam’s voice comes through our comms as the rotors spin up to full speed. “Maintain radio discipline. Next check-in at waypoint Zulu.”

“Copy that,” I respond, watching through the helicopter window as Sam and CJ grow smaller, heading back toward the command center.

CJ raises a hand in a final salute—part good luck, part silent order to bring everyone home.

As the formation of helicopters lifts off and banks toward the southwest, I catch a glimpse of the vast Pacific stretching out before us. Somewhere in that blue expanse lies Malfor’s island facility.

Somewhere ahead, Ally is waiting. Somewhere behind, Cerberus is racing to catch up.

“You ready for this?” Hank asks.

“Always ready to blow shit up,” I respond automatically. “Question is whether we’re blowing up the right shit.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this feels like we’re walking into someone else’s demolition sequence,” I admit. “Like all the charges are already set, and we’re just providing the trigger.”

The helicopter vibrates around us, rotors chopping through night air thick with the promise of violence.

All of us process the same reality—we’re flying toward an island where Malfor has had time to prepare for our arrival. The helicopter’s engines drone through the night sky, carrying us toward our destination.

“Contact bearing two-seven-zero,” the pilot’s voice snaps through the headset, clipped and urgent. “Multiple aircraft. High speed. Closing fast on our position.”

Out the window, dots of light slice the dark sky, flying fast and tight—military precision, not some drunk tourist joyride.

“How many?” Ethan’s voice cuts through comms, low and hard.

“At least six aircraft. ETA to intercept, ninety seconds.”

Beside me, Hank shifts, his face carved in red shadow, jaw clenched tight.

This isn’t a surprise.

“Looks like our welcoming committee’s early.” My voice is flat, stripped down to steel. We’re still three miles out over open water.

Not ideal.

No cover. No place to run. Just the hum of the rotors and a sky that’s about to ignite.

The thrum in my gut turns sharper. We were always flying into a trap. The only question now is how many of us make it to shore, and how many go down in flames.