Page 39 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTY-FIVE

The Stranger’s Gift

ALLY

Heavy boots echo from the corridor, approaching at a clipped pace. My time runs out as the lab door hisses open, admitting four fresh guards with rifles slung across tactical vests.

“Back to your cell.” The lead guard gestures with his weapon.

As they reapply restraints to my wrists, I look back at the terminal one last time. The quantum network sits there, innocent and deadly, waiting for deployment. Malfor will activate it, thinking he’s gained ultimate power.

Instead, he’ll have armed his own destruction.

“They’re not coming,” Elkin says as the guards prepare to lead me away. It’s not a question.

“No. But what I built in their memory will outlive all of us.”

The guards march me back through silent corridors, their grips unnecessarily tight against my arms. We’re halfway to the cellblock when the floor beneath us shudders—a distant vibration that ripples through concrete like a stone dropped in still water.

The lights flicker once, twice, and then stabilize.

“Check that.” The lead guard stops, head tilting as he listens to his earpiece. “Was that?—”

Static breaks across their communication system, fragmenting whatever response comes through. The guards exchange glances, uneasiness bleeding through professional facades.

Another tremor rolls beneath our feet, stronger this time. Dust sifts from ceiling joints, powdering our shoulders with concrete snow. The guards’ radios erupt with overlapping voices—too garbled to distinguish words, but the tone is unmistakable.

The first whispers of chaos.

They practically throw me into my cell, door slamming with that familiar magnetic thunk. The lead guard barks something into his radio, then gestures for the others to follow as they hurry back down the corridor, leaving only one man on watch.

Jenna lifts her head in the adjacent cell, eyes finding mine through the bars. No words pass between us, but understanding flows in that silent exchange—something’s happening. Something outside Malfor’s meticulous control.

“You’re not winning,” I whisper into the darkness, thinking of the quantum time bomb I’ve planted in his digital infrastructure. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

The remaining guard paces before our cells, hand resting on his sidearm, eyes constantly checking his radio. The building trembles again, and somewhere in the distance, an alarm begins to wail.

Malfor’s voice cuts through the cellblock speakers, calm despite the chaos unfolding around us.

“Containment breach in sector seven. All security personnel to assigned stations. This is not a drill.”

The guard’s radio crackles to life, spitting fragmented orders that send him running toward the exit, leaving our cellblock unguarded for the first time since our arrival.

“What’s happening?” Rebel pulls herself upright, split face gleaming wetly in the dim light.

“I don’t know.” The admission costs nothing now. “But whatever it is, Malfor didn’t plan for it.”

“Another rescue attempt?” Malia uncurls from her protective huddle, something like awareness returning to her vacant expression.

“After what happened to Charlie team?” Mia’s voice cracks with disbelief. “Who would try again?”

The memory of exploding helicopters cuts through me like a blade, but underneath the pain is something else—the cold satisfaction of knowing I’ve planted a weapon in Malfor’s heart. Even if no rescue comes, even if we all die here, my sabotage will ensure he doesn’t win.

I did it for you. Grief and fury braiding together in my chest. I’ll never see you again, but I made sure your deaths meant something.

The alarms increase in pitch and frequency, echoing through the compound. The tremors intensify, and concrete dust now steadily drifts down from above. The lights flicker more persistently, plunging us into momentary darkness before reluctantly returning.

Hope is dangerous—more dangerous than despair, more painful than grief. But something is happening. Something unplanned. Something that has Malfor’s perfectly controlled world fracturing at its edges.

And buried deep in his quantum network, my digital memorial to Gabe and Hank waits to activate, ready to turn his greatest weapon into his ultimate downfall.

The thought carries me through the chaos—not hope for rescue, but satisfaction that their sacrifice will not be in vain. Whatever comes next, Malfor will learn that some love burns too bright to be extinguished, even by death.

The cellblock door slides open with a soft hydraulic hiss. A figure appears in the threshold, silhouetted against emergency lighting, tactical gear gleaming dully in the red glow. Not one of Malfor’s regular guards—the profile is wrong, the stance unfamiliar.

“Containment located.” The voice—female, accented, unknown—speaks into a communications device. “Six subjects confirmed alive. Proceeding with preparatory measures.”

The stranger steps fully into the light, revealing a face mask and night-vision goggles that obscure all identifying features. Only one thing is certain—this is not Guardian HRS. Not their equipment. Not their extraction procedures.

“Who are you?” Jenna’s question cuts through the uncertainty.

The stranger tilts her head, considering the question as she approaches the cells. “Consider me a—concerned third party.” Her accent carries hints of Eastern Europe, precise consonants, and stretched vowels. “With interests that temporarily align with yours.”

She produces a device from her tactical vest—a small, black rectangle with blinking lights that cast eerie shadows across the walls. When she presses it against the control panel beside Jenna’s cell, the magnetic locks disengage with a soft click.

“Who sent you?” Stitch demands as the stranger moves to her cell next, repeating the process.

The locks on all six cells disengage in sequence, and the doors slide open. Freedom after endless captivity—the sensation overwhelms, vertigo threatening to buckle knees and steal breath.

But we all stand proud.

“The collars.” My hand rises automatically to the metal band around my throat. “They’re remote-controlled. Explosive.”

“I’m aware.” The stranger produces another device, this one more complex. “Hold still.”

The collar around my neck clicks open, falling away like a dead thing. The sudden absence of weight brings tears to my eyes. The skin beneath is raw, tender—and when the air hits it, it stings. Freedom burns in its own way.

One by one, she removes all our collars, speaking only when necessary. When the last collar falls to the floor, she steps back, surveying us with clinical interest.

“You work for Guardian HRS?” Malia asks, hope threading through her voice as she rubs her newly bare neck.

“No.” The stranger’s response is clipped, final. “And my assistance ends here. I’ve disabled the corridor surveillance and security locks through the west wing. The rest is up to you.”

“You’re leaving us?” Rebel’s face contorts with disbelief, the gash on her cheek pulling with the expression. “After getting us this far?”

“I have other objectives. More pressing matters.” The stranger backs toward the door, never fully turning away from us. “Consider yourselves fortunate that our interests briefly aligned.”

“Wait…” I step forward, desperate for answers. “Malfor’s quantum network?—”

“Will remain operational.” Her hand rests on the door frame. “For now. That’s a problem for another day.”

Mia shakes her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why help us at all if you’re going to abandon us halfway?”

“I never said I was rescuing you.” The stranger’s voice softens fractionally. “I’m merely—evening the odds.”

Before anyone can respond, she slips back through the door, pausing just long enough to add: “The west corridor leads to an equipment depot. Weapons, communications, and basic supplies. I suggest you hurry. This distraction won’t last forever.”

With that, she vanishes into the red-tinged darkness beyond, leaving six stunned women standing in open cells, collars lying useless on the floor around them.

“What the hell just happened?” Rebel breaks the silence, voicing what all of us are thinking.

“Questions later. Right now, we move.” Jenna steps cautiously into the corridor, checking both directions before gesturing us forward.

“She could be leading us into a trap.” Stitch’s natural suspicion resurfaces with her freedom. “This could all be Malfor’s sick game.”

“Or it could be our only chance.” I pick up one of the discarded collars and examine the deactivated circuitry. “Either way, standing here debating it wastes time.”

The distant sounds of combat continue—gunfire, explosions, shouted orders carried through ventilation systems. Something significant is happening elsewhere in the compound, diverting attention and resources away from our cell block.

Malia helps Mia to her feet, steadying her as they move toward the corridor. “West wing. Equipment depot. That’s what she said.”

“Then west we go.” Jenna takes point.

We move into the corridor as a group, six women finding strength in each other. The red emergency lighting transforms familiar paths into alien territory, shadows stretching and contracting with each flicker of failing systems.

The stranger’s parting gift—freedom to choose our escape—feels simultaneously empowering and terrifying. No one is leading us. No one is guiding us. Just our wits and whatever mysterious distraction is occupying Malfor’s forces.

Rebel pauses at the junction where the corridor splits east and west, looking back at the cellblock that held us captive for so long. “Who was that woman? And why would she help us?”

“Maybe she wasn’t helping us at all.” Stitch’s voice carries the edge of someone piecing together a complex puzzle. “Maybe we’re just convenient cover for whatever she’s really after.”

“Right now, I don’t care.” Jenna checks the western corridor before gesturing us forward.

Freedom tastes strange on my tongue—metallic and sharp, laced with adrenaline and fear. The absence of the collar feels wrong after so many days, my body not yet adjusted to its removal. My hand keeps rising to my throat, fingers finding only raw skin where metal used to be.

We’ve barely taken three steps when a sound freezes us in place—footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving fast. Coming our way.

“Back.” Jenna’s command is barely a whisper, urgent hand signals directing us to retreat.

We scramble back toward the cellblock, instinct driving us to the only territory we know. The footsteps grow louder—not the shuffling gait of regular guards but the precise, measured cadence of tactical teams. Professional. Dangerous.

Stitch pulls us into the cellblock, positioning herself beside the door frame, back pressed against the wall. The others follow her lead, flattening themselves against walls, ducking behind what little cover the room provides.

My heart slams against my ribs, sounding so loud I’m certain it will give us away. The footsteps approach, slowing as they near our position. A voice murmurs something unintelligible, followed by the distinctive sound of weapons being readied.

“Stack up.” The voice is clearer now, male, commanding—definitely not Malfor’s guards.

Malia’s fingers dig into my arm, terror and confusion warring in her expression. Jenna signals for absolute stillness, her one good hand forming the universal sign for silence.

The door at the corridor’s end hisses open. Then footsteps approach our final door.

“Three.” The voice counts down, each number tightening the knot in my stomach. “Two. One.”