Page 40 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTY-SIX

Split the Pack

HANK

Ghost’s team melts west into shadow. Our eight-man unit waits three heartbeats, then moves east through the maintenance yard. No words. No signals. Just years of training and the singular focus of men with nothing left to lose.

My pulse stays steady. Breathing even.

Ethan signals with his finger, tapping the air. I confirm, moving ahead through the narrow passage between industrial pumps and piping. Gabe stays on my right, compensating for his injured leg by moving in short, deliberate bursts.

Moonlight bleeds through cloud cover. Not ideal. Too much visibility.

The detention wing is located in the north quadrant, connected to the main lab complex by an enclosed walkway. Three stories down. According to Whisper’s intel, our women are being held in a specially constructed containment cell.

My jaw locks at the thought.

“Two tangos, north corner.” Ethan’s voice whispers through the comms.

Guards in black tactical gear, carrying what look like modified P90s. Experimental shit. Wonderful.

I catch Carter’s eye, tip my head slightly. He nods, understanding instantly. We move in perfect sync, hugging the shadows and closing the distance.

Ten yards. Five. Three.

The first guard never sees me. My forearm locks around his throat, cutting off blood flow to the brain. His partner turns just as Carter’s blade finds the soft spot beneath his ear. Both men drop to the concrete without a sound.

Walt and Blake secure the bodies while Rigel keeps watch. Jeb grabs the weapon and examines it.

“Biometric lock,” he murmurs. “Useless to us.”

I nod. Expected as much. Malfor’s tech doesn’t play well with strangers.

We move deeper into the compound. The layout matches Whisper’s schematics. A service door. A maintenance corridor. A security checkpoint.

“Camera,” Gabe warns.

We freeze, pressing against walls. The camera swivels, mechanical eye scanning the empty hallway, then locks suddenly, jerking in place.

“The Trojan horse is working,” Rigel breathes. “Glitching their systems.”

“Thirty seconds,” Ethan cautions.

We slip past in pairs. Gabe limps beside me, teeth clenched against pain. His bandage shows fresh blood. I don’t mention it. He’d tell me to fuck off anyway.

Whisper’s voice crackles through comms. “Charlie team, be advised. Cerberus has breached the server hub. Initiating system override.”

“Copy,” Ethan responds. “Status on subjects?”

“Detecting six female biosignatures. Sublevel B, east quadrant.”

All alive. Relief floods my system, but I don’t let it show.

Another corridor. Another silent takedown. My muscles move through the familiar dance of death, no hesitation, no regret. These men chose their side.

“Contact,” Blake warns suddenly.

A guard rounds the corner ahead, spots Rigel before anyone can react. His hand flies to his sidearm.

Walt moves with startling speed for his size. Three steps and he’s on the guard, massive hand clamping over mouth and nose. The guard’s eyes bulge as Walt’s other arm drives upward, the combat knife finding the soft underside of the jaw. Blood sprays across the wall in an arterial arc.

Too loud. Too messy.

We freeze, waiting for alarms. For shouts. For anything.

Nothing.

“Move the body,” Ethan orders.

Blake and Walt drag the corpse into a maintenance closet. The blood trail remains, dark against white tile.

“Secure the junction,” I tell Carter. “Jeb, watch our six.”

We press deeper into the facility. The sterile corridors give way to a more clinical section. Labs. Testing facilities. The walls here gleam under harsh fluorescent light.

A familiar scent hits me. Floral. Delicate. My heart rate spikes.

“Hold,” I whisper, moving toward a small table against the wall.

A woman’s ID badge lies discarded beside a clipboard. The photo shows a face I don’t recognize. Blood stains one corner of the plastic.

“Hank.” Gabe’s voice holds warning.

I pocket the badge, face grim. “Moving.”

Ethan watches me, eyes unreadable behind tactical gear. He knows. We all know. The women aren’t just alive—they’re fighting back.

“Cerberus update,” Whisper’s voice returns. “Primary security grid compromised. Secondary systems engaged. Proceeding to the command center.”

Through my earpiece, I catch muffled sounds of combat. Brass cursing. The wet impact of a knife finding flesh. Ghost’s cold voice: “Clear.”

Our path leads downward. Service stairs. Emergency lighting that flickers with the Trojan horse’s spreading influence. The stairwell stinks of antiseptic and something else—a metallic, alien scent that makes my skin crawl.

Sublevels. Where men like Malfor hide their darkest work.

“Multiple heat signatures ahead,” Jeb warns. “Lab coats, not tactical.”

Scientists. Not fighters. Still dangerous in their own way.

“Bypass if possible,” Ethan orders.

We edge along the corridor, finding an alternative route through what appears to be a storage area. Shelves of equipment. Boxes of supplies. Strange containers filled with shimmering liquid that seems to move with purpose.

“Don’t touch anything,” I warn.

“No shit,” Blake mutters.

A sound above makes us freeze. Metal scraping against metal. The ceiling vents.

“Drone,” Rigel breathes.

We press against the walls, weapons ready. A small spherical object drops from the vent, hovering at eye level. Not like any drone I’ve seen before. This thing pulses with inner light, its surface crawling with what looks like liquid metal.

“Shit,” Walt whispers. “Nanobot construct.”

The drone rotates slowly, sensors probing the darkness. My finger tightens on the trigger.

“Hold,” Ethan commands. “It might trigger an alarm.”

The drone drifts closer to Gabe’s position. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. The machine hovers inches from his face, then abruptly turns, rising back toward the ceiling vent.

“It’s cataloging,” Jeb whispers. “Mapping changes to the environment.”

The drone disappears into the ventilation system.

“Move,” Ethan orders. “Now.”

We double-time through the storage area, reaching another corridor. The map says we’re close. Two more junctions. A security door. Then the holding cells.

The overhead lights flicker, then die completely. Emergency lights kick on, bathing everything in a blood-red glow.

“Phase two initiated,” Whisper updates. “Main power compromised. Backup systems failing.”

Good. Chaos works in our favor.

“—reading unusual power fluctuations in your sector,” Whisper continues, voice breaking through static. “Possible?—”

The transmission cuts abruptly.

“Whisper?” Ethan tries. “Cerberus? Report.”

Nothing but dead air.

“Comms are down,” Carter confirms, checking his equipment.

“Keep moving,” I say. “We stick to the plan.”

“The plan was shit before we lost comms,” Blake points out.

“The plan is all we’ve got,” Gabe counters, voice tight with pain.

We continue forward, more cautious now. Blind. Cut off. The holding cells can’t be far.

A voice suddenly booms through hidden speakers, echoing down sterile corridors. Smooth. Cultured. Amused.

“Gentlemen of Charlie team. How disappointing. I arranged such an elaborate funeral for you. And yet here you are, rudely refusing to stay dead.”

Malfor.

“I must congratulate you on your resilience. Three miles is quite the swim, especially with injuries. And infiltrating my facility? Impressive. Truly.”

I scan the ceiling, looking for cameras, speakers, any sign of surveillance.

“Your women have been quite resilient. Remarkable specimens. Though I’m afraid Ms. Collins has been particularly—difficult. Such spirit.”

Gabe’s eyes flash with rage. I place a hand on his arm.

“Steady.”

“I’m afraid your little electronic infection is quite ingenious. It’s causing all sorts of fascinating chaos in my systems. Unfortunately for you, I maintain analog backups.”

Metal doors slam shut ahead and behind us. The sound of mechanical locks engaging echoes through the corridor.

“You have exactly two minutes before this section floods with a particularly unpleasant neurotoxin. I suggest you use that time to reflect on your life choices.”

Ethan signals immediately. “Alternate route. Air ducts.”

Walt rips a ventilation cover from the wall, metal shrieking as it gives way.

“Jeb, take point. Gabe, you’re next,” I order. No time for his pride. The injured go first.

“Fan access ahead,” Jeb reports from inside the duct. “I can override it.”

“Move,” Ethan urges.

One by one, we pull ourselves into the narrow passage. I go last, scanning the corridor one final time before hauling myself up.

The duct is tight, barely wide enough for shoulders. We crawl in a single file, following Jeb’s directions through the metal maze.

“Junction ahead,” he calls back. “Sublevel B markings. East quadrant.”

We’re on track. Somehow.

Jeb pauses at a grate, peering through. “Clear below.”

He works the cover loose, dropping silently into the room below. We follow one after another, each man knowing his role without being told.

A laboratory. Empty. Workstations are still active, screens glowing with data. On one monitor, cellular structures writhe and reform.

“Find the holding cell,” Ethan orders. “Now.”

We move through the lab to a secured door at the far end.

“Biometric and keypad.” Blake examines the lock.

“Can you bypass?” I ask.

“Not without blowing it.”

“Move.” Gabe limps forward.

He pulls a small device from his tactical vest—part of Ghost’s “party favors.” He places it against the keypad. The screen flickers, numbers racing, until it settles on a six-digit code.

The lock disengages with a soft click.

“Cerberus are good friends to have.” Gabe’s mouth curves in a grim smile.

I take point, weapon ready. The door opens to a short corridor with another door at the end. This one is heavier.

“Stack up,” Ethan orders.

We form into position, ready to breach. My heart pounds now, my adrenaline spiking.

So close.

“Three,” Ethan counts down. “Two. One.”

The final door opens.

Six women stare back at us. Their faces show exhaustion, fear, and defiance.