Page 42 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTY-SEVEN

The Cliff Extraction

GABE

For three heartbeats, nobody moves. Ally’s words hang in the air between us.

You died.

“Not yet.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Though not for lack of trying.”

Her face transforms—disbelief to shock to something raw and primal. She crosses the room in three steps and slams into me with enough force to make my injured leg buckle. I don’t care. Her body against mine, real and alive, is worth any pain.

“They showed us footage.” Her voice muffles against my chest. “The chopper. The explosion. They told us no one could have survived.”

“Malfor’s good with special effects.” I bury my face in her hair, breathe her in. Beneath the antiseptic hospital smell, she’s still there. Still Ally.

Hank moves to us, his hand hovering for a moment before settling on Ally’s shoulder. She turns, not letting go of me, and pulls him into our embrace. The three of us stand there, a tangle of arms and relief and shared breath.

“You’re here,” is all she manages, fingers digging into both of us like we might disappear if she loosens her grip.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us three. This feels right. Normal. The way it’s supposed to be. Not Ally and me. Not Ally and Hank. All of us together, the strange geometry of our relationship is somehow perfect in its complexity.

My eyes meet Hank’s over her head. The tension from before—the fight, the harsh words, the distance—still lingers, but something else pushes through.

Understanding.

Shared purpose.

The knowledge that whatever bullshit lies between us, we both came for her. We both need her. And maybe, though neither of us would say it aloud, we both need each other too.

I want this for the rest of my life. Ally between us, safe. The three of us figuring it out together. I hope to God I haven’t fucked things up with Hank beyond repair. We’ll never go back to what we were, but maybe we can build something new from the ashes.

Something stronger.

Ally pulls back slightly, eyes moving between us. She sees something—the remnants of our conflict—and her brow furrows. But there’s no time to untangle that mess now.

Around us, similar reunions unfold. Carter wraps Jenna in his arms, her face buried in his neck. Rigel cups Mia’s face like she might shatter. Walt engulfs Malia in a bear hug that lifts her off the ground.

Ethan moves to the corner where Rebel sits.

Blood cakes half her face from a deep laceration that runs from temple to jaw.

Her right arm hangs at an unnatural angle—dislocated or broken, maybe both.

Bruises mar the skin that shows beneath the torn medical scrubs, and her breathing comes in shallow, pained gasps.

She tries to stand as Ethan approaches, soldier’s pride refusing to show weakness. Her legs buckle.

“Easy.” He catches her before she hits the floor, his movements gentle despite the urgency in his eyes. His fingers brush hair from her face, revealing more bruising. Something dangerous flashes across his features—a cold fury I’ve rarely seen.

“What did they do to you?” The question emerges as barely more than a whisper, but the promise of violence behind it fills the room.

“Tried to break me.” Her voice emerges stronger than her body, cracked but defiant. “Failed.”

Ethan’s jaw works silently. I know that look—he’s cataloging every injury, storing it away, building a debt that will be paid in blood.

“Can you walk?” he finally asks.

She grits her teeth. “Not fast.”

“I’ve got you.” He lifts her, one arm supporting her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She sinks against him, trust overriding pride.

His gaze sweeps the room, assessing each woman, each operator, calculating odds and options. When he speaks, his voice carries calm authority despite the storm I can see building behind his eyes.

“We have eighteen minutes to clear the compound before total lockdown. Every second counts. Stay tight, move fast, keep quiet. Questions come later—when we’re safe.”

Jeb finds Stitch against the far wall, quickly checking her injuries. She nods at his unspoken question—she can move on her own.

“Listen carefully,” Ethan continues. “Stay close. Move when we move. Stop when we stop. We’re getting you home, but I need you all focused. Clear?”

Six nods. These women aren’t civilians anymore. Whatever Malfor did to them burned away hesitation.

“Jenna.” Carter’s voice tightens. “What happened to your hand?”

I notice it then—her right hand. Two fingers missing. The wounds look surgical, cleanly bandaged.

“Punishment.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “For fighting back.”

Ally grips my arm, and her knuckles turn white. Her body trembles against mine.

A chill runs through the room.

“Ghost, this is Ethan.” He adjusts Rebel in his arms. “Package secure. Six alive. Proceeding to extraction.”

Static crackles, then Ghost’s voice filters through. “Roger that. Cerberus has compromised security. Primary systems are offline. Backup systems are failing. You’ve got fifteen minutes before manual override kicks in.”

“Copy. Charlie team moving.”

Ethan turns toward the women, his eyes softening slightly despite the urgency. “Ladies, we move in Formation Bravo.” He explains quickly for their benefit, though his team already knows the drill. “I’ll take point with Rebel. Rigel with Mia. Carter with Jenna. Jeb with Stitch. Walt with Malia.”

He pauses, glancing between me, Hank, and Ally.

“Ally stays with Gabe,” Hank says, stepping forward. “Blake and I will take rear guard.”

Ethan nods once, accepting the adjustment without comment. His team shifts into position without needing further instruction, years of training taking over.

Relief and guilt war inside me. Hank knows my leg is slowing me down. Taking rear guard means he’s putting himself in the most vulnerable position—the last man out always faces the highest risk. But it also means Ally stays with me, where I can protect her.

The selfish part of me is grateful. The tactical part knows it makes sense—Hank on rear guard gives us the strongest possible defense at our most vulnerable point.

My leg throbs, but adrenaline dulls the pain. Nothing matters except getting Ally out. Getting everyone out.

Ally’s eyes drop to my leg, noticing the dark stain spreading through the bandage. Her face hardens.

“You’re hurt.” Her fingers brush the edge of the bandage, coming away red.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out sharp, focused.

She tears a strip from her scrub top, kneels, and wraps it tight around my thigh, reinforcing the existing bandage. Her movements are quick and efficient. When she finishes, she meets my eyes.

“You don’t get to die on me twice.”

Something in her voice sends warmth through my chest despite the circumstances. I touch her cheek briefly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

We move through the detention block toward our exit route, the women taking in their surroundings with wary eyes.

Ally stays close, her shoulder pressed against mine as we move.

She positions herself on my injured side, her body subtly bracing mine whenever my weight shifts.

It’s not obvious enough that others would notice—she knows better than to wound my pride openly—but enough that I feel the support with each step.

Part of me loves her for it. Another part hates being the liability, the weak link, but her face shows only determination, not pity. She’s been through hell, yet she’s the one supporting me. The irony isn’t lost on me.

We push through the detention block exit into a central corridor. Alarms blare throughout the facility, red emergency lights casting everything in blood-hued shadows. The Trojan horse is doing its work—security doors open and close at random, surveillance cameras swivel uselessly.

“Compound’s in chaos,” Ethan says, adjusting Rebel in his arms. “We go straight through. Mining access is two levels up, east wing.”

“Contact back!” Blake calls, dropping to one knee.

Two guards round the corner, weapons raised. Hank and Blake fire simultaneously—controlled double-taps that drop both men before they can squeeze their triggers.

“Move!” Ethan orders.

We advance through the corridor at combat pace, the women keeping tight formation with their partners. Ally stays at my side, her movements fluid and focused. Whatever they did to her in captivity, they didn’t break her.

More guards appear at a junction—three this time. Carter and Rigel engage while Walt provides covering fire. The firefight is brief, violent, and entirely in our favor.

“Stairs ahead,” Jeb calls, eyes flicking over the schematic glowing on his tactical pad.

He moves with surprising ease, favoring the leg that nearly ended his Guardian career but never quite slowed him down.

He’s still got a slight hitch in his gait—a ghost of the old injury—but tonight, no one would dare call him the gimp.

Not with the way he covers ground like every step is a promise of vengeance.

We hit the stairwell at full speed, climbing toward the upper levels. My leg burns with each step, but adrenaline keeps me moving. Ally notices my grimace, slides closer to support my weight without making it obvious.

A security team tries to ambush us on the landing—six men in tactical gear. They never stood a chance. We react as one, taking the fuckers out. Years of training make us death walking.

Six shots, six bodies.

“Emergency exit, next level,” Ethan announces as we continue climbing.

An explosion rocks the building, vibrating through the concrete. The lights flicker.

“Cerberus at work,” Hank says, a grim smile touching his lips.

We emerge onto a maintenance level. Signs of hasty evacuation everywhere—abandoned equipment, doors left open, papers scattered across floors. Malfor’s staff is fleeing the sinking ship.

“Thirty meters ahead,” Jeb confirms, checking his pad. “Service exit to the cliff face. Reinforced steel door.”