Page 43 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

We encounter no more resistance as we approach the exit. The door stands partially open, emergency protocols overriding the locks.

“That’s our way out,” Ethan points beyond the door. “Straight through to the cliff’s edge.”

“I must say, your persistence is admirable.” Malfor’s voice suddenly fills the air around us, crackling through hidden speakers along the cliff path. “Though ultimately futile.”

Everyone freezes, weapons swinging toward corners and shadows. The metal grating beneath our feet sways slightly with the movement, two hundred feet of empty air between us and the jagged rocks below.

“Did you think I wouldn’t have contingencies for my contingencies?” His cultured tone carries a hint of amusement. “I’ve known about this exit since I acquired the property. It’s quite useful for—disposal purposes.”

“Keep moving,” Ethan orders quietly. “Ignore him.”

“Your women have been such valued guests.” Malfor’s voice drips with mock courtesy. “Well, most of them. Ms. Collins proved particularly—unappreciative of my hospitality. Quite the fighter.”

Ally’s jaw tightens at his words. I squeeze her hand once, in quick reassurance.

“I suppose I should thank you for testing my security so thoroughly. The flaws you’ve exposed will be rectified. Though I’m afraid none of you will live to see the improvements.”

A groan of rusted metal hits my ears half a second before the shriek. The rusted grating suddenly gives way beneath Carter’s foot. He shoves Jenna forward with a startled shout. A desperate act of instinct and protection. She stumbles clear, landing hard on her knees just past the edge.

Carter’s body follows the grating down.

For one frozen heartbeat, he’s just—gone.

Then Rigel lunges. His arm snaps out, fingers locking around Carter’s vest as the man’s full weight jerks him toward the abyss. Walt is already there, diving low to grab Rigel’s harness, anchoring him.

Hank and I whirl around just in time to see Rigel’s muscles straining, boots grinding against crumbling steel as he hauls Carter back inch by inch.

“Don’t let—don’t you fucking let go …”

Jenna scrambles on hands and knees, reaching. Walt throws himself forward, grabbing Carter’s free wrist. Together, the two of them drag him back onto the platform, breath ragged and faces carved in panic.

Carter sprawls on the floor, heaving, blood running from a torn palm.

“That was too close,” Walt mutters, brushing rust flakes off his arms.

Rigel stands, jaw clenched. “This whole place is a fucking death trap.”

I look at Jenna—at the way her hands tremble, at the wild look in her eyes. She saw it. Carter didn’t hesitate. He put her life above his own.

And we’re not even out yet.

The wind screams past us again, whipping grit and salt across our faces as we press forward, the cliff’s edge still yawning to our right like a hungry mouth waiting for its next meal.

It’s two hundred feet of sheer drop to the churning ocean below.

Wind howls around us, carrying salt spray and the distant crash of waves against rock.

“Comms check,” Ethan says, adjusting Rebel in his arms. “Ghost, confirm extraction.”

“RIBs in position,” Ghost’s voice crackles through our earpieces. “Two hundred feet down. Lights will activate on your approach.”

Ethan kicks open a heavy waterproof case stashed at the edge of the platform. “Rappel gear. Eight sets, six with passenger capacity.”

“Let’s move,” he orders. “Walt, get the lines secured.”

Walt quickly sets up the anchors and tests the rappel lines. His hands move without hesitation, checking and double-checking each connection. The women watch with tense faces.

“Pair up,” Ethan directs. “I’ve got Rebel. Jeb with Stitch. Rigel with Mia. Carter with Jenna. Walt with Malia.” He looks between me and Hank. “Gabe, you take Ally. Hank and Blake, you’ll provide covering fire and come down last.”

“My leg—” I start.

“Isn’t a factor,” Ethan cuts me off. “You’re still our best climber.”

No arguing with that. I help Ally into a harness, checking each strap.

“You’ve done this before?” She searches my face.

“A few times.” I meet her eyes. “Trust me?”

A half-smile touches her lips. “Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

“First wave, go,” Ethan orders.

Carter and Jenna step off first, followed by Rigel and Mia, then Jeb and Stitch. Each pair vanishes over the edge. Walt and Malia follow—she slips once, a small cry escaping before Walt adjusts their line, steadying her.

Ethan goes next with Rebel secured against his chest in a special harness. Their descent is slower and more careful due to her injuries.

My turn comes with Ally. I secure her harness to mine, double-checking the connections despite my shaking hands. Pain radiates from my injured leg as I take position at the edge, but I push it aside. Pain is just information. I refuse to be the weak link.

“Ready?” I ask Ally.

She meets my eyes, trust and determination mingling. “Let’s go home.”

We step backward into empty space, controlling our descent as we rappel down the cliff face. Wind buffets us, salt spray stinging my eyes. My injured leg screams with each push off the rock face, but I keep our descent steady.

Above us, Hank and Blake provide covering fire as drones appear on the horizon. Muzzle flashes illuminate the cliff top.

“Incoming!” Hank’s voice crackles through comms. “Security drones, armed. Thirty seconds out.”

A spotlight suddenly cuts through the darkness, sweeping across the cliff face. The beam catches us, momentarily blinding me as we continue our descent.

Above us, gunfire erupts. Muzzle flashes illuminate the cliff top as Hank and Blake engage the drones. Searchlights sweep the rock face, hunting for movement.

“Faster,” I urge, increasing our rappel speed.

The ocean surges closer. I can make out the RIB now, Ethan and the first wave already aboard. Two hundred feet. One-fifty. One hundred.

A spotlight locks onto us.

“They’ve got us,” Ally gasps.

I kick off hard from the rock, swinging us in a wide arc as bullets chip stone where we were a second before. We swing back, and I increase our drop rate to the edge of safety.

Fifty feet. Twenty-five.

The RIB appears directly below us, rocking violently in the surf. Carter and Jeb brace to receive us.

“Let go on my mark,” I tell Ally. “Three, two, one?—”

We drop the final fifteen feet, landing hard in the boat. Carter steadies Ally while Jeb helps me untangle from the rappel gear.

Above us, Hank and Blake descend last, providing covering fire even as they rappel. They’re moving too fast—the lines smoking with friction—but with good reason. Spotlights track them, bullets pinging off rock all around.

Spotlights sweep the cliff face. Bullets ricochet off stone like angry wasps.

Then— Crack.

A round catches Hank. His body jerks, but he doesn’t slow. Thirty feet. Twenty.

His body snaps midair, jerked off-line. He doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t even slow.

He releases early, dropping the final distance in free fall. He slams into the boat with bone-jarring force. Blake drops in hard right after him, rolling to his feet, scanning.

Hank doesn’t move. Blood spreads in an obscene blossom across his tactical vest, already soaking through layers of Kevlar and cloth.

“GO!” Ghost yells from the cliff edge, his team providing covering fire. “PUNCH IT!”

The engines roar to life. The boat lurches forward, carving through the black waves as bullets stitch the sea around us.

I pull Ally to the deck and shield her with my body. Salt spray and gunfire mix in the air like metal and madness. Behind us, muzzle flashes continue to light up the cliff top. Cerberus, buying us time to escape.

“Hank,” I call over the engine noise. “How bad?”

He doesn’t respond, slumped against the side of the boat. Blood soaks his tactical vest—more than a scratch. Ally moves toward him, crawling, and presses a field dressing against the wound firmly. Her eyes meet mine over his unconscious form.

The vest’s saturated. The blood won’t stop.

He blinks slowly. Once.

Then his eyes roll back.

“Hank—” My voice cracks, panic shredding the edges.

“He’ll make it,” she says firmly. “We all will.” Ally presses hard into the wound with a field dressing. “Pressure. Gabe, help me.”

I crawl to them, heart hammering in my throat. “He’s hit bad. He’s losing too much.”

I reach across, my hand finding Hank’s limp one. Fear claws at my chest—raw, primal. Not just for a teammate or brother-in-arms. For Hank.

For what we are together. Something deeper than friendship, closer than brotherhood. A bond forged in blood and bullets and shared nights with Ally between us.

“He’s not responding,” I whisper.

“Don’t say that,” Ally snaps. “Don’t even think that.”

I grip his hand. It’s already cold.

“Hank. Stay with me.” My voice breaks, softer now. “Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this.” I squeeze his hand, willing strength into him. “Don’t you dare check out on us.” His pulse flutters beneath my fingers—thready and fading.

The thought of losing him carves a hole inside me I didn’t know could exist.

Ally looks up, eyes glistening. “He needs a trauma bay. He needs blood. And we’re—what—miles out?”

Understanding passes between us. We might not make it in time.

She drops her gaze to Hank, but her hands are shaking.

Blake stares forward, jaw locked. Rigel’s already on comms, voice tight with urgency, calling for med evac.

I look at the women we rescued—battered, traumatized, but alive. Alive and fighting. Just like us. But my focus keeps returning to Hank’s pale face, to the blood soaking through the bandage Ally presses against his shoulder.

All I see is Hank. The man I would burn the world for.

His blood stains my hands, and all I can do is pray that whatever gods exist out here in this godforsaken dark are listening.

Because I can’t lose him. Not now.

Not ever.

The boat speeds into the night, leaving Malfor’s compound behind.

I grip Hank’s hand tighter, a cold certainty settling in my chest as I watch his blood seep through the bandage, and pray.