Page 5 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIVE

Island Arrival & Courtyard Collaring

ALLY

The truck lurches to a violent stop, and the screech of brakes cuts through my awareness like a blade. The hiss of hydraulics follows—doors unlocking. My stomach clenches.

I’ve lost all track of time. The sedatives still drag at the edges of my mind, making everything feel underwater and wrong, but I’m alert enough to catalog what matters. We’re on solid ground. Based on the salt-heavy humidity seeping through the open doors, we’re somewhere coastal.

Blinding-white light floods the cargo space, and harsh voices bark commands in what sounds like Spanish mixed with accents I can’t place. My eyes water, pupils contracting painfully as shadows move against the glare—more armed figures in tactical gear gesturing for us to move.

“ ?Vámonos! Now! Out!”

My legs are cement blocks when I try to stand. The zip ties have cut off circulation for hours, and pins and needles shoot through my feet as blood flows back. I stumble into Rebel, who’s pale as death but upright, her good arm braced against the truck wall for support.

“Easy,” she murmurs, steadying me with her uninjured hand. Her broken arm hangs at an unnatural angle, and white-hot pain flickers across her features every time she moves.

Jenna moves ahead of us. Her swollen eye has opened enough to function, and I watch her make mental notes of everything—guard positions, equipment, potential weaknesses.

We’re herded across a narrow concrete dock that reeks of fish and diesel fuel.

The ocean stretches endlessly in all directions, a nauseating shade of green blue under the harsh tropical sun.

No land is visible on the horizon. No aircraft contrails in the sky.

Just water and sky and the growing certainty that we’re completely isolated.

At the end of the dock, a military-style RIB waits, its twin outboard engines idling with barely contained power. The boat looks like it could outrun anything on this water—if we had anywhere to run to.

Another team of operatives in black tactical gear waves us aboard. Their weapons stay trained on us, but there’s no shouting. No unnecessary movement. Just the quiet professionalism of people who know their prey is already caught.

The boat launches before we’re properly seated, and I grab the bench beside me as we accelerate across the choppy water. The engines roar, drowning out any possibility of conversation, which is probably the point.

I count islands as we speed past—or try to.

Small volcanic outcroppings covered in jungle vegetation.

Nothing that looks inhabited. Nothing that looks like it has an airstrip or communications equipment.

Just endless tropical wilderness scattered across an ocean that could be anywhere from the Pacific to the Caribbean.

Twenty minutes pass before land emerges from the heat haze ahead.

This island is different—larger, more jagged, with steep cliffs rising directly from the water.

Dense jungle covers every surface, but as we approach, there are structures hidden in the green.

Concrete. Metal. The hard edges of human habitation carved into the wilderness.

A weathered dock extends from a small cove, and beyond it, a road cuts up through the vegetation toward what looks like a compound perched on the hillside. Razor wire glints in the sunlight along the perimeter fencing.

Another truck waits at the end of the dock—same model as before, same black tint on the windows, same sense of inevitability. They transfer us with the same silent efficiency, and we’re moving again before I can fully process our new surroundings.

The road winds upward through increasingly dense jungle. Through the truck’s small rear window, I glimpse the terrain—lush, wild, humid enough to make breathing feel like drowning.

The island isn’t just isolated.

It’s designed to be inescapable.

When the truck finally stops again, the heat hits me like a physical blow. Thick, oppressive, carrying scents of flowering plants and something else—something metallic and wrong.

We’re inside the compound now. High concrete walls topped with razor wire stretch in every direction, broken only by guard towers and surveillance equipment. The courtyard we’re standing in is large enough for a helicopter to land, paved in weathered stone that radiates heat even through my shoes.

And there, waiting in the center like he’s been expecting us, is a man I’ve never seen in person, but immediately recognize.

Malfor.

He’s smaller than I expected—average height, unremarkable build, the kind of person who could disappear in any crowd. But his eyes are what stop my breath. Cold, calculating, and completely focused on us with the intensity of a scientist studying specimens.

No guards flank him. No weapons visible. Just that detached smile that somehow manages to be more terrifying than all of Harrison’s threats combined.

“Welcome,” he says, his voice smooth and cultured with a slight accent I can’t place, “to the heart of my operation.”

The words hit me like ice water. This is it. This is where he’s been planning everything—hidden away from satellites and surveillance, surrounded by enough ocean to swallow any rescue attempt.

Behind me, the others shift restlessly. Malia makes a small sound that might be terror or rage. Mia’s breathing has gone shallow and quick. Even Jenna’s composure shows cracks.

“I know this isn’t the reunion some of you were expecting,” Malfor continues, his gaze lingering on Stitch with something that might be amusement. “But I believe in completing unfinished business.”

He moves to a black case sitting on a concrete ledge and opens it. Inside, nestled in custom foam, are six objects that make my blood freeze.

Collars.

They’re sleek, matte black, obviously high-tech. Each one bristles with small components—electronics, sensors, maybe transmitters. The kind of sophisticated control device that a man like Malfor would consider elegant.

“Let’s make this official.” He lifts the first collar from its casing.

He steps toward us himself, taking his time, and I realize with growing horror that he’s going to do this personally. Not delegating to guards or subordinates. This is important enough to him that he wants to handle it himself.

“Don’t touch me,” Rebel snarls as he approaches her first, but her broken arm makes resistance meaningless.

He fastens the collar around her throat with the careful attention of someone adjusting jewelry, his fingers brushing aside her hair to make minor adjustments to the fit.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, then looks directly into her eyes. “You have such fire. I’m looking forward to seeing how long it lasts.”

One by one, he moves down the line. Malia tries to pull away, but the guards move forward just enough to discourage resistance.

Mia stands rigid as stone, her biochemist’s mind probably cataloging every detail of the device being locked around her neck.

Jenna’s jaw is set in furious lines, but she keeps still, calculating, waiting for better odds.

When he reaches Stitch, his smile deepens.

“My dear protégé.” There’s genuine affection in his voice that makes my skin crawl.

“You’ve learned so much since our time together.

All those Guardian systems you’ve been helping them understand.

All those secrets you’ve shared.” He adjusts her collar with particular care.

“You’re going to help me again. Whether you want to or not. ”

Stitch’s eyes are pure hatred, but she doesn’t speak.

Finally, he reaches me.

“Miss Collins …” he says, and his attention feels like being dissected. “The brilliant quantum physicist. The woman who nearly destroyed my reactor with such—elegant sabotage.” He lifts the last collar, examining it in the harsh sunlight. “Do you know what these devices are capable of?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “Control mechanisms. Probably a neural interface, given the component configuration. Designed to inflict pain as a compliance tool.”

“Very good.” He steps behind me, his fingers brush my neck as he lifts my hair.

The collar is surprisingly light as it settles around my throat, but I can feel the weight of its implications. The soft click as it locks is as final as a prison door.

“This is not just decoration,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “This is compliance. Cooperation. The beginning of a new phase in our relationship.”

He moves to the center of the courtyard, lifting a small remote from the case. It’s deceptively simple—black, compact, with a single red button prominently displayed.

“I believe in demonstration over explanation,” he says conversationally. “So let’s see how synchronized you are.”

The question in his voice is rhetorical. His finger hovers over the button, and I have exactly enough time to realize what’s about to happen before?—

Pain explodes through my nervous system like molten metal poured directly into my spine. Every muscle locks simultaneously—my back arcs, my jaw clamps shut, my vision goes white at the edges. The world disappears except for the sensation of being torn apart from the inside out.

Around me, I hear screaming—mine, theirs, impossible to distinguish individual voices. We hit the ground, bodies convulsing against the hot stone.

It lasts maybe five seconds. Maybe five hours. Time becomes meaningless when every nerve ending is on fire.

When it stops, I’m flat on my back, staring up at a too-blue sky, bile burning in my throat. My muscles are liquid. My heart pounds so hard I can see it in my peripheral vision.

“That,” Malfor says, his voice floating down from what seems like a great distance, “is level three. There are seven levels available on these devices. Level seven will stop your heart.”

I try to speak and discover I’ve bitten my tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“I want you to understand,” he crouches beside where I’m sprawled on the ground, “that your previous experiences with captivity—with negotiations, with hope of rescue—those rules no longer apply.”

He reaches out and almost gently adjusts my collar, which has shifted during the convulsions.

“This is not a kidnapping. This is not a hostage situation. This is ownership. You belong to me now, until I decide otherwise. Your compliance is not requested—it’s programmed.”

Around me, the others struggle to sit, still shaking from the aftershocks. Rebel’s face is gray, and I think she might have passed out completely. Mia has vomited, the acidic smell mixing with the tropical heat.

“The beauty of these devices,” Malfor says, standing again, “is that I don’t need to break you individually. I can condition you as a group. When one of you disobeys, all of you suffer. When one of you tries to escape, all of you pay the price.”

He smiles down at us, and it’s the expression of a man who’s thought this through completely.

“You’ll learn to police each other. To value group compliance over individual resistance. To see your sisterhood as a liability rather than a strength.” He pockets the remote. “It’s remarkably effective.”

The implications hit me through the lingering neural static. Not only are we individually controlled, but we’re responsible for each other’s pain. Every act of resistance will be paid for by everyone. Every escape attempt will bring agony to women I’ve come to care about.

It’s psychological torture disguised as technology.

“Your quarters are being prepared,” Malfor says, turning away from us. “Rest well. Tomorrow, we begin your education and integration.”

He walks away without looking back, leaving us collapsed on the burning stone of his courtyard, wearing his collars, breathing his air, completely at his mercy.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I understand that rescue might not be coming fast enough to matter.

The collars pulse once—a gentle rhythm against our throats, like a heartbeat. Or a countdown.