Page 55 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FORTY-SEVEN

Assembly

GABE

The secure phone rings twice before Ghost’s gravelly voice cuts through the static.

“Figured I’d be hearing from you.”

“Need to ask a favor.” I pace the length of our deck, the ocean wind carrying salt and the promise of storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “Off the books. Personal.”

“Malfor.”

It’s not a question. Ghost doesn’t deal in questions when the answer’s already carved in blood and grief.

“Got a location. Montenegro. Same area where he held Sophia and the kids.” The coordinates taste like vengeance on my tongue. “Seventy-two-hour window before he disappears again.”

Silence stretches across the encrypted connection. In the background, I catch muffled voices—Cerberus planning, always planning, turning violence into science.

“Guardian sanctioned?” Ghost’s tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“Negative. This is personal.”

“Best kind.” The approval in his voice is unmistakable. “What do you need?”

“Transport. Support. Operators who know how to kill quietly and efficiently.”

“Montenegro’s not exactly a vacation destination. Rough terrain. Hostile government. Limited extraction options.”

“We’ve been there before.”

“Yeah, you have.” Another pause, longer this time. “You realize this is suicide without proper intel and backup?”

“I realize Hank’s dead because that bastard used our women as bait.” The words come out sharper than intended, rage bleeding through professional composure. “Every day Malfor breathes is an insult to his memory.”

“Fair point.” Ghost’s voice carries the weight of shared loss. “Usual rates apply. Plus combat pay for the personal touch.”

“Done.”

“Gear?”

“Everything. Long range. Close quarters. Demolitions. Whatever it takes to turn that compound into a crater.”

“Brass is gonna cream himself. He’s been itching for a real fight.” Ghost’s laugh holds no humor, just the dark satisfaction of men about to unleash hell. “Halo’s got new toys he wants to field test. Whisper’s been practicing his knife work.”

“When can you be ready?”

“Already am. Question is, when do you want to move?”

The question hangs in salt air between us. Seventy-two hours. Three days to plan, execute, and extract before Malfor slips away again. Three days to balance the scales.

“Tomorrow night. 0200 hours.”

“Cutting it close.”

“Close is all we’ve got.”

“Roger that. Rendezvous point?”

I give him the coordinates for a private airfield forty miles north of the city. Off the radar. Owned by someone who asks no questions as long as the money’s clean.

“Martinez?” Ghost’s voice stops me from ending the call.

“Yeah?”

“This won’t bring him back.”

The observation hits like a dagger through the heart. Because he’s right—killing Malfor won’t resurrect Hank. It won’t restore what we’ve lost.

“No,” I admit. “But it’ll make sure he can’t take anyone else.”

“Good enough reason as any.”

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the ocean wind and the weight of decisions that can’t be undone. Ally appears in the doorway behind me, her hair caught by the breeze, eyes holding questions she’s not sure she wants answered.

“Ghost?” she asks.

“Ghost.”

“Are you sure about this?”

The question forces me to examine my motivations—revenge versus justice, emotion versus logic, need versus wisdom. What I find isn’t pretty, but it’s honest.

“I’m sure Malfor needs to die. I’m sure we’re the ones who should kill him. Everything else is just details.”

She nods slowly, accepting what I’ve become in the aftermath of loss. Not the man who loved carefully and shared willingly, but something sharper. More focused. Distilled down to essential elements.

“What do you need me to do?”

The offer surprises me. After everything she’s been through—kidnapping, torture, watching Hank die—she’s still willing to walk into hell if it means standing beside me.

“Stay here. Stay safe. Let me handle this.”

“Gabe—”

“No discussion.” I turn to face her fully, see the argument building in her eyes. “You’ve been through enough. You’ve lost enough. I won’t risk you on a suicide mission.”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” The words come out harsher than intended, but I don’t take them back. “You’re the only good thing left in my life, Ally. The only reason I want to survive this. I won’t watch Malfor take you away from me again.”

Her expression softens, reading the fear beneath my protective instincts. The terror that losing her would complete my destruction, leave me with nothing but revenge and empty spaces.

“Then come back to me.” She steps closer, frames my face with hands that shake slightly. “Kill that bastard and come home to me.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but some promises are made to be broken if it means keeping the people we love safe.

The airfield sits dark and empty under overcast skies, runways cutting black lines through scrub grass that hasn’t seen rain in weeks. A single hangar glows with muted light, large enough to hide aircraft and activities from prying eyes.

I arrive early, habit and paranoia keeping me sharp despite the grief that threatens to dull every edge.

Twin turboprops approach from the northwest—Cerberus transportation, unmarked and unregistered, carrying death in designer suits. The aircraft touches down with barely a whisper, pilots skilled enough to make heavy machinery dance.

Four figures emerge from the plane—shadows made flesh.

Ghost leads, every step honed and deliberate, violence etched into muscle and memory.

Behind him, Brass hauls enough firepower to flatten a city block, each weapon handled like a trusted friend.

Halo follows, smaller than the others, but with the calm focus of a man who makes buildings vanish.

Whisper brings up the rear, wordless and still, knives tucked where even death wouldn’t think to look.

“Martinez.” Ghost clasps my hand, grip firm enough to crack bone. “You look like shit.”

“Feel worse.”

“Good. Angry men fight harder.”

The team moves toward the hangar in lockstep precision, no wasted motion or unnecessary conversation. Inside, cases of equipment wait in neat rows—weapons, communications gear, medical supplies, everything needed to wage private war.

“Intel package.” Brass drops a waterproof case at my feet. “Satellite imagery, thermal scans, structural analysis. Your mystery woman provided coordinates, but we filled in the details.”

I open the case, study photographs that show Malfor’s Montenegro compound in devastating detail. Cliffside location, ocean access, multiple buildings connected by covered walkways. Defensive positions. Guard towers. Everything a paranoid arms dealer needs to feel secure.

“Security assessment?” I ask.

“Heavy but predictable.” Halo spreads technical drawings across a makeshift table. “Motion sensors, thermal cameras, automated weapon systems. Standard rich asshole fortress package.”

“Automated systems are vulnerable to electronic interference,” Whisper adds, voice barely disturbing the air. “Ten minutes with their network and I can turn their defenses against them.”

“Personnel count?”

“Forty to sixty combatants,” Ghost provides. “Professional contractors, not local talent. Well-armed, well-trained, probably well-paid. They’ll fight.”

“Good.” The word comes out darker than intended. “I want them to fight.”

“This is personal for you.” Ghost studies my expression, reads the violence building behind my eyes.

“Very.”

“Personal makes you sloppy.”

“Personal makes me thorough.”

He considers this; weighs my emotional state against operational requirements. Finally nods once—approval or acceptance, hard to tell the difference.

“Equipment preference?” Brass opens weapon cases, revealing an arsenal that would make arms dealers weep with envy.

“Long range first. Close quarters after.” I select a precision rifle, check the scope, and feel its familiar weight settle against my shoulder. “I want to reach out and touch someone before we get intimate.”

“My kind of poetry.” Halo grins, expression holding just enough madness to be concerning.

“Timeline?” Ghost checks his watch, mental calculations visible behind cold eyes.

“Fourteen hours to target. Two hours for reconnaissance and final planning. Insertion immediately following.”

“Tight.”

“Tight is what we have.”

The hangar hums with organized chaos as Cerberus gears up for war. Weapons click into readiness. Comms crackle to life. Gear is handed out; each piece matched to its master. It’s not just preparation—it’s ritual. A mechanical ballet of destruction.

My phone buzzes with an encrypted message. A single line of text that makes my blood run cold.

Charlie team en route to your location. Ethan.

“Son of a bitch.” I look up to find Ghost watching me, expression unreadable. “You leaked this to Ethan.”

“Might have mentioned you were planning something stupid.” He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Professional courtesy.”

“This was supposed to be off the books.”

“Still is. But Hank was their brother too. You really think they’d let you hunt his killer alone?”

Before I can respond, engines roar through the night—multiple vehicles, moving fast, chewing up gravel with no attempt at stealth. Charlie team, making their entrance with all the subtlety of a battering ram.

Three black SUVs roll onto the tarmac, doors flying open before the engines die.

Ethan climbs out first, jaw set, storm in his eyes.

Jeb is right behind him, silent and steady, the kind of calm that follows a decision already made.

Carter stalks forward like he’s hunting something, rage barely leashed.

Blake and Walt exit opposite sides, scanning the perimeter, movements tight with purpose.

Rigel brings up the rear, eyes cold, expression unreadable—but his fists clench like he’s holding back the urge to tear something apart.

The team’s intact—minus the dead. And their silence says more than any words ever could. They don’t walk—they advance. Purpose in every step, boots striking asphalt like a countdown.

They cross the distance to the hangar like an advancing army, purpose written in every step. When Ethan reaches the threshold, he stops, surveys the assembled firepower, then fixes me with eyes that hold zero tolerance for argument.

Steel meets steel. No questions. No room for negotiation.

“Going somewhere without us?” His voice carries command authority that brooks no dissent.

Not a suggestion. A line drawn in the sand.

“This isn’t Guardian business.”

“Fuck Guardian business.” Carter’s voice slices through the dark, jagged and bleeding. “This is family.”

“He was our anchor—” Walt starts.

“Our brother,” Blake finishes.

“Our friend,” Rigel adds, voice steady despite emotion bleeding through.

They fan out, a wall of muscle and conviction, forming a semicircle between me and the exit. No need for threats. Their bodies say everything— You’re not doing this alone.

Ethan steps in, close enough I can see it—the grief threatening to crack him wide open, the fury welded over it like armor.

“You really think we’d let you honor him without us?” His voice doesn’t shake. It hits like impact. “You think we’d let you carry this weight alone?”

The gesture hits harder than expected. Because despite everything—the fight with Hank, the guilt, the isolation of grief—they still consider me family. Still want to stand beside me when it matters most.

The ground shifts beneath me.

For days, I’ve been drowning in guilt, in silence. Hank’s voice gone. His laugh. His steady hand. I kept breathing, but nothing felt alive. Now, standing in the eye of this storm of loyalty, everything inside me stirs.

Breaks.

“This could go sideways fast,” I warn. “No official support. No extraction backup. No guarantees any of us come home.”

“We know,” Ethan responds without hesitation.

“Malfor’s got forty to sixty professional contractors defending that compound.”

“We know.”

“This is pure revenge. Blood for blood. Nothing noble or patriotic about it.”

“We know.” His tone softens, just enough to crack the shield he wears. “Yet, we’re still here.”

It slams into me—this moment. The loyalty. The love. The brothers who choose to stand in fire with me, not because they have to, but because they won’t let me go alone.

The support staggers me. After days of feeling isolated in grief, of believing I had to carry this burden alone, discovering my brothers are willing to walk into hell beside me…

There are no words.

“Gear up.” My voice barely works. “We’ve got a war to win.”

Charlie team surges into the hangar like a force of nature, integrating with Cerberus like they’ve always belonged here.

We’re ready to descend on Montenegro like the wrath of God. The hand of vengeance itself.

For Hank.

Ghost appears at my shoulder, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

“Still think this is suicide?”

“Probably.”

“Good thing you won’t be doing it alone.”

I watch my team—my family—transform into instruments of violence, and for the first time since Hank died, I believe we might actually survive this.

More importantly, I believe we’re going to make Malfor regret the day he decided to make it personal.