Page 57 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FORTY-NINE

No Mercy, No survivors

GABE

The compound sits on a cliff face overlooking the Adriatic like a concrete cancer growing from living rock. Lights glitter behind reinforced windows while guard towers sweep searchlight patterns across approaches that seem impossible to breach undetected.

The architecture screams paranoid wealth—walls thick enough to stop artillery, windows bulletproof, defensive positions that could hold off small armies.

Could. Past tense. Because tonight, those defenses face something they weren’t designed to stop.

Cold wind carries salt spray from waves that crash against cliffs two hundred feet below, mixing ocean scent with the sharp ozone of approaching weather. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, promising rain, wind, and darkness that will swallow gunfire and screams.

Perfect conditions for murder.

We belly-crawl through scrub brush and granite outcroppings, each man invisible against terrain that’s trying to kill us through exposure and elevation. The compound’s lights create pools of visibility that we navigate around, flowing like water between illuminated zones.

My rifle’s scope shows guard positions in crystalline detail—two men in the north tower, sharing cigarettes and conversation. Three more walking patrol routes. Sentry posts at critical choke points, each manned by professionals who know their business.

They’re about to learn that knowing and surviving are different skills entirely.

“Overwatch positions,” Ethan whispers into comms, his breath visible in the mountain air that’s dropped twenty degrees since we landed.

Blake and Walt ghost toward elevated positions with sniper rifles slung across their shoulders, moving through terrain that would challenge mountain goats.

They’ll provide overwatch and eliminate sentries when the dance begins—death delivered from distances that turn men into memories before they hear the shot.

They disappear into granite and shadow, two predators who’ve learned to make mountains their hunting ground. Walt’s bulk seems impossible to hide until he simply vanishes behind a boulder and scrub. Blake flows between rock formations like smoke; there one moment and gone the next.

“Electronic warfare,” Ghost directs Whisper toward the compound’s communication hub.

Whisper emerges from the shadows, carrying devices that will turn Malfor’s defensive systems against him.

Electronic warfare specialist, communications expert, the man who makes billion-dollar defense networks commit suicide on command.

He moves through darkness with the grace of someone who’s learned to make technology his weapon.

Ten minutes with their network and every automated gun becomes our ally instead of an enemy.

“Assault teams, standby for signal.”

I check my weapon for the hundredth time, as muscle memory takes over, rendering conscious thought a liability. The magazine is seated with a metallic click. Safety engaged. My backup pistol is secured in a shoulder holster, knife positioned for rapid deployment.

I carry everything needed to paint this compound red with the blood of men who thought money could protect them from consequences.

The wind shifts, carrying new scents—diesel fuel from generators, gun oil from weapon maintenance, fear-sweat from guards who know something’s wrong but can’t identify the threat. Smart money says they’re professionals, experienced contractors who’ve survived conflicts most people can’t imagine.

Smart money’s about to lose its shirt.

Through my scope, the north tower’s lights flicker and die as Blake’s rifle speaks twice with suppressed authority.

Muzzle flashes are invisible at this distance, sound muffled to whispers that won’t carry past the next ridge.

Two soldiers who’ll never see another sunrise, courtesy of precision marksmanship and righteous fury.

“Guards eliminated,” Blake’s voice whispers through comms like death’s own lullaby. “Tower one clear. Two targets down.”

“Tower two down,” Walt confirms, his voice carrying satisfaction. “Patrol route alpha neutralized. Three more for the collection.”

More lights die as Walt works his magic from an overwatch position that turns him into God’s own sniper. Professional contractors who thought themselves safe behind walls and weapons discover that distance is just another word for temporary safety.

“Security grid compromised,” Whisper reports, voice barely disturbing air that tastes of ozone and approaching violence. “Automated defenses offline. Motion sensors are feeding false data. Thermal imaging shows what I want it to show. We own their eyes and ears.”

Electronic warfare at its finest—turning billion-dollar defensive systems into elaborate decoration. Cameras that see nothing, sensors that report all clear, and automated weapons that won’t fire when targets appear.

Our technology serves justice instead of greed.

“Phase one complete,” Ghost announces with satisfaction that sounds like anticipation wrapped in professional calm. “All teams, you are clear to engage. Remember—no survivors. No witnesses. No mercy.”

We flow toward the compound like death given form, moving through defensive positions that no longer defend anything. The main building looms ahead through darkness and storm clouds, a concrete and steel monument to Malfor’s paranoia and accumulated wealth.

Tonight it becomes his tomb, and I’m going to be the one who seals it.

The entry point Halo selects allows access through a maintenance corridor that bypasses primary defensive chokepoints. It’s smart tactical thinking—avoid the kill zones, find the soft spots, get inside before anyone knows you’re there.

Explosive charges eliminate locks and barriers, each explosion muffled by storm wind and careful placement.

C-4 shaped to focus blast energy inward, turning steel doors into twisted metal and concrete barriers into rubble.

The sound carries no further than the next corridor, swallowed by the mountain wind and approaching thunder.

Our first significant resistance comes from two guards in the corridor—professional contractors in tactical gear who recognize our threat and react. They’re combat veterans who’ve survived wars in places most people can’t pronounce, carrying weapons that could stop armored vehicles.

But, they die anyway.

Carter’s rifle speaks twice; each shot a decree of authority.

The first guard spins with his chest blown open, arterial spray painting white walls red as his heart pumps its last beat.

The second manages to bring his weapon to bear before Walt puts two rounds center mass, body armor useless against tungsten-core penetrators that punch through Kevlar like tissue paper.

We reduce the threat to cooling meat in less than three seconds.

“Contact eliminated,” Carter reports, already advancing past bodies that twitch with final neural impulses.

The corridor reeks of cordite and copper, blood pooling on industrial carpeting that will never come clean. Emergency lighting casts everything in red relief. It’s an appropriate atmosphere for the slaughter we’re about to unleash.

We clear rooms methodically, stacking on doors with the expertise that comes from years of elite operations. Fatal funnels become killing fields as we flow through chokepoints like smoke, each movement dictated by experience and muscle memory.

Ethan takes point, rifle at ready, eyes scanning for threats that might survive long enough to matter. Behind him, Rigel covers angles while Blake watches our six.

The first room holds three contractors playing cards around a table covered with weapons and ammunition. They look up as the door explodes inward, reaching for rifles that might as well be decorative for all the good they do.

Ghost puts them down—two rounds each, center mass. The smell of gunpowder mingles with the copper tang of blood painting playing cards red.

“Clear,” he announces, already moving toward the next door.

We advance through luxury that belongs in corporate boardrooms, not military compounds.

Brass plants explosive charges as we advance, each device designed to collapse the structure behind us and deny retreat to anyone foolish enough to follow. No withdrawal, no second chances, no option except total victory or glorious death.

The way Hank would have wanted it.

“Second floor,” Ethan announces as we reach the stairwell.

More resistance here—four contractors in a defensive position that should hold this chokepoint indefinitely. Sandbags and automatic weapons, overlapping fields of fire, a professional setup that could stop a conventional assault.

We’re not conventional.

Halo produces something small and round, a timer already counting down. The grenade bounces once, twice.

The explosion turns sandbags into confetti and contractors into abstract art, blood and tissue painting walls in patterns that would make Jackson Pollock weep.

Concrete craters exist where professional soldiers used to stand, their weapons twisted into modern sculpture by high explosives and righteous fury.

“Clear,” someone calls through smoke and debris.

We advance through devastation, boots crunching on rubble and bone fragments—the stairwell reeks of death that tastes of victory and approaching storm.

Another defensive position ahead—professional setup with interlocking fields of fire that should stop anything short of an armored assault. Five contractors with weapons that could ventilate tanks, and training that cost governments millions to provide.

They don’t stand a chance.

Walt flanks left while Blake takes right. The pincer movement turns their stronger position into a killing ground. Crossfire erupts as they engage from unexpected angles, muzzle flashes strobing in confined space like demonic photography.

Blood slicks the marble under our boots.

The higher we climb, the harder they push back—more contractors, better weapons, more desperate. But desperation without precision is just noise. We’re here to silence it.

A machine gun nest waits at the next landing—dug in tight, with overlapping fields of fire. Suppressive rounds chew through the stairwell, turning it into a kill box. They’re dug in like they mean to hold this floor until the world ends.

But Whisper steps forward, calm as a surgeon.

He unpacks a small case, fingers flying across a matte-black interface. No shouting. No orders. Just code and intent.

The gun hesitates. Then pivots.

It opens fire on its own. Controlled bursts, pinpoint accuracy—rounds chewing through the men who trusted it to protect them. They scream, panic, and scramble.

Doesn’t matter.

They’re already dead.

The walls catch it all. Bone. Blood. Shreds of flesh. Reinforced steel painted red. Whisper watches without blinking, already packing away his gear like he’s folding laundry.

We move on.

“Saferoom,” Ethan mutters as we reach the final door.

It’s a beast—reinforced steel, triple-lock mechanisms, facial recognition scanner, and military-grade blast resistance. Designed to withstand sieges.

Designed to keep people like us out.

But it’s just a door. And all doors eventually open.

Especially when justice is pounding on the other side.

Whisper produces devices that make locks irrelevant—electronic warfare tools that turn billion-dollar security into elaborate decoration. Sparks cascade as circuits overload, steel barriers becoming no more effective than paper against a focused electromagnetic pulse.

Trigger under my finger. Muscles coiled. Breath steady. Every thought narrowed to a single name.

Alexei Malfor.

Terrorist. Arms dealer. The man who built empires from blood and ruin. The man who took Hank from me. Thought a fortress would make him untouchable.

He’s about to learn how wrong dead men can be.

Wind shrieks against the reinforced glass behind us, driving rain sideways, electricity crackling in the air. Ozone and smoke. Gunpowder and vengeance. The mountain peaks flash with lightning—serrated stone fangs looming like ancient gods come to witness a reckoning.

“Breach, breach, breach!”

The blast punches the world sideways. Steel screams. Fire and smoke bloom outward, choking heat surging with it. We pour through the gap like a tidal surge made of flesh, fury, and loaded weapons.

The penthouse sprawls in opulence—floor-to-ceiling glass framing the black sea beyond, marble veined like bone, artifacts mounted like trophies. Power layered in every object. The cold kind. The purchased kind.

And behind a monolithic obsidian desk, sits Alexei Malfor.