Page 6 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

SIX

The Hunt Begins

HANK

The command center at Guardian HQ has a particular energy during crisis operations. It’s not chaos—chaos is undisciplined. This is controlled urgency.

Laser-focused intent.

Every asset is in position. Every operator has a purpose.

I’ve seen this configuration a hundred times, but never from this side of the equation. Never as the one with everything to lose.

Workstations form a horseshoe around the central holographic display.

Mitzy’s techs occupy the right wing, each hunched over monitors tracking maritime traffic, drone signatures, and satellite feeds.

Intelligence analysts are sorting incoming data, monitoring chatter, and parsing patterns from noise.

Sam stands at the command station; his face carved from granite as he reviews satellite imagery.

Forest paces nearby, expression unchanged since Jenna’s apartment.

If someone lacks tactical training, they might miss the subtle indicators of his rage—the precisely measured steps, the controlled breathing, the absolute economy of movement.

I recognize it because I’m implementing the same protocols.

Compartmentalization.

Controlled emotional resources.

Tactical focus.

The alternative is unacceptable.

Every Guardian team is represented. Alpha. Bravo. Charlie. Delta. We represent some of the world’s most lethal operators, all assembled in one room.

The collective combat experience in this space could topple governments; has toppled governments.

And at this moment, every bit of it is focused on one objective.

“Surveillance review confirms what we suspected,” Forest begins without preamble. “This was meticulously planned and executed. Not opportunistic. Calculated.”

The holographic display cycles through security camera stills: Harrison’s arrival, the team’s deployment formation, and the extraction sequence.

“Harrison’s been Robert Collins’s head of security for twenty years,” Sam continues.

“Yet, somehow, he executed a perfect breach of our facility,” I state, the words clipped, precise. “Which means either he’s been gathering intelligence on us for Malfor, or Malfor has another source.”

Sam nods once, the only acknowledgment necessary. “Sentinel’s infiltration exceeded predicted capabilities. We’re implementing full Sigma protocols.”

Translation: trust no one.

“We’ve got drone fragments,” Mitzy announces from her station. She looks exhausted, with her purple hair limp and eyes red rimmed from hours of analysis. “Recovered from the rooftop extraction point. Someone sabotaged the cameras up there, but we found trace components.”

The display shifts to technical schematics, including propulsion systems, guidance hardware, and flight control mechanisms.

“These aren’t anything on record,” she continues. “Custom builds. Military-grade components with proprietary modifications. Whoever built these had access to top-tier technology and the engineering expertise to adapt it.”

She magnifies a grainy image of the underside of one of the drones. “This power distribution system is revolutionary. It shouldn’t be possible to achieve this payload-to-battery ratio.” Her fingers tap across the keyboard. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Focus on the women,” Forest redirects. “Where are they now?”

“Their initial trajectory indicates they headed west over the Pacific,” Mitzy responds, bringing up a map with projected flight paths. “The drones departed at 21:48, and their last confirmed visual was at 21:53. After that, they disappeared from all monitoring systems.”

I don’t bother asking how she knows. I stopped trying to decode Mitzy’s sources years ago—whether it’s satellite piggybacks, underwater sonar taps, or something she cooked up in that neon-lit lab of hers. She sees what no one else does.

“Vanished?” Ethan asks, leaning forward.

“Completely.” Mitzy’s frustration is evident. “No thermal, no radar, no satellite tracking. It’s like they went dark or—or somehow masked their signature.”

“That’s not possible,” Walt counters. “Not even our stealth tech can do that.”

“I know what I’m seeing,” Mitzy insists. “Or rather, what I’m not seeing. They disappeared approximately three miles offshore. We’ve been monitoring all vessel traffic within a 100-mile radius since then. Nothing suspicious.”

I process this information meticulously. “Three miles is within range of a submarine pickup. Or a vessel running without transponders.”

“A sub would require specialized docking equipment for drone retrieval,” Gabe says beside me.

“Their drones are specialized.” It punches out of me. Hard. Hot. “Why the hell wouldn’t they have specialized subs too?” My voice cuts sharper than I mean it to, fury riding shotgun with helplessness. “Jesus, Gabe. Fucking think .”

The room stills for a beat.

Gabe doesn’t react—doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his weight, taps that familiar uneven rhythm against his thigh.

One-two-pause. Three.

It’s his tell. Always has been. Movement when I go still. Fire when I freeze.

“I am thinking ,” he says quietly. Not calm—measured. Careful. For me, not him. “You’re not.”

I exhale through my nose. A harsh sound. My pulse is a war drum in my ears.

He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice.

“She’s mine too.”

That stops me cold.

I flinch.

Not from the words. From the truth of them.

Doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t make it better. But it anchors me—just enough.

“Shit.” I drag a hand down my face, skin burning with tension. “I know.”

Silence stretches.

Then Gabe blows out a breath, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. We’re both a little broken right now.”

A beat.

“I didn’t mean to snap.” I shift, jaw grinding. “I just?—”

“I know.” He cuts me off before I can finish. Not sharp. Not forgiving either. Just there—solid as always. “You’re not the only one losing your mind.”

He knows I’m strung tight. Knows I’m this close to cracking through the surface. And he doesn’t take it personally—never does. Not when it comes to Ally.

He lets the silence hang between us, the kind that doesn’t need filling. We’ve been here before. Different battlefield. Same war.

And I breathe—once, hard—grateful he knows when not to push, and how to steady the fire without putting it out.

I nod once. Slow. The weight of everything pressing against my spine.

Then I look him dead in the eye.

“We’re getting her back.”

“Yeah.” His jaw ticks. “We sure as shit are.” He’s as calm as ever. No pushback. No challenge. Just giving me space to burn.

And just like that, we’re aligned again. One mission. One woman. One war.

And we’re bringing all of it.

We’re both silent after that. Not because there’s nothing to say. Because everything we need to know is already between us.

“A submarine would explain the disappearance,” Ethan speaks up, his voice filling the silence.

“We’ve got SOSUS arrays monitoring the entire West Coast,” Sam reminds us. “No submarine signatures detected.”

“What about the facility breach?” I ask, shifting focus to the more immediate concern. “How did they penetrate Guardian HQ to begin with?”

This has been bothering me since the moment we found Jenna’s apartment. Guardian HQ is a fortress, equipped with biometric security, motion sensors, armed patrols, and surveillance coverage. The fact that an extraction team walked in, took six women, and walked out is unprecedented.

Mitzy frowns, her hands stilling over her keyboard. “That’s the other problem. We’ve found no breach in the perimeter security system. No alarms. No unauthorized access points. Nothing in the logs.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, echoing all our thoughts.

“I know,” Mitzy replies, clearly frustrated. “I’ve been running diagnostics all night. The system shows normal operation throughout the entire event window.”

“Could they have hacked it?” Walt asks. “Inserted a loop in the security feed?”

“First thing I checked,” Mitzy shakes her head. “Our systems are isolated. External access would leave traces. There’s nothing.”

“They got in somehow,” I state flatly.

“There’s something else,” Mitzy adds, bringing up a new display. “We’ve been experiencing random electronic malfunctions across the compound for weeks. System glitches, power fluctuations, equipment failures. Initially, I thought they were isolated incidents.”

Dr. Skye Summers enters the command center, nodding briefly at Forest before joining the briefing circle. Her medical scrubs are rumpled, hair pulled back in a messy bun—she’s come straight from treating Max.

“How’s Max?” I ask.

“Stable,” she replies with the same economy of words. “Sedated. He’ll recover.”

I nod once. Information received. Assessment complete.

“At first, I thought the glitches might be connected to Ally’s USB drive,” Mitzy continues. “The one she brought back from Kazakhstan. We suspected it might have contained a virus that activated when she connected it to our network.”

“But you cleared it,” Gabe notes, eyes narrowing.

“Multiple times,” Mitzy confirms. “And the malfunctions were occurring before she ever plugged it in. Plus, they’ve affected isolated systems with no network connection.”

“Like what?” Forest presses.

“Cell phones with rapid battery drain,” Mitzy says. “Including yours and Gabe’s.” She nods toward us. “The system in the motor pool that tracks vehicle usage. Three different satellite uplinks that keep dropping signal.”

Walt steps forward, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t forget the equipment at Guardian Grind.

The espresso machine’s been glitching for weeks.

Register freezes constantly. Malia was ready to throw the coffee grinder through a window yesterday.

Mike, the mechanic, has been back five times, and nothing stays fixed. ”

“I mean,” Walt rubs the back of his neck, “he’s a good guy. Always responds quickly, but the fixes never last. Malia was convinced he was doing it on purpose to keep coming back for free coffee.”

“Has anyone vetted him recently?” I ask.

Forest catches my implication immediately. “Full personnel sweep,” he orders. “Everyone with access to Guardian HQ in the last six months gets reassessed. Mike goes to the top of the list.”

Mitzy’s already typing. “Michael Drayson. Contractor. Hired eight months ago for general maintenance and repairs. Ex-military. Marine Corps. Honorable discharge.” Her fingers pause. “Clean record, but limited background on his time before Guardian HRS.”

“Has there been any particular pattern to these malfunctions?” Forest asks, voice tight. “Any correlation with locations, timings, personnel?”

Mitzy shakes her head. “Nothing I could identify. Just random equipment failures, power drains. We replaced some cell phones for tech team members when they kept dying. Rewired parts of the electrical system in the east wing. Replaced the satellite uplink twice.”

“Mike is being brought in for questioning,” Sam announces, reviewing incoming messages on his tablet. “We’re implementing lockdown protocols. All personnel are to be accounted for. No one enters or leaves without Level 1 clearance.”

The command center doors slide open, and Carter strides in. His face is drawn, jaw set with the same controlled anger I recognize in myself. His badge—Guardian Protector, not operative—hangs from his belt.

“They took Jenna,” he says without preamble. The words are measured, but the force behind them is unmistakable. “Hurt Max.”

“We know,” Sam acknowledges, though his posture stiffens slightly. He understands what’s coming.

“I’m going after her,” Carter continues, moving to stand with our group. “I’m joining Charlie team.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re a Protector, not a Guardian. You’re not combat certified for this level of operation.”

Carter doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been training with Blake and Rigel for months. I can handle myself.”

“This isn’t a debate,” Sam replies, his tone final. “This is a Category 1 operation. Full tactical team deployment.”

“He’s been running courses with us,” Ethan interjects, surprising me with the support. “Combat scenarios, hostage recovery, tactical formation. He’s solid.”

CJ steps forward, his massive frame drawing all eyes. As operational commander of all Guardian teams, his word carries weight. “I’ve reviewed his progress. He’s not at an operative level, but he’s close. Better than some we’ve deployed.”

Sam looks to Forest, clearly displeased with the interruption to protocol.

“Don’t care what you say. They took Jenna.” Carter says each word precisely. Controlled. “I’m going, just try to stop me.”

I assess him clinically, noting his stance, muscle tension, and eye movement. He maintains strict control, channeling his emotions to focus rather than letting them compromise his judgment. I recognize and respect this trait.

“We’ll need every asset,” I state, supporting his position. “Carter brings years of experience as a detective. He thinks differently than we do. He’s an asset, not a liability.”

Rigel nods in agreement. “He’s put in the work. Firearms qualification, combat fitness test, tactical simulations. He’s ready.”

Forest watches this exchange without expression, then looks directly at Carter. “You follow orders without question. You maintain operational discipline. You don’t compromise the mission.”

“Understood,” Carter replies, not a flicker of emotion betraying the intensity I know he feels.

“Approved.” Forest nods once. “Carter Jackson is temporarily assigned to Charlie team for the duration of this operation.”

The chain of command adjusts and recalibrates. A new tactical element is integrated.

“This operation was meticulously planned,” I observe, returning focus to the mission. “The timing was precise. They struck exactly when all Charlie team operatives were occupied with the security briefing following the attack on Alpha team.”

“Which means they had inside information,” Forest confirms.

“Or they’ve been monitoring us,” Gabe adds. “Those electronic malfunctions could be more than random glitches.”

Surveillance. Infiltration. Compromise.

“Guardian HQ has been under observation,” I state, converting suspicion to tactical fact. “For how long is the question.”

“And to what extent,” Forest adds grimly.

My eyes meet Gabe’s across the command center. A silent communication passes between us—assessment, calculation, shared understanding.

This isn’t about recovering the women.

This is about Malfor.

The man who tried to control global energy through fusion technology.

The man who took Ally once before.

The man who now has her again.

I catalog the anger and store it precisely where it will serve the mission. Cold focus is what will bring her back.

What will bring them all back.

“Mitzy,” I say, my voice steady, controlled. “We need everything on those drones. Flight capability. Range. Technical signature. If we find how they’re built, we find who built them.”

“And if we find who built them,” Ethan finishes, “we find our women.”

“To start,” CJ says, “we begin with Collins.”