Page 60 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIFTY-ONE

The Waiting

ALLY

The Guardian Grind hums with restless energy at three in the morning. The espresso machine purrs like a contented cat as steam wands hiss and portafilters click into place.

For the first time in months, every component works perfectly.

No temperamental pressure gauges.

No stubborn grind settings.

No mysterious electronic hiccups that plagued the machine since my arrival.

Tonight, even the coffee gods seem to understand Charlie’s Angels need comfort.

I stand behind the familiar counter. My hands move through the ritual of pulling shots and steaming milk while my mind stays three thousand miles away with men who’ve gone to collect a blood debt.

The grinder’s burr plates sing their familiar song, beans falling like rain into the portafilter as I dose and tamp with meditative focus.

Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop them from shaking.

“Double espresso, extra shot,” I announce, sliding the cup across to Jenna, who sits at the counter with her bandaged hand cradled against her chest.

“Thanks, love.” Her voice carries gratitude that goes deeper than caffeine appreciation.

We’re all here for the same reason—because sitting alone in empty apartments while our men hunt monsters feels impossible. Because sometimes the only way to survive waiting is to do it together.

The café feels different at this hour, stripped of its daytime energy and bustling crowd. Soft lighting creates pools of warmth while shadows gather in corners, transforming familiar space into something more intimate.

More like home.

More like a sanctuary.

Rebel occupies the corner booth, her face still bearing the healing stitches that track from temple to jaw like a roadmap of Malfor’s cruelty.

Her arm rests in a sling while bound ribs limit her breathing to careful, measured draws.

Her eyes hold fierce determination that speaks to survival instincts stronger than any injury.

“How are you feeling?” Mia asks, settling beside her.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Rebel admits with honesty that costs her. “But alive. Breathing. Ready to see that bastard get what he deserves.”

Stitch moves slowly to the window seat, back still bearing the marks of Malfor’s cane and whip beneath loose clothing designed to hide healing wounds. Each step speaks to pain carefully managed but not conquered.

“Tea for you,” Sophia says softly, bringing a steaming mug that smells of chamomile and honey. “Supposed to help with healing.”

“Everything helps with healing,” Stitch replies, accepting the cup with hands that tremble slightly. “Time. Tea. Friends.”

Sophia’s smile holds understanding that comes from experience. She knows what it means to survive Malfor’s attention, to carry scars that are both visible and hidden.

“How are Luke and Zephyr?” I ask, remembering the children who’ve already seen too much violence in their young lives.

“Violet’s watching them,” Sophia explains. “Thought it was better they sleep in familiar beds rather than worry about things they can’t understand.”

The espresso machine releases another perfect shot, dark liquid flowing like silk into waiting cups. I craft drinks with extra care tonight—perfect foam art, precise temperatures, flavor profiles that speak to love made manifest through caffeinated perfection.

“Cortado for the lady with excellent taste,” I announce, sliding the cup toward Malia.

She accepts it with a smile that doesn’t quite hide the lingering effects of her concussion—slightly unfocused eyes, careful movements that speak to her equilibrium still recovering from trauma. But she’s here, present, contributing her warmth to our collective vigil.

“This is probably the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” she says after her first sip. “You’ve outdone yourself, Ally.”

“Thanks.” I smile, watching her savor the drink with appreciation that makes the late-night effort worthwhile. “I had a good teacher, and the machine’s finally cooperating.”

“Hey.” Jenna reaches over with her good hand and squeezes Malia’s. “You took a beating that would have killed most people. A little confusion is nothing compared to being alive.”

The truth of it settles over our group with uneasy acceptance. We’re all alive, all here, all healing despite everything Malfor tried to take from us. Broken but not beaten, scarred but not destroyed.

The café door chimes softly as a late-night security guard does his rounds, checking that we’re safe in our sanctuary. The building feels more secure knowing Guardian personnel are keeping watch while we wait for news.

“Does anyone know when they might be back?” I sip from my cup and don’t voice the worry in my head. I’m afraid that if I speak my fears, one or all of them won’t make it back.

“They’re trained for this.” Stitch’s voice carries wisdom earned through surviving horrors that would break lesser people. “They know what they’re doing. And they have something worth coming home to.”

Our men are indeed stubborn bastards.

“Speaking of devotion,” Sophia observes, studying my face with the sharp attention of someone who’s learned to read subtle signs, “when’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure caffeine?”

The question forces me to think, searching for meals that blur together in an anxiety-fueled haze of grief and worry.

“I had toast this morning. Yesterday morning. Some morning recently.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jenna scolds with authority that would make Carter proud. “Ally, you need real food.”

“I’m not hungry.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Truth is, I’ve been nauseous for days—grief sitting heavy in my stomach, making everything taste wrong. Even the smell of food makes my stomach rebel.

“Everything just—doesn’t agree with me right now.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Malia says, already moving toward the small kitchen behind the counter. “Grief and worry burn calories whether you feel them or not. Your body needs fuel.”

She begins assembling ingredients—fresh bread, butter, honey, and fruit that adds color and nutrition.

“I should be doing that,” I protest. “You’re still recovering from?—”

“Injuries that are healing,” she interrupts with gentle firmness. “Not from being helpless. Let me take care of you the way you’ve taken care of all of us.”

The offer touches something raw in my chest, emotions too close to the surface for comfort. Taking care of others has become my default response to feeling helpless—if I can’t control whether our men come home safely, at least I can ensure everyone has perfect coffee while we wait.

“Besides,” Jenna adds with humor that holds steel underneath, “if you collapse from malnutrition, Gabe will blame us. And frankly, I’m not sure any of us could survive his protective fury on top of everything else.”

“He is rather intense about your well-being,” Rebel says. It’s an understatement that makes everyone smile because it’s true.

“Intense like a hurricane is breezy,” Stitch agrees. “That man loves you with the focused intensity of a tactical laser.”

“Speaking of which,” Mia glances at her phone with anxiety, “any word yet?”

“Radio silence since they left.” I check my device for the hundredth time in the last hour, finding nothing but an empty screen and mounting worry. “Which means either everything’s going according to plan, or…”

“Or nothing,” Sophia cuts me off with authority that allows no argument. “Everything’s going according to plan. Period. End of discussion.”

The certainty in her voice carries weight beyond simple optimism. She survived Malfor’s attention and knows intimately what our men are capable of when properly motivated. If anyone understands the odds of tonight’s mission, it’s the woman who lived through his cruelty and emerged stronger.

“They’re probably just having too much fun killing him to check in,” Rebel adds with dark humor.

“Our men against one paranoid megalomaniac?” Jenna shakes her head with amusement. “That’s not a fair fight. That’s pest control.”

“Poor Malfor,” Mia says without a trace of sympathy. “He probably thought those walls and guards would protect him.”

“Should have built higher walls,” Stitch observes. “And hired better guards. And maybe not tortured the women of men who kill people professionally.”

“Rookie mistake,” Malia agrees with precocious wisdom that would be concerning if it weren’t so accurate.

Toast appears before me, perfectly golden and spread with honey that catches the café’s lighting like liquid amber. Simple food that smells like comfort.

“Thank you,” I tell Malia, meaning more than just breakfast.

“Thank you ,” she replies, settling back into her seat. “For letting us wait together. For making this place feel like home when our actual homes feel too empty.”

The truth of it settles over us. We’re family, chosen and forged through shared trials, supporting each other through enough anxiety to overwhelm our individual strength.

But together, we’re stronger. Unstoppable.

“To Charlie’s Angels,” Rebel raises her coffee cup in a toast that carries weight beyond a simple gesture.

“To survival,” Stitch adds, lifting her tea with steady hands.

“To stubborn men who keep their promises,” Jenna contributes with humor that holds steel.

“To coming home,” Sophia finishes, voice carrying hope and certainty in equal measure.

“Remember when our biggest worry was whether the espresso machine would work?” Mia asks with nostalgia for simpler times.

“I remember when my biggest worry was my thesis defense,” I admit, thinking of academic concerns that feel impossibly distant from my current reality.

“Now we’re all in love with professional killers who think ‘normal Tuesday’ includes international revenge missions,” Rebel observes with accuracy that makes everyone laugh.

We have to laugh. Crying is overrated.

“Could be worse,” Stitch points out. “We could all be in love with accountants who think ‘dangerous’ means taking lunch meetings without reservations.”

“True,” Sophia agrees. “At least our men are competent at the violence they choose to pursue.”

“And they fight like hell to come home to us,” Sophia adds with quiet determination.

“They do,” I agree, tasting hope that feels as fragile as spun glass.

My phone vibrates against the counter, a sharp buzz that cuts through the café like an alarm bell. Every conversation stops as attention focuses on the device that might carry news we’ve been waiting for.

Gabe’s name appears on screen. It’s a simple text that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. I answer before the second ring, voice steadier than I feel.

“Tell me.”

“It’s done.” His voice carries exhaustion and satisfaction in equal measure, words that taste like justice served and promises kept. “We’re coming home.”

Relief floods my system. Around me, faces reflect similar emotions—fear transformed into joy, anxiety giving way to celebration.

“Are you hurt?” The question comes automatically.

“Nothing that won’t heal.”

Our family remains intact despite the night’s violence. Our men who went to war are coming home.

Justice was served, and debts were paid.

“I love you.” My voice carries everything I couldn’t say while he was gone.

“I love you too. See you soon.”

The line goes dead, leaving a silence that holds a different quality than before. Not anxiety, but anticipation. Not fear, but preparation for a celebration that’s been earned through survival and sacrifice.

“It’s done,” I announce to faces that already know but need to hear the confirmation.

“It’s over?” Rebel asks.

“It’s over. He’s dead.” The words hold a finality that closes too many chapters written in blood and pain.

“They’re coming home,” Jenna finishes with joy that transforms pain into something beautiful.

Tonight, we waited, exactly where we belong—surrounded by love, sustained by friendship, protected by men who keep their promises no matter the cost.

The waiting is over.

Our men are coming home.