Page 61 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIFTY-TWO

Homecoming

ALLY

The Guardian Grind buzzes with energy at four in the afternoon, twenty-six hours after Gabe’s call. The espresso machine hums while late-afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything golden.

I stand behind the counter, hands busy. Steam wands hiss and portafilters click into place, each movement keeping my mind from spinning into worry about men who should have been home hours ago.

“They’re probably dealing with extraction logistics,” Jenna says for the third time in an hour, her remaining fingers drumming against the counter. “International flights, customs, that sort of thing.”

“Or sleeping off the adrenaline crash,” Mia adds, settling beside her with careful movements. “Killing megalomaniacal psychopaths is probably exhausting work.”

“Probably,” I agree, though the word tastes forced.

The café feels different than during our vigil—less desperate, more anticipatory. We’re no longer waiting to find out if our men are coming home.

We’re waiting for them to walk through the door.

Rebel sits in the corner booth, her healing face turned toward the window with the best view of the parking lot. Her good arm rests on the table while the other stays carefully positioned. Her eyes hold fierce attention.

“Movement,” she announces, straightening.

Three black SUVs roll into the parking lot. Dust kicks up from tires as vehicles park in formation.

My heart hammers as doors begin opening, men emerging who look like they’ve been through hell but won. Tactical gear replaced with civilian clothes that can’t hide the dangerous frames underneath. Eyes that scan automatically for threats, even here.

Gabe emerges from the lead vehicle, and the sight of him—alive, whole, and moving with that lethal stride—nearly buckles my knees.

He pauses in the parking lot, eyes finding mine through the window, and something passes between us. Confirmation. Resolution. The promise that justice has been served.

Behind him, Ethan unfolds from the passenger seat. Carter follows from the second vehicle, then Walt and Blake from the passenger doors. Rigel limps slightly but moves under his own power. Jeb is there too, limping more than normal, but standing tall.

Ghost and his Cerberus team emerge from the third vehicle. Brass carries a duffel bag. Halo moves with loose-limbed ease. Whisper simply materializes from the shadow.

The café door chimes as they enter, and suddenly the space feels smaller, charged with testosterone and barely contained violence that’s found its target. The scent of gunpowder and travel clings to them despite civilian clothes.

Gabe reaches me first, moving through furniture and people like obstacles. His hands frame my face.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb tracing my cheek.

“Hey, yourself.” My voice comes out steadier than expected.

He kisses me then, soft and careful and tasting like justice served cold. When we break apart, his eyes hold the kind of peace I haven’t seen since before Hank died—not healed, maybe never fully healed, but settled.

The weight of vengeance no longer crushes him.

Around us, similar reunions unfold.

Ethan reaches Rebel’s booth in three long strides, gathering her into his arms with precision that doesn’t disturb healing bones. She melts against him despite injuries, fingers digging into his shoulders like she’s afraid he might disappear.

“Miss me?” he asks against her hair.

“Like missing air,” she admits, voice muffled against his neck.

Carter finds Jenna at the counter, his massive frame somehow gentle as he takes her bandaged hand in both of his, examining damaged fingers.

“How are they?” he asks, voice rough.

“Better. Getting better every day.” She flexes her remaining fingers. “Did you…?”

“He paid for them,” Carter confirms. “Twice. Every finger. Every tear. Every nightmare. Paid in full.”

Walt crosses to where Malia sits nursing her coffee, still moving carefully due to lingering concussion effects. She looks up as his shadow falls across her table, and her face transforms with relief so pure it takes my breath away.

“Walt.” His name comes out like a prayer.

He doesn’t speak, just pulls her to her feet and into his arms, massive frame enveloping her completely. She disappears against his chest, and I hear her muffled sob of relief.

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “I’m here. I’m home.”

“I was so scared,” she whispers. “When my head got scrambled, I kept forgetting things, but I never forgot being afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

“I’ll always come back to you.” His hands cradle her head with infinite gentleness. “Always.”

Blake finds Sophia near the pastry case, gathering her into his arms. Their reunion is quieter but no less intense, hands checking for injuries that aren’t there, eyes confirming what words can’t quite capture.

Rigel finds Mia, gathering her into his arms. She melts against him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw like she’s memorizing features she was afraid she might never see again.

Stitch rises carefully from her window seat, moving toward Jeb. He meets her halfway, movements equally careful as they navigate the space between independence and need for comfort.

“How’s the pain?” Jeb asks, studying her face.

“Manageable.” She leans into his touch, allowing him to support the weight she’s been carrying alone. “Better now that you’re back.”

“Did you—” Malia starts, then stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. I don’t want details. I just want to know it’s over.”

“It’s over,” Gabe confirms, still holding me. “Malfor’s dead. His operation’s destroyed. It’s finished.”

The words settle over the café like a benediction. We’re safe. Our men are home. The monster who haunted our dreams has been eliminated.

“Well, well,” a familiar voice cuts through our reunions. “Looks like everyone made it back from their— vacation .” Forest stands in the doorway, flanked by Sam and CJ, all three wearing expressions that suggest they know exactly where their operators have been and what they’ve been doing.

“Forest,” Ethan acknowledges.

“Ethan.” Forest’s smile holds approval. “I trust everyone enjoyed their time off? Heard Montenegro’s lovely this time of year.”

The statement hangs in the air, heavy with implications.

They know. Of course, they know.

“Very relaxing,” Gabe responds with deadpan delivery that makes several people smile. “Highly recommend the local hospitality.”

“I’m sure.” Sam steps forward, studying faces. “Any injuries requiring medical attention? Things that might need documenting?”

“Nothing that won’t heal with time and proper rest,” Carter responds carefully.

“Good.” CJ’s massive frame fills the doorway behind the other two, arms crossed in approval rather than confrontation. “Because it would be a shame if any of our operators were hurt during their well-deserved vacation time .”

The message comes through clearly—what happened in Montenegro stays in Montenegro, but Guardian HRS supports their people even when those people operate outside official sanction.

“Speaking of rest,” CJ continues, surveying the group, “I’m declaring mandatory downtime for everyone involved in recent vacationing events. No missions, no training, no obligations beyond healing and spending time with the people who matter.”

“How long?” Ethan asks.

“Until I’m satisfied that everyone’s ready to return to duty.” CJ’s tone warns against contradiction. “Could be a week, could be a month. Depends on how well you take care of yourselves and each other.”

“That’s very generous,” Ghost observes.

“We take care of our people,” Forest corrects. “All of our people. Including our friends from Cerberus who happened to be vacationing in the same neighborhood Charlie team was chilling at, and for assisting what I’m sure was a completely coincidental encounter.”

“Very coincidental,” Brass agrees with a straight face that fools no one.

“Well then.” Forest claps his hands once. “Carry on with your reunions. Take care of each other. And remember—some stories are better shared over coffee than in official reports.”

He turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “Oh and, Ally. Harrison has been dealt with.”

“He has?” I can’t believe it and didn’t have the courage to ask, but now, I need to know. “Did he ever say why he did it?”

“Malfor offered him second-in-command with promises of running Malfor’s entire operation. Didn’t work out for him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just to say, friends dropped him off after their little vacay . He’s providing valuable intelligence as we speak. Griff is with him and he’s being very cooperative, but then Griff has a way with getting people to talk.”

I know Griff. Another regular of The Guardian Grind, he’s a part of Alpha team and known for his excellence in interrogation procedures. Hank told me never to ask what that meant, and I won’t. Some things I don’t need to know.

“The intelligence community sends their regards,” Forest continues.

“Harrison’s information is dismantling what’s left of Malfor’s network across three continents.

Arms dealers, technology brokers, former intelligence assets gone rogue—they’re all scrambling for cover now that their protection’s gone. ”

“What happens to him now?” I ask, my voice steadier than expected.

“That’s classified,” Sam replies, but his slight smile suggests Harrison won’t be enjoying retirement. “Let’s just say, after Griff’s done, he’ll be transferred to a facility where people with his particular skillset and betrayals can be—properly debriefed for the next several decades.”

“Without sunlight,” CJ adds. “Or hope.”

“Enough of that,” Mitzy pushes in, approaching with her tablet and a steaming cup of coffee. “We need to talk about what Malfor told you versus what we discovered.”

I straighten, my scientific mind immediately engaging. “The nanobots. He said I brought them in from Kazakhstan.”