Page 7 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

SEVEN

Separation its thin mattress stained with substances I refuse to analyze. Toilet and sink combo bolted to the floor, exposed to anyone walking past. No sheets, no blankets, no personal items. Nothing to pry loose, weaponize, or use for escape.

Through the barred window into the adjacent cell, Jenna curls into herself on her metal bunk, her forehead pressed against her knees, her fingers white-knuckled around her shins. The woman who led our self-defense classes, who never broke stance, has collapsed into a tight ball of silence.

Malia’s cell echoes with the metronome of her pacing—five steps, pivot, five steps back. The purple-black bruises on her forearms stand stark against her skin as she rubs them absently, wincing at her own touch.

Across from me, Rebel leans against the concrete, cradling her shattered arm. Sweat beads on her gray-tinged skin. Bone fragments press visibly against flesh, distorting the contours of her forearm. Yet her eyes—clear, focused, predatory—track every movement in the cellblock.

Mia sits rigid on her bunk, her face turned toward the wall, but her spine is straight as rebar.

Her fingers drum a precise pattern against her thigh—not nervous energy but calculations, timing, planning.

When she briefly glances my way, her eyes burn with barely contained fury, a biochemist’s mind no doubt cataloging exactly what compounds would dissolve our captors most painfully.

At the row’s end, isolated by design, Stitch stands at her bars. Our eyes lock through the narrow space between cells. Her jaw tightens, nostrils flare. The message passes between us wordlessly—survive, resist, remember. These bastards don’t know what we’re capable of.

Boot heels announce new arrivals before they appear—measured, confident steps, not the hurried shuffle of guards. Different cadence. Different purpose.

Malfor appears at the cellblock entrance flanked by two men in pristine lab coats.

Their presence strikes deeper than any armed guard could.

These aren’t hired muscle but educated men—PhDs, colleagues, peers who’ve chosen this path with open eyes.

ID badges hang from breast pockets, laminated proof of their complicity.

“Time to get to work.” Malfor rubs his hands together, cologne wafting through the bars—sandalwood and amber, jarringly refined against the reek of fear and blood. “We have schedules to keep.”

A guard unlocks Stitch’s cell. She rises without prompting, spine straight as steel, face emptied of everything but cold calculation.

“We’ll start with her.” Malfor flicks two fingers toward Stitch, casual as selecting produce. “I need someone to analyze our network security protocols, find the vulnerabilities. Shore up our defenses.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Stitch’s words drop like stones, each syllable precise and deliberate.

Malfor’s smile doesn’t falter as his hand slides into his pocket. “I was hoping for an early demonstration.”

Pain explodes through my nervous system before I can draw breath. Every muscle seizes simultaneously, my back arching so violently that something pops in my spine. White-hot electricity courses through blood vessels, setting nerve endings ablaze.

Around me, the others convulse in identical agony—Rebel’s scream cuts off as her throat locks, Malia slams against her cell bars, Jenna’s teeth clack audibly as they snap together.

The assault lasts three seconds. Five. Ten. An eternity.

When it stops, I’m face down on the concrete, tasting blood and bile. My vision fragments into kaleidoscope patterns that refuse to resolve.

“Collective punishment.” Malfor’s voice floats above the ringing in my ears. “One refuses; all suffer. Simple behavioral conditioning.”

Stitch drags herself upright, palms scraped raw from the concrete, expression murderous. “When I get free?—”

“You won’t.” Malfor cuts her off. “You’ll analyze my security systems because the alternative is watching your friends suffer until their hearts give out. And you’re many things, Stitch, but you’ve never been someone who sacrifices others for principles.”

The words land like grenades. Stitch’s face contorts, not from physical pain but from the impossible choice laid before her.

Malfor pivots toward my cell, index finger tapping his chin in theatrical contemplation. “And you. You’re going to work with Dr. Elkin and Dr. Rafeeq. Help them build what only you can.”

Blood pounds in my ears, drowning everything but his voice. “Me? Build what?”

“The quantum entanglement network that will control my nanobots once they’ve infiltrated the world’s financial systems.” His smile spreads like an oil slick, teeth too white, too perfect. “I need a robust control mechanism that can’t be jammed or intercepted. Your research is the key.”

“Nanobots?”

“Yes.” There’s something slimy about his smile. As if he’s savoring a secret only he knows.

I’m not up for playing his games. Instead, I focus on what makes sense.

“That’s…” My throat constricts around the words. “That’s global terrorism. Financial collapse. Millions would die in the aftermath.”

Malfor’s hand slides toward his pocket, fingers hovering over the outline of the remote.

“Wait!” My palm shoots out, fingers splayed. Everyone’s ragged breathing fills the silence. “I’ll try. But the mathematics are incomplete. The quantum coherence breaks down at scale—it’s why I was still researching it. What you’re asking might not be possible with current technology.”

“Oh, I believe you’ll find a way.” His hand remains near his pocket, a constant threat. “Your motivation is quite literally staring you in the face.”

“Rebel needs medical attention.” I gesture toward her cell, where she’s slumped against the wall. “Set her arm, give her antibiotics. Please. She’ll die from infection if?—”

“Perform first, rewards after.” Malfor’s voice turns sickeningly sweet, the tone one might use with a trained animal. “That’s how this works. You give me results, and your friend gets medical care. You delay, she suffers. Simple cause and effect.”

“She can’t wait that long. The bone?—”

“Is an excellent motivator.” He cuts me off, eyes glittering with something beyond cruelty—a clinical fascination with our pain. “Work quickly, work well, and perhaps she’ll keep that arm. Fail me, and infection will be the least of her concerns.”

Rage burns white hot behind my eyes, so intense my vision blurs at the edges.

This man, in his expensive, yet rumpled, clothes, with his educated voice, reducing us to experiments, to leverage.

The scientist in me wants to explain the progression of sepsis, the inevitability of tissue death, but the words die in my throat. He knows. He just doesn’t care.

“Time is wasting, Miss Collins.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Every minute you spend arguing is another minute closer to septic shock. For a physicist, your grasp of biological timeframes seems—lacking.”

Metal groans as my cell door unlocks. The sound reverberates through bone and tissue, settling into my marrow. One thought crystallizes through the fog of fear—Rebel’s arm, the bone fragments pressing against skin, the infection that’s inevitable without treatment.

“Her arm needs to be set.” My words scrape against raw vocal cords as I point toward Rebel’s cell. “I’ll do it. I’ll build your network. Whatever you want. But please, her arm needs medical attention now.”

My voice cracks, pride dissolving in the face of Rebel’s agony. “You can see the bone. She’ll die from sepsis before I can finish your work. Please. I’m begging you.”

“I believe I was clear.” Malfor’s voice drops to a dangerous softness. “Work first. Rewards after. No negotiations.”

He thumbs the remote without warning. Five bodies hit the ground simultaneously. The sound of Rebel’s broken arm striking concrete cuts through the symphony of agony—wet snap followed by guttural howl that doesn’t sound human.

“Stop!” The word tears from my throat, stripping tissue raw.

Malfor releases the button, tilting his head like a bird examining a particularly interesting insect. The screaming stops, replaced by ragged breathing and soft whimpers.

“You want to help your friend?” Malfor steps close enough that his breath warms my face, mint and coffee masking something rotten underneath. “Then work. Cooperate. The sooner you give me what I need, the sooner everyone gets what they need.”

“I told you not to argue with me.” His voice remains conversational, as though discussing weather rather than torture. “These are the consequences of questioning my instructions. Do you understand the rules now, Miss Collins? Or do I need to provide another demonstration?”

He hovers his thumb over the remote again, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.

My legs wobble as I step into the corridor, muscles liquefied by fear and lingering pain. “No, you don’t need to. I’ll comply.”

“Good girl.” The words land like a boot on my chest, his tone dripping with patronizing satisfaction. “We finally understand each other. Dr. Elkin and Dr. Rafeeq don’t have time to waste. Neither do you.”

Guards materialize on either side of me, close enough that their body heat radiates against my skin, their weapons cold against my ribs. At the corridor’s far end, Stitch walks away between her own escorts, head high despite everything.

Our eyes connect across the distance—hers narrowed, calculating, certain. One blink. Deliberate. The message burns between us: remember your training, remember who you are.

The hallway stretches before me in endless white, security doors punctuating the path at measured intervals.

My brain struggles to map our route—left turn, right turn, another left—but sedatives still cloud my thoughts, fragmented memories slipping away like smoke.

The guards maintain absolute silence, their breathing the only proof they’re human.

We halt before a reinforced door marked with a keypad. One scientist—older, gray-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses—punches in a six-digit code, his fingers casting shadows under the harsh fluorescents. The door whispers open on pneumatic hinges.

Cold air slaps my face as we enter the lab.

The temperature drop raises goosebumps along my arms, deliberate atmospheric control to keep equipment stable.

Antiseptic and electronics fill my nostrils—hot silicon, solder, the acrid scent of new circuit boards.

Three terminals line the far wall, screens pulsing with code I recognize instantly—my algorithms, my formulas, my life’s work twisted into weapons.

A steel table dominates the center, littered with components that tighten my throat—motherboards, wiring harnesses, drone chassis components, power cells. Pieces of a puzzle designed to kill.

The scientists move to workstations without acknowledging my presence, backs turned as they tap at keyboards and adjust equipment.

Then the older one turns—Dr. Elkin, based on his ID badge, revealing a face that might belong to a kind professor in another reality.

Gray temples, laugh lines around his eyes, hands that have spent decades manipulating delicate equipment.

“We were told you might be difficult.” He removes his glasses, polishing them with a microfiber cloth pulled from his pocket.

As he tilts his head, the high collar of his lab coat shifts, revealing a metal band identical to mine circling his throat. His eyes meet mine, a flash of shared understanding passing between us.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “It won’t help anyone, least of all your friends. Or mine.”

The realization hits me like a cold wave of clarity—these scientists aren’t willing collaborators. They’re prisoners too, collared and controlled just like us. Different cell, same cage.

My collar pulses once against my throat, a phantom finger tracing my carotid artery. The guards take position by the door, weapons loose in practiced hands, expressions bored behind tactical glasses.

The chair’s metal surface chills my skin through thin fabric as I lower myself before the third terminal.

Familiar code pulses on the screen—quantum entanglement protocols I spent years developing, algorithms that should have revolutionized communication systems. But they’ve added subroutines, twisted my elegant equations into something grotesque, something designed to target and destroy.

My research, my beautiful theorems meant to connect people across impossible distances, perverted into death.

The lab door seals with hydraulic finality. No exit. No options. No hope of rescue arriving in time.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Ice fills my veins, not panic but something colder, more calculated. Something that lets me analyze scenarios without emotion. I won’t give Malfor his weapon, but I’ll give him the illusion of compliance while I find a way to sabotage everything he’s built.

The keys click beneath my fingertips, cold plastic against flesh. And I begin.