Page 10 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

There is no slack to exploit.

I crack my eyelids a millimeter, letting in slivers of dim light. Cargo hold. Military grade. Bench seating along the walls. No windows. The air reeks of fuel, metal, and blood.

Jenna lies nearest to me, her face a topography of bruises flowering purple and black. Her breathing is shallow but steady. One eye is swollen shut. Dried blood crusts her hairline. But her chest rises and falls.

Rebel is motionless beside her, right arm bent unnaturally. Compound fracture, my brain supplies clinically. Her skin has a gray undertone. She fought the hardest. The damage reflects it.

Malia’s slumped against the wall, hair matted with something dark. Still unconscious. Mia curls beside her, awake but pretending not to be—just like me. Smart girl. Her fingers twitch slightly. Counting seconds, maybe. Mapping time.

Then—a figure I don’t expect.

Stitch.

The shock drives a nail of ice through my calculated calm. Her presence rewrites everything I thought I understood. Stitch—Malfor’s former protégé, abandoned to federal prison when she failed him. The woman who knows his systems inside out, who has been helping Guardian HRS dismantle his networks piece by piece.

Footsteps approach—measured, unhurried. The familiar cadence freezes my blood.

Harrison.

The man who’s been part of my life since childhood. Who taught me self-defense when I was twelve. Who rushed me to the hospital when I broke my arm at fourteen. Who my father trusted above all others.

Who sold us out.

“I know you’re awake, Miss Collins.”

His voice is the same measured and professional tone he’s used all my life, as if he didn’t just betray everything and everyone. Like, he isn’t currently transporting us to a monster.

I open my eyes fully, abandoning the pretense. There’s no point now.

“Harrison.” My voice is sandpaper, throat raw from the gas. “Enjoy that promotion to Judas? What does thirty pieces of silver buy these days?”

He doesn’t react to the barb. Just stands there in his tactical gear, right arm bandaged where Max tore into him. Good dog. Hope it gets infected.

“You’re taking the situation rather well,” he notes, clinical, detached. “The others weren’t so composed when they woke up.”

When they woke up? All the others are asleep. Or sedated. Shit, am I the last to regain consciousness?

“That’s because I’m imagining all the ways Hank and Gabe are going to tear you apart,” I reply, pushing myself to a sitting position. The motion sends daggers of pain through my skull, but I refuse to wince. “Piece by piece. Nerve by nerve. They’re very creative.”

Something flickers in his eyes—not fear, exactly. Awareness, maybe. Good. He should be afraid. They’re coming, and there’s nowhere on earth he can hide from what they’ll do when they find him.

“Your men at Guardian HRS think they’re untouchable,” he says, moving to check Rebel’s restraints. “We’ll see how they feel when we break them.”

I track his movements, cataloging details. His injured arm. How he favors his left side. The blood loss has left him slightly pale. There are three other operatives in the cargo hold—all armed, all watching.

Weak points. Vulnerabilities.

Data for later.

“Why?” The question burns out of me before I can stop it. “Why betray us? My father trusted you. I trusted you.”

He straightens, something almost like regret crossing his features before the mask slides back into place.

“Your father’s not the only one with resources, Miss Collins. Not the only one with reach.” He gestures to the cargo hold, to us—women bound and broken. “And this? This is just the beginning.”

“Beginning of what?” I push, needing information more than comfort. “Malfor’s revenge tour? Is that what you signed up for? Being an errand boy to a sociopath?”

His jaw tightens—a tell I’ve known since childhood. I’ve struck a nerve.