Page 107 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“Or it could be our only chance.” I pick up one of the discarded collars and examine the deactivated circuitry. “Either way, standing here debating it wastes time.”

The distant sounds of combat continue—gunfire, explosions, shouted orders carried through ventilation systems. Something significant is happening elsewhere in the compound, diverting attention and resources away from our cell block.

Malia helps Mia to her feet, steadying her as they move toward the corridor. “West wing. Equipment depot. That’s what she said.”

“Then west we go.” Jenna takes point.

We move into the corridor as a group, six women finding strength in each other. The red emergency lighting transforms familiar paths into alien territory, shadows stretching and contracting with each flicker of failing systems.

The stranger’s parting gift—freedom to choose our escape—feels simultaneously empowering and terrifying. No one is leading us. No one is guiding us. Just our wits and whatever mysterious distraction is occupying Malfor’s forces.

Rebel pauses at the junction where the corridor splits east and west, looking back at the cellblock that held us captive for so long. “Who was that woman? And why would she help us?”

“Maybe she wasn’t helping us at all.” Stitch’s voice carries the edge of someone piecing together a complex puzzle. “Maybe we’re just convenient cover for whatever she’s really after.”

“Right now, I don’t care.” Jenna checks the western corridor before gesturing us forward.

Freedom tastes strange on my tongue—metallic and sharp, laced with adrenaline and fear. The absence of the collar feels wrong after so many days, my body not yet adjusted to its removal. My hand keeps rising to my throat, fingers finding only raw skin where metal used to be.

We’ve barely taken three steps when a sound freezes us in place—footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving fast. Coming our way.

“Back.” Jenna’s command is barely a whisper, urgent hand signals directing us to retreat.

We scramble back toward the cellblock, instinct driving us to the only territory we know. The footsteps grow louder—not the shuffling gait of regular guards but the precise, measured cadence of tactical teams. Professional. Dangerous.

Stitch pulls us into the cellblock, positioning herself beside the door frame, back pressed against the wall. The others follow her lead, flattening themselves against walls, ducking behind what little cover the room provides.

My heart slams against my ribs, sounding so loud I’m certain it will give us away. The footsteps approach, slowing as they near our position. A voice murmurs something unintelligible, followed by the distinctive sound of weapons being readied.

“Stack up.” The voice is clearer now, male, commanding—definitely not Malfor’s guards.

Malia’s fingers dig into my arm, terror and confusion warring in her expression. Jenna signals for absolute stillness, her one good hand forming the universal sign for silence.

The door at the corridor’s end hisses open. Then footsteps approach our final door.

“Three.” The voice counts down, each number tightening the knot in my stomach. “Two. One.”

THIRTY-SIX

Split the Pack

HANK

Ghost’s teammelts west into shadow. Our eight-man unit waits three heartbeats, then moves east through the maintenance yard. No words. No signals. Just years of training and the singular focus of men with nothing left to lose.

My pulse stays steady. Breathing even.

Ethan signals with his finger, tapping the air. I confirm, moving ahead through the narrow passage between industrial pumps and piping. Gabe stays on my right, compensating for his injured leg by moving in short, deliberate bursts.

Moonlight bleeds through cloud cover. Not ideal. Too much visibility.

The detention wing is located in the north quadrant, connected to the main lab complex by an enclosed walkway. Three stories down. According to Whisper’s intel, our women are being held in a specially constructed containment cell.

My jaw locks at the thought.

“Two tangos, north corner.” Ethan’s voice whispers through the comms.

Guards in black tactical gear, carrying what look like modified P90s. Experimental shit. Wonderful.