Page 119 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

The realization keeps crashing over me in waves. These men who I mourned—who I saw blown to pieces in the crystal clear footage Malfor forced us to watch on repeat—they’re alive. They came for us. And now Hank might die because of it.

Gabe crouches at the bow, a shadow carved in moonlight, rifle steady even as blood darkens his leg. He doesn’t wince. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. But I see the way his grip tightens every time the boat slams. His silence screams louder than the engines.

Blood seeps steadily from his leg, darkening his tactical pants. He ignores it, the same way he’s ignored my attempts to check the wound.

I can’t stop staring at him. Alive. Real. And it guts me—because the second I let myself feel that joy, I know I’m stealing it from Hank. There’s not enough oxygen for both emotions. Not enough room in my chest for gratitude and grief.

“Status.” Ethan’s voice crackles through our comms from the second RIB.

“Still breathing.” Carter pilots our boat, hands steady on the throttle. “RIB 1 holding together. Hank’s stable—barely.”

“Should’ve been me taking that rappel. Dammit.” Blake’s fingers curl into fists as he glances at Hank’s too-still form.

“RIB 2 has some punctures.” Walt’s voice sounds strained. “Taking on water, but pumps are keeping up.” He checks on Hank, placing his hand to his neck, then looks to me. “Pulse is slow, but holding. Just keep pressure.”

My gaze drifts to the second boat, twenty yards off our port side. Rebel lies in the center. Jenna sits beside her, two fingers missing from her right hand, face hollow with exhaustion. Their RIB rides noticeably lower in the water.

“How far to extraction?” Blake stands at our RIB’s rear gun mount, knuckles white on the grip.

“Twelve miles.” Ethan’s reply comes fast. “Trawler waiting at coordinates. ETA forty minutes. If we make it.”

If we make it.

Three words.

Tiny. Hollow.

They rattle around inside me like shrapnel, echoing like a curse I’m too afraid to say out loud.

Becauseiffeels fragile right now. Like a breath that won’t hold. Like hope that can’t survive the weight of blood.

Hank’s blood.

He lies sprawled beside me, his face gray beneath the boat’s flickering lights. The bandage I pressed to his shoulder is soaked through, the bleeding relentless. My hands are coated in it—slick, warm, sticky where it clings to my wrists like the memory of his body pressed against mine.

Only that memory doesn’t match the man in front of me now.

I remember strength. Heat. The weight of him pinning me to tangled sheets, his voice low and commanding, eyes full of fire and purpose.

Now he’s limp. Pale. His lashes flutter, lips parted as if caught mid-plea or prayer.

He doesn’t look like the man who once made me feel invincible.

He looks like a body. Like a loss I haven’t had time to grieve.

I want to wrap myself in the miracle of Gabe’s survival—but Hank is bleeding out at my feet. And I can’t choose. I can’t. So I don’t. I split myself down the center and try to be enough for both.

I can’t stop shaking.

He took the bullet mid-rappel—jerked hard in the harness but still fired three return shots, like he wasn’t already dying. Then he let go early. Dropped the last thirty feet without hesitation. Crashed into the boat with a sound that will live in my nightmares.

He hasn’t opened his eyes. Not once. Not even when I begged. That stillness terrifies me more than gunfire. More than death. Because Hank’s not supposed to be still. He’s supposed to tease me. Steady me. Catch me when I fall.

Gabe kneels opposite me, gripping Hank’s limp hand so tightly his knuckles have gone bone-white. His jaw clenches once. Twice. A muscle ticks in his cheek.

But his eyes?—

God, his eyes are wreckage.