Page 15 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Behind me, the others shift restlessly. Malia makes a small sound that might be terror or rage. Mia’s breathing has gone shallow and quick. Even Jenna’s composure shows cracks.

“I know this isn’t the reunion some of you were expecting,” Malfor continues, his gaze lingering on Stitch with something that might be amusement. “But I believe in completing unfinished business.”

He moves to a black case sitting on a concrete ledge and opens it. Inside, nestled in custom foam, are six objects that make my blood freeze.

Collars.

They’re sleek, matte black, obviously high-tech. Each one bristles with small components—electronics, sensors, maybe transmitters. The kind of sophisticated control device that a man like Malfor would consider elegant.

“Let’s make this official.” He lifts the first collar from its casing.

He steps toward us himself, taking his time, and I realize with growing horror that he’s going to do this personally. Not delegating to guards or subordinates. This is important enough to him that he wants to handle it himself.

“Don’t touch me,” Rebel snarls as he approaches her first, but her broken arm makes resistance meaningless.

He fastens the collar around her throat with the careful attention of someone adjusting jewelry, his fingers brushing aside her hair to make minor adjustments to the fit.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, then looks directly into her eyes. “You have such fire. I’m looking forward to seeing how long it lasts.”

One by one, he moves down the line. Malia tries to pull away, but the guards move forward just enough to discourage resistance. Mia stands rigid as stone, her biochemist’s mind probably cataloging every detail of the device being locked around her neck. Jenna’s jaw is set in furious lines, but she keeps still, calculating, waiting for better odds.

When he reaches Stitch, his smile deepens.

“My dear protégé.” There’s genuine affection in his voice that makes my skin crawl. “You’ve learned so much since our time together. All those Guardian systems you’ve been helping them understand. All those secrets you’ve shared.” He adjusts her collar with particular care. “You’re going to help me again. Whether you want to or not.”

Stitch’s eyes are pure hatred, but she doesn’t speak.

Finally, he reaches me.

“Miss Collins …” he says, and his attention feels like being dissected. “The brilliant quantum physicist. The woman who nearly destroyed my reactor with such—elegant sabotage.” He lifts the last collar, examining it in the harsh sunlight. “Do you know what these devices are capable of?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “Control mechanisms. Probably a neural interface, given the component configuration. Designed to inflict pain as a compliance tool.”

“Very good.” He steps behind me, his fingers brush my neck as he lifts my hair.

The collar is surprisingly light as it settles around my throat, but I can feel the weight of its implications. The soft click as it locks is as final as a prison door.

“This is not just decoration,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “This is compliance. Cooperation. The beginning of a new phase in our relationship.”

He moves to the center of the courtyard, lifting a small remote from the case. It’s deceptively simple—black, compact, with a single red button prominently displayed.

“I believe in demonstration over explanation,” he says conversationally. “So let’s see how synchronized you are.”

The question in his voice is rhetorical. His finger hovers over the button, and I have exactly enough time to realize what’s about to happen before?—

Pain explodes through my nervous system like molten metal poured directly into my spine. Every muscle locks simultaneously—my back arcs, my jaw clamps shut, my vision goes white at the edges. The world disappears except for the sensation of being torn apart from the inside out.

Around me, I hear screaming—mine, theirs, impossible to distinguish individual voices. We hit the ground, bodies convulsing against the hot stone.

It lasts maybe five seconds. Maybe five hours. Time becomes meaningless when every nerve ending is on fire.

When it stops, I’m flat on my back, staring up at a too-blue sky, bile burning in my throat. My muscles are liquid. My heart pounds so hard I can see it in my peripheral vision.

“That,” Malfor says, his voice floating down from what seems like a great distance, “is level three. There are seven levels available on these devices. Level seven will stop your heart.”

I try to speak and discover I’ve bitten my tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“I want you to understand,” he crouches beside where I’m sprawled on the ground, “that your previous experiences with captivity—with negotiations, with hope of rescue—those rules no longer apply.”