Page 151 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

G-forces press us into seats as engines whine with effort.

“Intel confirms Malfor’s in the primary structure,” Ghost announces, consulting encrypted communications that glow green against his face. “Thermal imaging shows approximately fifty heat signatures scattered throughout the compound.”

“Defensive positions?” Ethan asks, voice carrying the flat affect that means he’s already shifting into combat mode.

“Guard towers at compass points. Automated weapon systems covering approaches. Patrol routes follow predictable patterns.” Ghost’s smile holds predatory satisfaction, lips peeling back from teeth that look sharp in the cabin’s dim light.

“Rules of engagement?” Carter’s question carries steel wrapped in velvet, dangerous gentleness that makes smart people step away.

“No prisoners,” I answer before anyone else can speak, tasting copper and cordite on my tongue. “No mercy. No quarter. No one walks away from this compound except us.”

The words carry the weight of divine judgment, a final verdict on men who chose to serve evil for money. Tonight, we’re not Guardian HRS operators following protocol and engagement parameters. Tonight we’re avenging angels delivering retribution with automatic weapons and high explosives.

“Copy that,” Ethan confirms.

Eleven confirmations sound off.

The aircraft shudders as the landing gear deploys, the pilot fighting crosswinds that try to slam us into granite walls. Mountain air leaks through hull seams, carrying the scent of ozone that speaks to storm fronts moving in from the Adriatic. Weather that will cover our insertion and muffle the sounds of systematic slaughter.

“Thirty seconds,” comes the warning.

I close my eyes, breathe deep, and let Hank’s memory settle into my bones like armor plating. His voice in the medical bay, using his dying breath to forgive sins I didn’t deserve absolution for. His faith that Ally and I could build something beautiful from tragedy.

His certainty that love doesn’t diminish when shared but grows stronger, becomes something larger than the sum of its parts.

Tonight, I honor that faith by destroying the man who took him from us. Tonight, I water these mountains with blood and call it justice.

The aircraft touches down with barely a shudder, props winding down as the pilot maintains engine readiness for rapid extraction. Cargo doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss, admitting mountain air that tastes like the approaching storm.

“Time on target: forty minutes,” Ghost announces as we disembark onto rocky soil that crunches under tactical boots. “Synchronized watches. Kill everything that moves except us.”

We move into Montenegro darkness like shadows given lethal purpose, twelve men who’ve come to collect what’s owed.

It’s time to hunt, and we’re out for blood.

FORTY-NINE

No Mercy, No survivors

GABE

The compound sitson a cliff face overlooking the Adriatic like a concrete cancer growing from living rock. Lights glitter behind reinforced windows while guard towers sweep searchlight patterns across approaches that seem impossible to breach undetected.

The architecture screams paranoid wealth—walls thick enough to stop artillery, windows bulletproof, defensive positions that could hold off small armies.

Could. Past tense. Because tonight, those defenses face something they weren’t designed to stop.

Cold wind carries salt spray from waves that crash against cliffs two hundred feet below, mixing ocean scent with the sharp ozone of approaching weather. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, promising rain, wind, and darkness that will swallow gunfire and screams.

Perfect conditions for murder.

We belly-crawl through scrub brush and granite outcroppings, each man invisible against terrain that’s trying to kill us through exposure and elevation. The compound’s lightscreate pools of visibility that we navigate around, flowing like water between illuminated zones.

My rifle’s scope shows guard positions in crystalline detail—two men in the north tower, sharing cigarettes and conversation. Three more walking patrol routes. Sentry posts at critical choke points, each manned by professionals who know their business.

They’re about to learn that knowing and surviving are different skills entirely.

“Overwatch positions,” Ethan whispers into comms, his breath visible in the mountain air that’s dropped twenty degrees since we landed.