Page 153 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

The first room holds three contractors playing cards around a table covered with weapons and ammunition. They look up as the door explodes inward, reaching for rifles that might as well be decorative for all the good they do.

Ghost puts them down—two rounds each, center mass. The smell of gunpowder mingles with the copper tang of blood painting playing cards red.

“Clear,” he announces, already moving toward the next door.

We advance through luxury that belongs in corporate boardrooms, not military compounds.

Brass plants explosive charges as we advance, each device designed to collapse the structure behind us and deny retreat to anyone foolish enough to follow. No withdrawal, no second chances, no option except total victory or glorious death.

The way Hank would have wanted it.

“Second floor,” Ethan announces as we reach the stairwell.

More resistance here—four contractors in a defensive position that should hold this chokepoint indefinitely. Sandbags and automatic weapons, overlapping fields of fire, a professional setup that could stop a conventional assault.

We’re not conventional.

Halo produces something small and round, a timer already counting down. The grenade bounces once, twice.

The explosion turns sandbags into confetti and contractors into abstract art, blood and tissue painting walls in patterns that would make Jackson Pollock weep. Concrete craters exist where professional soldiers used to stand, their weapons twisted into modern sculpture by high explosives and righteous fury.

“Clear,” someone calls through smoke and debris.

We advance through devastation, boots crunching on rubble and bone fragments—the stairwell reeks of death that tastes of victory and approaching storm.

Another defensive position ahead—professional setup with interlocking fields of fire that should stop anything short of an armored assault. Five contractors with weapons that could ventilate tanks, and training that cost governments millions to provide.

They don’t stand a chance.

Walt flanks left while Blake takes right. The pincer movement turns their stronger position into a killing ground. Crossfire erupts as they engage from unexpected angles, muzzle flashes strobing in confined space like demonic photography.

Blood slicks the marble under our boots.

The higher we climb, the harder they push back—more contractors, better weapons, more desperate. But desperation without precision is just noise. We’re here to silence it.

A machine gun nest waits at the next landing—dug in tight, with overlapping fields of fire. Suppressive rounds chew through the stairwell, turning it into a kill box. They’re dug in like they mean to hold this floor until the world ends.

But Whisper steps forward, calm as a surgeon.

He unpacks a small case, fingers flying across a matte-black interface. No shouting. No orders. Just code and intent.

The gun hesitates. Then pivots.

It opens fire on its own. Controlled bursts, pinpoint accuracy—rounds chewing through the men who trusted it to protect them. They scream, panic, and scramble.

Doesn’t matter.

They’re already dead.

The walls catch it all. Bone. Blood. Shreds of flesh. Reinforced steel painted red. Whisper watches without blinking, already packing away his gear like he’s folding laundry.

We move on.

“Saferoom,” Ethan mutters as we reach the final door.

It’s a beast—reinforced steel, triple-lock mechanisms, facial recognition scanner, and military-grade blast resistance. Designed to withstand sieges.

Designed to keep people like us out.