Page 155 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“Business. Nothing personal. Professional necessity.”

“Everything about this is personal.”

The first shot takes him in the shoulder. 7.62mm of truth rips him into a grotesque spin. Arterial spray spatters priceless art. He goes down hard, screaming. Hands scrambling at slick marble as if they can claw him out of his fate.

“That’s for using our women as bait.” I advance around the desk.

Thunder crashes outside reinforced windows as the storm front arrives with divine timing. Rain begins pattering against bulletproof glass, nature providing percussion for the symphony of justice about to reach its crescendo.

The second shot shatters his kneecap, bone fragments and cartilage decorating marble like grotesque confetti. His scream rises in pitch and volume, agony given voice in language that transcends cultural barriers.

“That’s for making Ally watch him die.”

Malfor writhes on expensive carpet, his thousand-dollar suit soaked with blood and other fluids, as his body processes the reality of its approaching termination. Fear replaces arrogancein eyes that no longer hold calculation, just animal terror facing a predator that won’t be negotiated with.

“Please,” he gasps, voice breaking like adolescent pleading for reprieve from inevitable consequences. “I can pay—anything you want—money, information, whatever?—”

“Give me back my friend.” I kneel beside him, press the rifle barrel against his forehead with pressure that dents the skin. “Give me back the man who died because you’re a coward who hides behind walls and weapons.”

“I can’t …”

“Then you have nothing I want.”

The third shot destroys his other knee. The joint explodes like an overripe fruit under hydraulic pressure. Blood pools around shattered bone while he screams with a voice that’s lost all pretense of dignity or control.

“That’s for every nightmare she’ll have because of you.”

I set the rifle aside and draw my knife—seven inches of steel honed to surgical sharpness. The blade catches the light streaming through reinforced windows, casting razor shadows across expensive carpet now soaked with blood and terror.

“Now we get personal,” my voice drops to a whisper that carries more menace than screaming.

His eyes widen with fresh terror as understanding dawns. This isn’t just an execution—it’s itemized retribution for every specific horror he inflicted. A reckoning measured in blood and pain; each drop earned through the suffering of innocents.

But before I can continue, Ethan steps forward.

Silent. Cold.

Controlled fury simmers behind every precise movement like a nuclear reactor operating at critical temperatures.

“My turn.” His voice carries authority that makes even Ghost step back.

Ethan lifts his combat boot and drives it down into Malfor’s ribs. Once. Twice. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the office like gunshots—sharp, final, irreversible.

“You shattered Rebel’s ribs.” Ethan’s voice never rises above a conversational level. Another calculated blow, higher this time, targeting the floating ribs that protect vital organs. “Left her gasping like a landed fish, unable to breathe without agony.”

Wet crunch. Malfor’s howl reaches frequencies that suggest something primal and animal, all pretense of civilized behavior stripped away by pain that transcends rational thought.

“You broke her arm.” Ethan seizes Malfor’s wrist—the one still functional—and slams it down against the marble desk edge.

The bone snaps like brittle wood, a compound fracture sending white fragments through the skin, already slick with blood. “Made her watch it heal wrong in that cell, knowing it would never be right again.”

The scream that follows is high and thin, almost inhuman. Malfor’s face has gone chalk white, shock and blood loss combining to shut down non-essential systems as his body prioritizes survival over consciousness.

“You sliced her face.” Ethan draws his combat knife—seven inches of blackened steel designed for killing, not surgery. “Temple to jaw. Left her beautiful face looking like a roadmap of your sadism.”

The blade traces the same path Malfor carved into Rebel, parting skin as blood runs in a straight line from temple to jawbone, mirroring exactly the scar that will mark Rebel for the rest of her life.

Ethan steps back without another word, his rage spent like ammunition from a perfectly maintained weapon. Hands steady. Eyes clear. The team leader who carried them all home, exacting justice with the same methodical precision he brings to everything else.