Page 16 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

He reaches out and almost gently adjusts my collar, which has shifted during the convulsions.

“This is not a kidnapping. This is not a hostage situation. This is ownership. You belong to me now, until I decide otherwise. Your compliance is not requested—it’s programmed.”

Around me, the others struggle to sit, still shaking from the aftershocks. Rebel’s face is gray, and I think she might have passed out completely. Mia has vomited, the acidic smell mixing with the tropical heat.

“The beauty of these devices,” Malfor says, standing again, “is that I don’t need to break you individually. I can condition you as a group. When one of you disobeys, all of you suffer. When one of you tries to escape, all of you pay the price.”

He smiles down at us, and it’s the expression of a man who’s thought this through completely.

“You’ll learn to police each other. To value group compliance over individual resistance. To see your sisterhood as a liability rather than a strength.” He pockets the remote. “It’s remarkably effective.”

The implications hit me through the lingering neural static. Not only are we individually controlled, but we’re responsible for each other’s pain. Every act of resistance will be paid for by everyone. Every escape attempt will bring agony to women I’ve come to care about.

It’s psychological torture disguised as technology.

“Your quarters are being prepared,” Malfor says, turning away from us. “Rest well. Tomorrow, we begin your education and integration.”

He walks away without looking back, leaving us collapsed on the burning stone of his courtyard, wearing his collars, breathing his air, completely at his mercy.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I understand that rescue might not be coming fast enough to matter.

The collars pulse once—a gentle rhythm against our throats, like a heartbeat. Or a countdown.

SIX

The Hunt Begins

HANK

The command centerat Guardian HQ has a particular energy during crisis operations. It’s not chaos—chaos is undisciplined. This is controlled urgency.

Laser-focused intent.

Every asset is in position. Every operator has a purpose.

I’ve seen this configuration a hundred times, but never from this side of the equation. Never as the one with everything to lose.

Workstations form a horseshoe around the central holographic display. Mitzy’s techs occupy the right wing, each hunched over monitors tracking maritime traffic, drone signatures, and satellite feeds. Intelligence analysts are sorting incoming data, monitoring chatter, and parsing patterns from noise.

Sam stands at the command station; his face carved from granite as he reviews satellite imagery. Forest paces nearby, expression unchanged since Jenna’s apartment. If someone lacks tactical training, they might miss the subtle indicators of his rage—the precisely measured steps, the controlled breathing, the absolute economy of movement.

I recognize it because I’m implementing the same protocols.

Compartmentalization.

Controlled emotional resources.

Tactical focus.

The alternative is unacceptable.

Every Guardian team is represented. Alpha. Bravo. Charlie. Delta. We represent some of the world’s most lethal operators, all assembled in one room.

The collective combat experience in this space could topple governments;hastoppled governments.

And at this moment, every bit of it is focused on one objective.

“Surveillance review confirms what we suspected,” Forest begins without preamble. “This was meticulously planned and executed. Not opportunistic. Calculated.”