Page 162 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

ALLY

The Guardian Grindbuzzes with energy at four in the afternoon, twenty-six hours after Gabe’s call. The espresso machine hums while late-afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything golden.

I stand behind the counter, hands busy. Steam wands hiss and portafilters click into place, each movement keeping my mind from spinning into worry about men who should have been home hours ago.

“They’re probably dealing with extraction logistics,” Jenna says for the third time in an hour, her remaining fingers drumming against the counter. “International flights, customs, that sort of thing.”

“Or sleeping off the adrenaline crash,” Mia adds, settling beside her with careful movements. “Killing megalomaniacal psychopaths is probably exhausting work.”

“Probably,” I agree, though the word tastes forced.

The café feels different than during our vigil—less desperate, more anticipatory. We’re no longer waiting to find out if our men are coming home.

We’re waiting for them to walk through the door.

Rebel sits in the corner booth, her healing face turned toward the window with the best view of the parking lot. Her good arm rests on the table while the other stays carefully positioned. Her eyes hold fierce attention.

“Movement,” she announces, straightening.

Three black SUVs roll into the parking lot. Dust kicks up from tires as vehicles park in formation.

My heart hammers as doors begin opening, men emerging who look like they’ve been through hell but won. Tactical gear replaced with civilian clothes that can’t hide the dangerous frames underneath. Eyes that scan automatically for threats, even here.

Gabe emerges from the lead vehicle, and the sight of him—alive, whole, and moving with that lethal stride—nearly buckles my knees.

He pauses in the parking lot, eyes finding mine through the window, and something passes between us. Confirmation. Resolution. The promise that justice has been served.

Behind him, Ethan unfolds from the passenger seat. Carter follows from the second vehicle, then Walt and Blake from the passenger doors. Rigel limps slightly but moves under his own power. Jeb is there too, limping more than normal, but standing tall.

Ghost and his Cerberus team emerge from the third vehicle. Brass carries a duffel bag. Halo moves with loose-limbed ease. Whisper simply materializes from the shadow.

The café door chimes as they enter, and suddenly the space feels smaller, charged with testosterone and barely contained violence that’s found its target. The scent of gunpowder and travel clings to them despite civilian clothes.

Gabe reaches me first, moving through furniture and people like obstacles. His hands frame my face.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb tracing my cheek.

“Hey, yourself.” My voice comes out steadier than expected.

He kisses me then, soft and careful and tasting like justice served cold. When we break apart, his eyes hold the kind of peace I haven’t seen since before Hank died—not healed, maybe never fully healed, but settled.

The weight of vengeance no longer crushes him.

Around us, similar reunions unfold.

Ethan reaches Rebel’s booth in three long strides, gathering her into his arms with precision that doesn’t disturb healing bones. She melts against him despite injuries, fingers digging into his shoulders like she’s afraid he might disappear.

“Miss me?” he asks against her hair.

“Like missing air,” she admits, voice muffled against his neck.

Carter finds Jenna at the counter, his massive frame somehow gentle as he takes her bandaged hand in both of his, examining damaged fingers.

“How are they?” he asks, voice rough.

“Better. Getting better every day.” She flexes her remaining fingers. “Did you…?”

“He paid for them,” Carter confirms. “Twice. Every finger. Every tear. Every nightmare. Paid in full.”