Page 20 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“Understood,” Carter replies, not a flicker of emotion betraying the intensity I know he feels.

“Approved.” Forest nods once. “Carter Jackson is temporarily assigned to Charlie team for the duration of this operation.”

The chain of command adjusts and recalibrates. A new tactical element is integrated.

“This operation was meticulously planned,” I observe, returning focus to the mission. “The timing was precise. They struck exactly when all Charlie team operatives were occupied with the security briefing following the attack on Alpha team.”

“Which means they had inside information,” Forest confirms.

“Or they’ve been monitoring us,” Gabe adds. “Those electronic malfunctions could be more than random glitches.”

Surveillance. Infiltration. Compromise.

“Guardian HQ has been under observation,” I state, converting suspicion to tactical fact. “For how long is the question.”

“And to what extent,” Forest adds grimly.

My eyes meet Gabe’s across the command center. A silent communication passes between us—assessment, calculation, shared understanding.

This isn’t about recovering the women.

This is about Malfor.

The man who tried to control global energy through fusion technology.

The man who took Ally once before.

The man who now has her again.

I catalog the anger and store it precisely where it will serve the mission. Cold focus is what will bring her back.

What will bring them all back.

“Mitzy,” I say, my voice steady, controlled. “We need everything on those drones. Flight capability. Range. Technical signature. If we find how they’re built, we find who built them.”

“And if we find who built them,” Ethan finishes, “we find our women.”

“To start,” CJ says, “we begin with Collins.”

SEVEN

Separation & Forced Compliance

ALLY

Boots scrapeagainst concrete as guards march us down a corridor. Water trickles down walls slick with condensation, filling the air with the stench of mold and something industrial—chemical cleaners maybe, or the sharp bite of disinfectant.

My legs spasm, muscles still rewiring themselves after the collar’s attack. Each step grinds bone against nerve endings, yet my eyes refuse to stop scanning, cataloging, and measuring distances between doors and cameras.

A mechanical hum vibrates through the floor and into my feet, rattling my molars. Generators. Powerful ones. The low-frequency drone pulses in my chest cavity, a second heartbeat beneath my ribs. Copper and salt coat my tongue with each breath—the tang of blood from my bitten cheek and tongue, mixed with sea air forced through ventilation systems.

We round a corner into a prison block designed by someone who understands psychological torture. Six cells—individual compartments with thick metal doors and strategically barred windows between them. The architecture screams its purpose: we’ll hear each other scream, watch each other break, witness each other’s suffering.

“Inside.” A guard rams the butt of his rifle between my shoulder blades.

My body slams against the far wall, shoulder taking the impact. The door seals with the magnetic thunk of high-security locks. My collar chirps—a perverse, cheerful sound—and the tiny light flashes green as it connects to facility systems.

Metal surrounds me. Bunk welded to the wall; its thin mattress stained with substances I refuse to analyze. Toilet and sink combo bolted to the floor, exposed to anyone walking past. No sheets, no blankets, no personal items. Nothing to pry loose, weaponize, or use for escape.