Page 64 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Waiting in the dark while the people we love are being used as pawns in a game we’re already losing.

No signals. No trackers. No way in.

If Ally and Stitch don’t find a way to send us a message—something clever enough to slip past Malfor’s surveillance and brutal enough to cut through the noise?—

Then this beach becomes our graveyard.

Not just for hope.

For them.

TWENTY-TWO

Uneasy Allies

GABE

Two daysback from the beach and nanobots have reestablished their microscopic surveillance network. Every breath is monitored. Every conversation is transmitted. Every tactical discussion feeds directly back to Malfor.

The knowledge sits in my gut like swallowed glass.

Hank falls into step beside me as we approach the Charlie team ready room.

We don’t talk about the beach. Don’t acknowledge the moment when guilt made me absorb his punch instead of defending myself. Right now, everything centers on Ally. Personal grievances get filed under “deal with later” until she’s home.

But we’re back and united, if a little bruised and battered. Hank and I will make it through this. I no longer doubt it.

The ready room buzzes with the kind of restless energy that comes from operators with nothing to operate on. Blake sits at the table pretending to read equipment manifests, but I catch him reading the same line three times. Walt stares at his coffee like it holds answers to questions he’s afraid to ask. The mug trembles slightly in his grip—barely noticeable unless you knowwhat to look for. Rigel cleans gear that’s already pristine, the repetitive motion keeping his hands busy while his mind races. Carter maintains his usual vigilant silence, but tension radiates off him in waves, and his fingers drum Morse code patterns against his thigh, probably spelling out violent threats against our enemies.

Hank drops into a chair, fingers drumming against the table. “So we’re just gonna sit here with our thumbs up our asses while they’re out there?”

“What else do you want to do?” Ethan glances at him. “Storm random buildings until we find them?”

“Better than this bullshit.” Blake doesn’t look up from his manifest, but his voice carries the kind of edge that comes from too much caffeine and too little sleep. “Sitting around talking about equipment rotations while our women are God knows where isexhausting.”

“You could always clean your rifle again,” Rigel suggests without looking up from his gear. “Pretty sure I saw a speck of dust on the barrel.”

“Fuck off,” Blake mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.

Walt shifts in his seat, the movement sharp and agitated. “It’s been days…” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s chewing glass.

“I know, man.” Carter’s voice is quiet, steady. “We all know.”

The silence that follows carries weight. Each of us is lost in our version of hell, our imaginations going wild with what might be happening to the women we love.

However, we can’t discuss it. Not here. Not with nanobots recording every word for Malfor’s entertainment.

“Anyone catch the game last night?” Ethan asks, the question so obviously forced that it would be laughable under different circumstances.

“What game?” Rigel plays along, understanding the need for normal conversation.

“I dunno. Lakers? Thought maybe the distraction would help.” Ethan’s admission carries more honesty than the casual question suggested.

“Did they even play last night?” Blake asks.

“No idea.” Ethan tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.

Walt snorts. “Nothing’s gonna help until they’re home.”