Page 71 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

His hand sweeps toward the others. “Choose now. Or all collars activate at level six until someone’s heart fails.”

Rebel’s arm remains broken, healing improperly. Additional trauma might permanently disable her. Stitch barely stands after yesterday’s beating, her body already past the breaking point. Mia’s smaller frame suggests less physical resilience against severe injury. Malia trembles constantly now, her composure fraying under stress.

“Pick me.” Mia’s chin snaps up.

“I’ll take the punishment.” Malia trembles, but she stands tall.

They don’t know what they’re doing. None of us do. All we know is Malfor is a psychopath. Whatever he has planned, it’s going to be monstrous.

“You have to choose me.” Jenna stands the tallest. “I’m the least injured thus far. Most likely to recover from—whatever.”

The logic twists my stomach, acid burning upward. There is no acceptable choice. Only gradations of monstrosity.

Exactly what Malfor intends. He wants to turn me into a monster.

“Ten seconds, Miss Collins.” Malfor’s voice slices through panic. “Or everyone pays.”

“Jenna.” Her name tears free, barely audible.

“Louder.” Malfor’s smile widens. “Ensure everyone hears your decision.”

“Jenna.” My voice shatters on her name.

TWENTY-FOUR

First Breakthrough

HANK

The numbers trackthemselves as I crack open a beer on our condo balcony. A day has passed since the beach meeting with Collins, and the Pacific stretches endlessly before us, painted gold by late-afternoon sun. Somewhere out there, Ally waits for rescue. But for the first time since Harrison’s betrayal, we have a plan that might work.

Gabe settles into the chair beside me, his beer already half empty. The tension that’s been riding his shoulders since our fight has eased, replaced by something resembling the focused calm I recognize from mission prep.

“Training exercise starts tomorrow.” I keep my voice level, conversational. The kind of statement that would sound routine to anyone listening through nanobots. “Could be a week, maybe longer.”

“About time.” Gabe takes another pull from his bottle. “Been going stir-crazy sitting around here.”

The casual banter masks the truth we can’t speak aloud. Tomorrow, we disappear into Collins’s facility to begin the real work. The work that might finally bring our women home.

A seagull lands on the balcony railing, head tilting as it studies us with one black eye. Gabe tosses a piece of the sandwich he’s been picking at and the gull snaps it up.

“Remember that deployment in Syria?” I grin, and for a moment it’s like the old days. “When you spent three hours calculating blast patterns for a door that turned out to be unlocked?”

“It wasn’t unlocked when I started the calculations,” Gabe counters. “You just got impatient and kicked it open.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“Pure luck.”

“Skill,” I correct, then pause. “Besides, someone had to balance out your overthinking.”

The easy rhythm of our banter feels good. Right. Like pieces of ourselves clicking back into place after days of distance. We’ve been partners too long to let personal shit destroy what works between us.

“This new assignment,” I continue for our invisible audience, “sounds like it’ll test everything we’ve learned.”

“Good. I’m ready to put our training to use.” Gabe’s response carries an edge that anyone listening would interpret as professional eagerness.

But I hear the real message underneath. We’re both ready to do whatever it takes to find Ally.