Page 84 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Sam checks his device again. “They’ve secured transport. ETA to our position is now three hours behind schedule. We’ll be on-site before they arrive.”

“Do we wait?” CJ asks the question we’re all thinking.

Sam considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “Negative. We proceed as planned. The extraction window is too critical to delay. Cerberus will join us when they can.”

“They’ll catch up,” I add, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else. “Blackwood’s resourceful.”

We load into the helicopters—each Guardian team taking their own bird. Hank and I board the third helicopter with the rest of Charlie team, while Alpha, Bravo, and Delta spreadout among the remaining three. Sam and CJ, along with Mitzy and her techies, remain on the tarmac. Their role as command leadership keeps them at the staging area, where they’ll coordinate the entire operation from a secure tactical center.

“Mission is a go,” Sam’s voice comes through our comms as the rotors spin up to full speed. “Maintain radio discipline. Next check-in at waypoint Zulu.”

“Copy that,” I respond, watching through the helicopter window as Sam and CJ grow smaller, heading back toward the command center.

CJ raises a hand in a final salute—part good luck, part silent order to bring everyone home.

As the formation of helicopters lifts off and banks toward the southwest, I catch a glimpse of the vast Pacific stretching out before us. Somewhere in that blue expanse lies Malfor’s island facility.

Somewhere ahead, Ally is waiting. Somewhere behind, Cerberus is racing to catch up.

“You ready for this?” Hank asks.

“Always ready to blow shit up,” I respond automatically. “Question is whether we’re blowing up the right shit.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this feels like we’re walking into someone else’s demolition sequence,” I admit. “Like all the charges are already set, and we’re just providing the trigger.”

The helicopter vibrates around us, rotors chopping through night air thick with the promise of violence.

All of us process the same reality—we’re flying toward an island where Malfor has had time to prepare for our arrival. The helicopter’s engines drone through the night sky, carrying us toward our destination.

“Contact bearing two-seven-zero,” the pilot’s voice snaps through the headset, clipped and urgent. “Multiple aircraft. High speed. Closing fast on our position.”

Out the window, dots of light slice the dark sky, flying fast and tight—military precision, not some drunk tourist joyride.

“How many?” Ethan’s voice cuts through comms, low and hard.

“At least six aircraft. ETA to intercept, ninety seconds.”

Beside me, Hank shifts, his face carved in red shadow, jaw clenched tight.

This isn’t a surprise.

“Looks like our welcoming committee’s early.” My voice is flat, stripped down to steel. We’re still three miles out over open water.

Not ideal.

No cover. No place to run. Just the hum of the rotors and a sky that’s about to ignite.

The thrum in my gut turns sharper. We were always flying into a trap. The only question now is how many of us make it to shore, and how many go down in flames.

TWENTY-NINE

The Broadcast

ALLY

A metallic thudslams through my skull—boot against steel. I jolt upright, heart in my throat, sleep shattering around me. The outer door crashes open, hinges shrieking like something wounded.