Page 116 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

The fading light casts long shadows across the landscape, its beauty at odds with the unease crawling beneath my skin.

Jenna’s apartment is already bustling when I arrive. Sophia orchestrates dinner preparation while Rebel sets the table. Mia arranges wine glasses, and Violet entertains Luke with a board game in the corner. The normality of it—women gathering for dinner and conversation—feels surreal against the backdrop of heightened security protocols and missing operators.

“You look exhausted,” Jenna observes, taking my bag and setting it in the guest room. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”

“Last night,” I lie.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Right. And I’m secretly a ballet dancer.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, helping Sophia with the salad. “Just stressed about my defense.”

“If by ‘fine’ you mean ‘running on fumes and caffeine,’ then sure,” Rebel calls from the dining area. “You’ve got the thousand-yard stare of someone who hasn’t slept properly in days.”

I start to protest, but Sophia places a gentle hand on my arm. “We get it,” she says softly. “When Blake’s away, Luke is the only reason I sleep at all. Worrying is part of loving them.”

Something about her simple understanding breaks through my defenses. “I keep having these feelings that something’s wrong,” I admit. “Not just worry—something specific. Like we’re missing something important.”

“About the San Diego operation?” Mia asks, pausing her wine-pouring.

“About everything.” I struggle to articulate the formless dread that’s been my constantcompanion.

“Well, we’re safer together,” Jenna says firmly. “Now, let’s eat before Sophia’s lasagna gets cold.”

Dinner is a surprisingly comfortable affair, the wine and good food easing some of my tension. The conversation flows easily between sex, gossip, and stories about our men that have us all alternating between laughter and sighs.

Only when Luke has been tucked into bed and the dishes cleared away does the mood shift toward more serious matters.

“Any word from San Diego?” I ask Rebel, who seems most connected to the communication channels.

She shakes her head. “Radio silence, which is normal for this kind of operation. Stitch said we might not hear anything for another day or two.”

I don’t know why, but the nagging sensation of missing something crucial intensifies, like an equation I can’t quite balance despite having all the variables.

As the evening winds down, Malia and I retire to Jenna’s guest room. Rebel leaves with Violet. Mia and Sophia return to their respective quarters.

“Are you okay?” Malia pulls back the sheets.

“I’m good.”

“You sure? You look distracted.”

“I’m just not used to the guys being gone. I’m not handling it as well as the rest of you.”

“I wish I had something wise to say, but try to get some sleep, okay? You look like you need it.”

I promise to try, though we both know it’s an empty assurance. I change into pajamas and climb into bed, Hank’s hoodie clutched against my chest. The familiar scent calms me, and despite my racing thoughts, exhaustion soon pulls me under.

The dream starts as it always does—with the alarms blaring in Kazakhstan. I run down endless corridors, the walls pulsing with red emergency lighting. The familiar terror claws at my throat as I search for the USB drive, for an exit, for any way out of the nightmare.

But this time, the dream shifts. The corridors aren’t theKazakhstan facility anymore. They’re Guardian HRS walkways, the ones I walk every day. The figure pursuing me isn’t a faceless guard—it’s Mike, his friendly repairman’s smile replaced by cold calculation.

“You can’t hide, Dr. Collins,” he calls, his voice echoing strangely in the empty halls. “Your research…”

I try to run faster, but my legs move with dream-like sluggishness. I round a corner and find myself in The Guardian Grind, but it’s wrong somehow—the windows shattered, tables overturned, emergency lights casting everything in a bloody glow.

Rebel lies motionless on the floor, a dart protruding from her neck. Malia struggles against black-clad figures, her desperate screams muted as if underwater. Jenna fires at shadowy attackers before collapsing beside a large, still shape I recognize with horror as Max.

“No!” I try to shout, but no sound emerges.

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