Page 83 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“It’s the social hub,” Gabe agrees. “We’ll take you there after training if you want to see Malia again.”

“I’d love that.” A genuine smile spreads across my face at the thought of reuniting with my friend.

During our months in captivity, Malia and I formed an unshakeable bond, weathering the darkest days together. She had been taken to ensure her brother Malikai’s compliance—a world-renowned expert in nuclear fusion who led our research team. While I worked closely with Malikai on the reactor’s technical aspects, Malia kept me sane in those endless, hopeless nights.

I take it all in, amazed at the scope and scale of the operation. This isn’t just a headquarters—it’s a small, highly specialized city completely dedicated to Guardian HRS’s mission.

I slip my laptop into my bag, wincing at how warm it feels through the case. Maybe there’s a hardware issue causing it to overheat. Either way, getting expert eyes on it will be a relief.

“Do a lot of, um, significant others come here?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

Gabe snorts. “Not usually, no.”

“But you’re a special case,” Hank adds, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk toward an elevator. “Security clearance was expedited, given your situation.”

The words are neutral enough, but there’s weight behind them.

My situation.

Kidnapped. Rescued. Under threat.

I suppress a shudder.

The security checkpoint requires both a keycard and a fingerprint scan. The guard nods to Hank and Gabe, then gives me a curious once-over before waving us through.

“Ready to meet the family?” Gabe asks, a hint of mischief in his eyes as we drive toward the main operations building.

The Guardian building is unmistakable—a sprawling, single-story structure with a utilitarian design. Unlike the sleek tech buildings or the residential areas, this place was built purely for function.

“This is the heart of our operations,” Hank explains as we park.

We approach the entrance marked “Charlie Team.” Hank swipes his card and places his thumb on a scanner. The heavy door unlocks with a solid clunk.

Inside, the bullpen is a world unto itself. The large space is divided into workstations, with a tactical planning table in the center.

What catches my eye are the massive chain-link enclosures lining the walls—each large enough to walk into and filled with specialized gear and equipment. Every cage has a name stenciled above it. The few bare walls left are lined with gear, maps, and what looks like mission briefing materials.

“Personal gear lockers,” Gabe explains, following my gaze. “Everything we need for missions. Only team members are allowed inside the bullpen.”

While they gather their workout gear, I notice the photos pinned to some of the workstations—team outings, training exercises, candid moments of camaraderie. These men aren’t just colleagues; they’re a family.

“Am I not supposed to be in here?” I ask.

Gabe laughs. “The bullpen is sacred ground—just Guardians, but we wouldn’t be the first ones to slip a chick in here. What Ethan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Hank and Gabe exchange a look.

“This way,” Gabe guides me with a gentle hand on my elbow. “We’ll drop you in a conference room while we change. Don’t want anyone walking in and seeing you in here.”

We navigate through a maze of corridors, each requiring different levels of authorization. I’d be completely lost without them as guides. Finally, we reach a door labeled simply, “Charlie Team Briefing Room.”

In half that time, they return.

Gabe emerges first, dressed in a fitted performance shirt that clings to every sculpted plane of his torso, the dark fabric stretching over broad shoulders and tapering down to his lean waist. The track pants do nothing to hide the powerful thighs beneath,the kind built for explosive strength and endurance. The man moves with the effortless grace of someone always in control, every step calculated and deliberate.

Hank follows, similarly dressed, but where Gabe is all restrained power, Hank is brute force wrapped in an easy-going yet confident swagger. His shirt stretches across his chest, biceps flexing as he adjusts the strap of his gym bag. The loose fit of his joggers does nothing to diminish the fact that this man is built like a battering ram—one designed to tear through walls and enemies alike.

It’s almost unfair.

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