Page 89 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I find myself laughing instead of the embarrassment I expect—a genuine, unguarded sound that surprises even me.

Hank, his hair still damp from the shower, raises an eyebrow. “We usually save the spinning chair drills for advanced tactical training.” His deadpan delivery breaks after a second, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

He’s changed into dark cargo pants and a fitted black T-shirt with the Guardian logo on the sleeve—casual but professional.

“I was just…” I gesture vaguely to the chair, now stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Testing our equipment?” Gabe offers helpfully, stepping in and closing the door behind them. “Very thorough. We appreciate the attention to detail.”

“Exactly,” I reply, straightening my shoulders with mock seriousness. “Quality control. These chairs have excellent rotational stability. I’d rate them nine out of ten.”

“Only nine?” Hank asks, crossing his arms but looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him yet.

“The tenth point requires cup holders,” I say primly, surprising myself with how easily the banter comes after everything that’s happened.

Gabe’s laughter is a warm sound that fills the room. “I’ll be sure to add that to our next requisition order.”

“Ready?” Hank asks, getting us back on track but with softer edges than before. The moment of levity hangs between us, a small but significant reminder that normal still exists somewhere in the world.

Gabe follows, similarly dressed. “Hungry?” he asks, checking his watch. “It’s almost noon.”

My stomach answers before I can, growling audibly. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and watching the team’s physically demanding training has made me hungry, too.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gabe grins. “Let’s hit the cafeteria before heading out to find Mitzy.”

“Is there only one cafeteria for this whole place?” I ask as we exit the briefing room.

“There are three,” Hank explains, leading us back toward the exit. “There is the main cafeteria near the admin, one by the residential areas, and a smaller one near the technical building.”

“Plus The Guardian Grind, if you just want coffee and snacks,” Gabe adds.

Outside, Hank commandeers another golf cart, a bit larger than the first. I climb in the back seat while the men take the front.

“Main cafeteria has the best options,” Hank says as we set off, navigating the winding paths between buildings.

The compound looks different in the midday sun—less intimidating and more like a high-end corporate campus or university. Personnel in various uniforms and casual wear move between buildings, some on foot and others in carts similar to ours. The atmosphere is purposeful but not tense.

We pass the sleek tech building again, then around a curved road that opens onto a large courtyard. At itscenter stands a modern structure with expansive windows and a covered patio where people sit at tables, eating and conversing.

“Here we are,” Gabe announces, pulling the cart into a designated parking area.

Inside, the cafeteria resembles an upscale food court. Several stations offer different cuisine options—I spot Asian fusion, Mexican, a grill station, and what appears to be farm-to-table organic fare.

“They keep it interesting,” Hank says, noticing my surprise. “Forest believes good food keeps morale up, especially when it comes to feeding his operatives.”

We grab trays and move through the line. I opt for a grilled chicken salad that looks fresh and appetizing, while Hank loads his plate with protein—steak, potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Gabe chooses the Asian station, piling his plate with stir-fried noodles and vegetables.

Several people glance our way as we find a table near the windows. Some nod respectfully to Hank and Gabe, but most seem more interested in me.

“We don’t get many visitors here, especially not a single woman with the two of us.” Gabe’s tone is deliberately neutral, though I detect a hint of something possessive beneath it.

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Do they know… ?”

“That you’re staying with us?” Gabe shrugs, taking a bite of his noodles. “Probably. Guardian HQ is worse than a small town when it comes to gossip.”

“Great,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken with perhaps more force than necessary.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank says. “They’re just curious.”

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