Page 1 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
ONE
The Empty Apartment
HANK
The meeting runs long.
Three damn hours of grim faces and bad news delivered under fluorescent lights that buzz just loud enough to irritate. Forest lays it out, Mitzy supports with live drone feeds and intercepted chatter, but the message is clear even before CJ drives the final nail in.
Malfor is back. Bolder. Smarter.
And targeting us.
“The ambush in San Diego was targeted,” Forest says. His voice is gravel, low and certain. “They weren’t after the asset. They wanted Alpha team.”
Alpha team walked into a trap in San Diego. Routine extraction turned hostile in under ninety seconds. One operative wounded. Civilians nearly compromised. The attackers left behind zero trace—but they wore Sentinel insignia under their gear. A direct strike against Guardian HRS.
A message.
Malfor’s resurfaced, and he’s making moves. Big ones.
We hear it loud and clear.
But there’s nothing concrete. No new locations. No new names. Just whispers in the dark and the echo of too many unanswered questions.
By the time we’re dismissed, my skin’s tight with tension and my jaw’s wired shut. We need intel.
Movement. Action.
But there’s none of that yet.
We walk out of the bullpen into the humid night air, tension still riding high. Muscles tight. Minds wired.
So we do the only thing we can: we regroup.
“Still time to crash the girls’ sleepover.” Gabe elbows me as we step out of the bullpen. “That scoreboard’s gathering dust.”
“Only one name on that board, and that’s not fair.” Blake snorts.
“Yeah,” Walt mutters, shooting a glance at Gabe. “Some of us would’ve liked a shot before deployment.”
Rigel stretches his arms overhead, cracking his neck. “Pretty sure Ally’s tally needs a penalty. Two-on-one? Not exactly fair odds.”
“Hey, we play the hand we’re dealt.” Gabe doesn’t bother hiding his grin.
“You want points on the board, you earn them,” I add, casual as ever, and loving the fact that there’s no way Ally’s going to lose on that leaderboard. Gabe and I areverygenerouslovers.
Laughter sparks like a match. Easy. Familiar. Laced with heat and the promise of something to chase.
Walt jerks a thumb toward the motor pool. “Golf carts?”
Ethan’s grin is pure mischief. “Last one there does tomorrow’s gear checks for the whole damn team.”
“Pack your patience,” Rigel says, already jogging. “I’m not going down easy.”
We explode toward the carts like overgrown teenagers with too much testosterone and not enough adult supervision. Blakeshoves Walt sideways and vaults into the driver’s seat. Ethan slides in behind Rigel. Gabe and I are dead last.
The engines hum to life, and in seconds, we’re tearing across the compound like we own the night.
