Page 114 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Jenna.” Carter’s voice tightens. “What happened to your hand?”
I notice it then—her right hand. Two fingers missing. The wounds look surgical, cleanly bandaged.
“Punishment.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “For fighting back.”
Ally grips my arm, and her knuckles turn white. Her body trembles against mine.
A chill runs through the room.
“Ghost, this is Ethan.” He adjusts Rebel in his arms. “Package secure. Six alive. Proceeding to extraction.”
Static crackles, then Ghost’s voice filters through. “Roger that. Cerberus has compromised security. Primary systems are offline. Backup systems are failing. You’ve got fifteen minutes before manual override kicks in.”
“Copy. Charlie team moving.”
Ethan turns toward the women, his eyes softening slightly despite the urgency. “Ladies, we move in Formation Bravo.” He explains quickly for their benefit, though his team already knows the drill. “I’ll take point with Rebel. Rigel with Mia. Carter with Jenna. Jeb with Stitch. Walt with Malia.”
He pauses, glancing between me, Hank, and Ally.
“Ally stays with Gabe,” Hank says, stepping forward. “Blake and I will take rear guard.”
Ethan nods once, accepting the adjustment without comment. His team shifts into position without needing further instruction, years of training taking over.
Relief and guilt war inside me. Hank knows my leg is slowing me down. Taking rear guard means he’s putting himself in the most vulnerable position—the last man out always faces thehighest risk. But it also means Ally stays with me, where I can protect her.
The selfish part of me is grateful. The tactical part knows it makes sense—Hank on rear guard gives us the strongest possible defense at our most vulnerable point.
My leg throbs, but adrenaline dulls the pain. Nothing matters except getting Ally out. Getting everyone out.
Ally’s eyes drop to my leg, noticing the dark stain spreading through the bandage. Her face hardens.
“You’re hurt.” Her fingers brush the edge of the bandage, coming away red.
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out sharp, focused.
She tears a strip from her scrub top, kneels, and wraps it tight around my thigh, reinforcing the existing bandage. Her movements are quick and efficient. When she finishes, she meets my eyes.
“You don’t get to die on me twice.”
Something in her voice sends warmth through my chest despite the circumstances. I touch her cheek briefly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We move through the detention block toward our exit route, the women taking in their surroundings with wary eyes. Ally stays close, her shoulder pressed against mine as we move. She positions herself on my injured side, her body subtly bracing mine whenever my weight shifts. It’s not obvious enough that others would notice—she knows better than to wound my pride openly—but enough that I feel the support with each step.
Part of me loves her for it. Another part hates being the liability, the weak link, but her face shows only determination, not pity. She’s been through hell, yet she’s the one supporting me. The irony isn’t lost on me.
We push through the detention block exit into a central corridor. Alarms blare throughout the facility, red emergency lights casting everything in blood-hued shadows. The Trojan horse is doing its work—security doors open and close at random, surveillance cameras swivel uselessly.
“Compound’s in chaos,” Ethan says, adjusting Rebel in his arms. “We go straight through. Mining access is two levels up, east wing.”
“Contact back!” Blake calls, dropping to one knee.
Two guards round the corner, weapons raised. Hank and Blake fire simultaneously—controlled double-taps that drop both men before they can squeeze their triggers.
“Move!” Ethan orders.
