Page 117 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
A spotlight locks onto us.
“They’ve got us,” Ally gasps.
I kick off hard from the rock, swinging us in a wide arc as bullets chip stone where we were a second before. We swing back, and I increase our drop rate to the edge of safety.
Fifty feet. Twenty-five.
The RIB appears directly below us, rocking violently in the surf. Carter and Jeb brace to receive us.
“Let go on my mark,” I tell Ally. “Three, two, one?—”
We drop the final fifteen feet, landing hard in the boat. Carter steadies Ally while Jeb helps me untangle from the rappel gear.
Above us, Hank and Blake descend last, providing covering fire even as they rappel. They’re moving too fast—the lines smoking with friction—but with good reason. Spotlights track them, bullets pinging off rock all around.
Spotlights sweep the cliff face. Bullets ricochet off stone like angry wasps.
Then—Crack.
A round catches Hank. His body jerks, but he doesn’t slow. Thirty feet. Twenty.
His body snaps midair, jerked off-line. He doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t even slow.
He releases early, dropping the final distance in free fall. He slams into the boat with bone-jarring force. Blake drops in hard right after him, rolling to his feet, scanning.
Hank doesn’t move. Blood spreads in an obscene blossom across his tactical vest, already soaking through layers of Kevlar and cloth.
“GO!” Ghost yells from the cliff edge, his team providing covering fire. “PUNCH IT!”
The engines roar to life. The boat lurches forward, carving through the black waves as bullets stitch the sea around us.
I pull Ally to the deck and shield her with my body. Salt spray and gunfire mix in the air like metal and madness. Behind us, muzzle flashes continue to light up the cliff top. Cerberus, buying us time to escape.
“Hank,” I call over the engine noise. “How bad?”
He doesn’t respond, slumped against the side of the boat. Blood soaks his tactical vest—more than a scratch. Ally moves toward him, crawling, and presses a field dressing against the wound firmly. Her eyes meet mine over his unconscious form.
The vest’s saturated. The blood won’t stop.
He blinks slowly. Once.
Then his eyes roll back.
“Hank—” My voice cracks, panic shredding the edges.
“He’ll make it,” she says firmly. “We all will.” Ally presses hard into the wound with a field dressing. “Pressure. Gabe, help me.”
I crawl to them, heart hammering in my throat. “He’s hit bad. He’s losing too much.”
I reach across, my hand finding Hank’s limp one. Fear claws at my chest—raw, primal. Not just for a teammate or brother-in-arms. For Hank.
For what we are together. Something deeper than friendship, closer than brotherhood. A bond forged in blood and bullets and shared nights with Ally between us.
“He’s not responding,” I whisper.
“Don’t say that,” Ally snaps. “Don’t even think that.”
I grip his hand. It’s already cold.
