Page 13 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
The doors slam shut with finality that makes my chest tight. Total darkness swallows us for a moment before red emergencylights flicker on, casting everything in a hellish glow that makes the injuries on our faces look worse than they probably are.
The heat builds immediately inside the metal container. No windows. No air circulation beyond those small mesh panels. Only the sound of six women breathing raggedly and the faint hum of whatever machinery keeps those emergency lights running.
“Everyone okay?” Jenna’s voice cuts through the heavy air.
“Broken arm,” Rebel says through gritted teeth, cradling her injured limb against her body. “But I can still move my fingers.”
Stitch shifts closer to examine her. “Can you feel this?” She touches Rebel’s fingertips gently.
“Yeah. Hurts like hell, but there’s circulation.”
“Mia?” Jenna calls softly.
“Head’s pounding.” Mia’s voice is thick, and when she turns toward the red light, I can see the dark stain matting her hair. “Vision’s okay, though. No nausea. Probably not a concussion.”
“Malia?”
“Bruised ribs. Nothing broken.” Her voice shakes slightly. “Just scared.”
All eyes turn to me, and I realize they’re waiting for my assessment. “Dislocated shoulder, I think. Zip tie burns. But functional.”
The simple act of checking on each other, of confirming we’re all still here and still fighting, steadies something inside me. We’re hurt, but we’re together. That has to count for something.
“Anyone got a plan? Because I’d love to hear one.” Rebel’s voice is rough with pain and something harder.
“Unless it involves snapping zip ties with our minds, not yet.” Malia’s response is a choked laugh that borders on hysteria.
I test my bindings again, systematically probing for any weakness or slack. Nothing. They’re professional-grade restraints, applied by people who know what they’re doing.
I shift my position to ease the pressure building in my thighs, where the plastic cuts into my circulation.
“They need us alive,” I whisper, as much to convince myself as the others. “That’s something.”
“As leverage against Charlie team,” Stitch says, her eyes finding mine in the red-tinted darkness. Her expression is harder than I’ve ever seen it. “A way to hit them where it hurts most.”
She’s right. This isn’t just about my research, though that’s certainly part of it. Harrison’s betrayal, the coordinated assault, the professional extraction—it’s designed to hit Charlie team where they’re most vulnerable.
Through us.
But for Stitch, this is something else entirely. Malfor was her mentor. He taught her everything she knows about hacking and systems infiltration. She was his protégé until she got caught breaking into NSA servers, and he disappeared, leaving her to face federal prison alone.
This is personal revenge wrapped in tactical strategy.
Silence falls over the container, broken only by the truck’s engine turning over and the slight vibration as we begin to move. And in that silence, with the weight of Stitch’s words settling over us, I realize something that makes my blood run cold.
This isn’t just a capture. This isn’t even the beginning of whatever Malfor has planned.
This is stage one of something much, much worse.
The truck picks up speed, carrying us away from the airstrip and deeper into whatever hell Malfor has prepared. The engine growls as we climb what feels like a winding road, the vehicle swaying slightly with each turn.
My wrists burn where the zip ties cut into swollen flesh. My shoulder throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat. And somewherein the back of my mind, the part of me that’s always calculating probabilities starts running scenarios.
None of them end well.
But I’m still thinking. Still planning. Still fighting.
And as long as I can do that, there’s hope.
