Page 148 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Four figures emerge from the plane—shadows made flesh.
Ghost leads, every step honed and deliberate, violence etched into muscle and memory. Behind him, Brass hauls enough firepower to flatten a city block, each weapon handled like a trusted friend. Halo follows, smaller than the others, but with the calm focus of a man who makes buildings vanish. Whisper brings up the rear, wordless and still, knives tucked where even death wouldn’t think to look.
“Martinez.” Ghost clasps my hand, grip firm enough to crack bone. “You look like shit.”
“Feel worse.”
“Good. Angry men fight harder.”
The team moves toward the hangar in lockstep precision, no wasted motion or unnecessary conversation. Inside, cases of equipment wait in neat rows—weapons, communications gear, medical supplies, everything needed to wage private war.
“Intel package.” Brass drops a waterproof case at my feet. “Satellite imagery, thermal scans, structural analysis. Your mystery woman provided coordinates, but we filled in the details.”
I open the case, study photographs that show Malfor’s Montenegro compound in devastating detail. Cliffside location, ocean access, multiple buildings connected by covered walkways. Defensive positions. Guard towers. Everything a paranoid arms dealer needs to feel secure.
“Security assessment?” I ask.
“Heavy but predictable.” Halo spreads technical drawings across a makeshift table. “Motion sensors, thermal cameras, automated weapon systems. Standard rich asshole fortress package.”
“Automated systems are vulnerable to electronic interference,” Whisper adds, voice barely disturbing the air. “Ten minutes with their network and I can turn their defenses against them.”
“Personnel count?”
“Forty to sixty combatants,” Ghost provides. “Professional contractors, not local talent. Well-armed, well-trained, probably well-paid. They’ll fight.”
“Good.” The word comes out darker than intended. “I want them to fight.”
“This is personal for you.” Ghost studies my expression, reads the violence building behind my eyes.
“Very.”
“Personal makes you sloppy.”
“Personal makes me thorough.”
He considers this; weighs my emotional state against operational requirements. Finally nods once—approval or acceptance, hard to tell the difference.
“Equipment preference?” Brass opens weapon cases, revealing an arsenal that would make arms dealers weep with envy.
“Long range first. Close quarters after.” I select a precision rifle, check the scope, and feel its familiar weight settle against my shoulder. “I want to reach out and touch someone before we get intimate.”
“My kind of poetry.” Halo grins, expression holding just enough madness to be concerning.
“Timeline?” Ghost checks his watch, mental calculations visible behind cold eyes.
“Fourteen hours to target. Two hours for reconnaissance and final planning. Insertion immediately following.”
“Tight.”
“Tight is what we have.”
The hangar hums with organized chaos as Cerberus gears up for war. Weapons click into readiness. Comms crackle to life. Gear is handed out; each piece matched to its master. It’s not just preparation—it’s ritual. A mechanical ballet of destruction.
My phone buzzes with an encrypted message. A single line of text that makes my blood run cold.
Charlie team en route to your location. Ethan.
“Son of a bitch.” I look up to find Ghost watching me, expression unreadable. “You leaked this to Ethan.”
