Page 149 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Might have mentioned you were planning something stupid.” He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Professional courtesy.”
“This was supposed to be off the books.”
“Still is. But Hank was their brother too. You really think they’d let you hunt his killer alone?”
Before I can respond, engines roar through the night—multiple vehicles, moving fast, chewing up gravel with no attempt at stealth. Charlie team, making their entrance with all the subtlety of a battering ram.
Three black SUVs roll onto the tarmac, doors flying open before the engines die. Ethan climbs out first, jaw set, storm in his eyes. Jeb is right behind him, silent and steady, the kind of calm that follows a decision already made. Carter stalks forward like he’s hunting something, rage barely leashed. Blake and Walt exit opposite sides, scanning the perimeter, movements tight with purpose. Rigel brings up the rear, eyes cold, expression unreadable—but his fists clench like he’s holding back the urge to tear something apart.
The team’s intact—minus the dead. And their silence says more than any words ever could. They don’t walk—they advance. Purpose in every step, boots striking asphalt like a countdown.
They cross the distance to the hangar like an advancing army, purpose written in every step. When Ethan reaches thethreshold, he stops, surveys the assembled firepower, then fixes me with eyes that hold zero tolerance for argument.
Steel meets steel. No questions. No room for negotiation.
“Going somewhere without us?” His voice carries command authority that brooks no dissent.
Not a suggestion. A line drawn in the sand.
“This isn’t Guardian business.”
“Fuck Guardian business.” Carter’s voice slices through the dark, jagged and bleeding. “This is family.”
“He was our anchor—” Walt starts.
“Our brother,” Blake finishes.
“Our friend,” Rigel adds, voice steady despite emotion bleeding through.
They fan out, a wall of muscle and conviction, forming a semicircle between me and the exit. No need for threats. Their bodies say everything—You’re not doing this alone.
Ethan steps in, close enough I can see it—the grief threatening to crack him wide open, the fury welded over it like armor.
“You really think we’d let you honor him without us?” His voice doesn’t shake. It hits like impact. “You think we’d let you carry this weight alone?”
The gesture hits harder than expected. Because despite everything—the fight with Hank, the guilt, the isolation of grief—they still consider me family. Still want to stand beside me when it matters most.
The ground shifts beneath me.
For days, I’ve been drowning in guilt, in silence. Hank’s voice gone. His laugh. His steady hand. I kept breathing, but nothing felt alive. Now, standing in the eye of this storm of loyalty, everything inside me stirs.
Breaks.
“This could go sideways fast,” I warn. “No official support. No extraction backup. No guarantees any of us come home.”
“We know,” Ethan responds without hesitation.
“Malfor’s got forty to sixty professional contractors defending that compound.”
“We know.”
“This is pure revenge. Blood for blood. Nothing noble or patriotic about it.”
“We know.” His tone softens, just enough to crack the shield he wears. “Yet, we’re still here.”
It slams into me—this moment. The loyalty. The love. The brothers who choose to stand in fire with me, not because they have to, but because they won’t let me go alone.
The support staggers me. After days of feeling isolated in grief, of believing I had to carry this burden alone, discovering my brothers are willing to walk into hell beside me…
