Page 161 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“To coming home,” Sophia finishes, voice carrying hope and certainty in equal measure.
“Remember when our biggest worry was whether the espresso machine would work?” Mia asks with nostalgia for simpler times.
“I remember when my biggest worry was my thesis defense,” I admit, thinking of academic concerns that feel impossibly distant from my current reality.
“Now we’re all in love with professional killers who think ‘normal Tuesday’ includes international revenge missions,” Rebel observes with accuracy that makes everyone laugh.
We have to laugh. Crying is overrated.
“Could be worse,” Stitch points out. “We could all be in love with accountants who think ‘dangerous’ means taking lunch meetings without reservations.”
“True,” Sophia agrees. “At least our men are competent at the violence they choose to pursue.”
“And they fight like hell to come home to us,” Sophia adds with quiet determination.
“They do,” I agree, tasting hope that feels as fragile as spun glass.
My phone vibrates against the counter, a sharp buzz that cuts through the café like an alarm bell. Every conversation stops as attention focuses on the device that might carry news we’ve been waiting for.
Gabe’s name appears on screen. It’s a simple text that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. I answer before the second ring, voice steadier than I feel.
“Tell me.”
“It’s done.” His voice carries exhaustion and satisfaction in equal measure, words that taste like justice served and promises kept. “We’re coming home.”
Relief floods my system. Around me, faces reflect similar emotions—fear transformed into joy, anxiety giving way to celebration.
“Are you hurt?” The question comes automatically.
“Nothing that won’t heal.”
Our family remains intact despite the night’s violence. Our men who went to war are coming home.
Justice was served, and debts were paid.
“I love you.” My voice carries everything I couldn’t say while he was gone.
“I love you too. See you soon.”
The line goes dead, leaving a silence that holds a different quality than before. Not anxiety, but anticipation. Not fear, but preparation for a celebration that’s been earned through survival and sacrifice.
“It’s done,” I announce to faces that already know but need to hear the confirmation.
“It’s over?” Rebel asks.
“It’s over. He’s dead.” The words hold a finality that closes too many chapters written in blood and pain.
“They’re coming home,” Jenna finishes with joy that transforms pain into something beautiful.
Tonight, we waited, exactly where we belong—surrounded by love, sustained by friendship, protected by men who keep their promises no matter the cost.
The waiting is over.
Our men are coming home.
FIFTY-TWO
Homecoming
