Page 43 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“You’re tearing apart the team when we need to be united.” His grip never loosens as he hauls me down the corridor. “You want to lose your shit? Fine. But you do it with me, not them.”
The team watches in stunned silence as Hank marches me out of the conference room like I’m some kind of unruly animal. My face burns, but the fury burning in my chest is stronger.
---
It’s been seventy-six hours, fifty-seven minutes.
Charlie team is suspended.
Ally is still missing.
And the partnership that defined my life is lying in pieces because I couldn’t control my rage for five fucking minutes. All because I forgot that when you’re drowning, you don’t drag down the people trying to save you. Least of all, your anchor.
FIFTEEN
The Fight
GABE
The Guardian HRSgymnasium occupies an entire football field. It’s an industrial space with exposed steel beams overhead, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across rubber flooring. Spray mats cover the center area—a familiar arena where we’ve worked through countless conflicts over the years.
But this feels different. Charged. Dangerous.
Ethan follows us in. He knows what this is. What it could become. His presence serves as both witness and insurance—someone to call a halt if we cross lines we can’t uncross.
“This is about the exercise,” Hank says as we enter the gym. “About you going rogue.”
“This is about you being too fucking careful while our women are out there getting tortured.”
“And this is about you thinking with your dick instead of your brain.”
That’s when I know we’re going to fight. Really fight. Not spar, not train. Fight like enemies instead of brothers. Hank wants to get personal?
Well, I can give him that.
“Strip down,” Hank says, already pulling off his tactical shirt.
I shed my gear, muscles coiled with three days of accumulated rage. The familiar ritual should calm me. Usually does. But today the anger burns hotter, more personal.
We step onto the mats.
Hank moves first—a testing takedown attempt that I counter easily. Standard grappling. Light contact. Feeling each other out.
But my energy’s too high, my movements too aggressive. What should be controlled technique comes out sharp and violent. When I go for an arm drag, I use more force than necessary.
Hank responds by using precise counters that make me look sloppy.
Which pisses me off more.
“Talk to me.” Hank slips out of my attempted triangle choke.
Slippery fucker.
“Nothing to talk about.” I explode up from the mat, reset our positions. “We should be hunting that bastard instead of rolling around on fucking mats. She’s out there.” The words come out strangled as I break his grip. “Probably hurt. Scared. And we’re twiddling our thumbs on training exercises.”
“Rushing in blind gets everyone killed.”
The calm certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. All that rage I’ve been containing, all that helpless fury at watching Ally disappear into Malfor’s hands—it needs somewhere to go.
