Page 14 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Even if I can’t see it yet.
FIVE
Island Arrival & Courtyard Collaring
ALLY
The truck lurchesto a violent stop, and the screech of brakes cuts through my awareness like a blade. The hiss of hydraulics follows—doors unlocking. My stomach clenches.
I’ve lost all track of time. The sedatives still drag at the edges of my mind, making everything feel underwater and wrong, but I’m alert enough to catalog what matters. We’re on solid ground. Based on the salt-heavy humidity seeping through the open doors, we’re somewhere coastal.
Blinding-white light floods the cargo space, and harsh voices bark commands in what sounds like Spanish mixed with accents I can’t place. My eyes water, pupils contracting painfully as shadows move against the glare—more armed figures in tactical gear gesturing for us to move.
“¡Vámonos!Now! Out!”
My legs are cement blocks when I try to stand. The zip ties have cut off circulation for hours, and pins and needles shoot through my feet as blood flows back. I stumble into Rebel, who’s pale as death but upright, her good arm braced against the truck wall for support.
“Easy,” she murmurs, steadying me with her uninjured hand. Her broken arm hangs at an unnatural angle, and white-hot pain flickers across her features every time she moves.
Jenna moves ahead of us. Her swollen eye has opened enough to function, and I watch her make mental notes of everything—guard positions, equipment, potential weaknesses.
We’re herded across a narrow concrete dock that reeks of fish and diesel fuel. The ocean stretches endlessly in all directions, a nauseating shade of green blue under the harsh tropical sun. No land is visible on the horizon. No aircraft contrails in the sky. Just water and sky and the growing certainty that we’re completely isolated.
At the end of the dock, a military-style RIB waits, its twin outboard engines idling with barely contained power. The boat looks like it could outrun anything on this water—if we had anywhere to run to.
Another team of operatives in black tactical gear waves us aboard. Their weapons stay trained on us, but there’s no shouting. No unnecessary movement. Just the quiet professionalism of people who know their prey is already caught.
The boat launches before we’re properly seated, and I grab the bench beside me as we accelerate across the choppy water. The engines roar, drowning out any possibility of conversation, which is probably the point.
I count islands as we speed past—or try to. Small volcanic outcroppings covered in jungle vegetation. Nothing that looks inhabited. Nothing that looks like it has an airstrip or communications equipment. Just endless tropical wilderness scattered across an ocean that could be anywhere from the Pacific to the Caribbean.
Twenty minutes pass before land emerges from the heat haze ahead. This island is different—larger, more jagged, with steep cliffs rising directly from the water. Dense jungle covers everysurface, but as we approach, there are structures hidden in the green. Concrete. Metal. The hard edges of human habitation carved into the wilderness.
A weathered dock extends from a small cove, and beyond it, a road cuts up through the vegetation toward what looks like a compound perched on the hillside. Razor wire glints in the sunlight along the perimeter fencing.
Another truck waits at the end of the dock—same model as before, same black tint on the windows, same sense of inevitability. They transfer us with the same silent efficiency, and we’re moving again before I can fully process our new surroundings.
The road winds upward through increasingly dense jungle. Through the truck’s small rear window, I glimpse the terrain—lush, wild, humid enough to make breathing feel like drowning.
The island isn’t just isolated.
It’s designed to be inescapable.
When the truck finally stops again, the heat hits me like a physical blow. Thick, oppressive, carrying scents of flowering plants and something else—something metallic and wrong.
We’re inside the compound now. High concrete walls topped with razor wire stretch in every direction, broken only by guard towers and surveillance equipment. The courtyard we’re standing in is large enough for a helicopter to land, paved in weathered stone that radiates heat even through my shoes.
And there, waiting in the center like he’s been expecting us, is a man I’ve never seen in person, but immediately recognize.
Malfor.
He’s smaller than I expected—average height, unremarkable build, the kind of person who could disappear in any crowd. But his eyes are what stop my breath. Cold, calculating, and completely focused on us with the intensity of a scientist studying specimens.
No guards flank him. No weapons visible. Just that detached smile that somehow manages to be more terrifying than all of Harrison’s threats combined.
“Welcome,” he says, his voice smooth and cultured with a slight accent I can’t place, “to the heart of my operation.”
The words hit me like ice water. This is it. This is where he’s been planning everything—hidden away from satellites and surveillance, surrounded by enough ocean to swallow any rescue attempt.
