Page 133 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“And those protein bars that tasted like cardboard,” Walt adds. “Swore they were good for you even though they could probably stop a bullet.”
A ghost of a smile touches Gabe’s lips. “He made me eat one once. Tasted like punishment.”
“Collective suffering builds character,” Rigel quotes in a passable imitation of Hank’s command voice.
The stories start small—shared miseries and inside jokes. But they grow, becoming something larger. Someone mentions the time Hank got food poisoning in Thailand but still managed to complete the mission. Blake recounts an experience from last summer when Hank taught his nephew to fish, describing how patient he was with a hyperactive eight-year-old.
I find myself contributing too, telling them about that first morning at Gabe and Hank’s condo when Hank was making breakfast. Gabe always said Hank’s culinary skills were legendary among the team.
“He was so focused on getting the eggs just right,” I say, smiling at the memory.
I don’t mention how Hank looked at Gabe that morning, that subtle nod that communicated volumes between them. Don’t tell them how Gabe lifted me onto the kitchen counter while Hank told Gabe to fuck me with that steady gaze that always made my pulse race. How afterward, with Gabe catching his breath, I slipped to my knees in front of Hank, following the silent command in his eyes. The way his hand tangled in my hair.
“Somehow he got completely distracted,” I continue, meeting Gabe’s eyes across the circle. His slight smile tells me he remembers exactly what I’m leaving out. “Smoke everywhere, alarms going off. And there was Hank, standing in the middle of his ruined kitchen, bacon burnt to a crisp, scrambled eggs somehow charred, looking absolutely bewildered about how it all went wrong.”
It was one of our first times. Maybe the first. The three of us…
“He was so careful with everything else,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “Precise to the point of obsession. But put him in a kitchen…”
“He banned me from cooking after one tiny grease fire.” Gabe joins in. “He called it self-preservation, but I did it on purpose. He was a virtuoso in the kitchen. That man could cook.Remember how he could turn MREs into something resembling actual food in the middle of a combat zone?”
The laughter that follows isn’t bitter. It’s warm, shot through with grief but not overwhelmed by it. For the first time since the medical bay, I can think about Hank without feeling like I’m drowning.
Day three brings rain. Gray sheets of water turn the ocean into hammered pewter. The weather matches the mood as we approach home waters. Tomorrow we dock. Tomorrow, this strange suspension between crisis and reality ends.
“He would’ve hated this weather,” Rebel observes from her spot by the porthole. Her face has healed enough that the stitches are barely visible, but shadows linger in her eyes. “Always said rain during operations was God’s way of making things unnecessarily complicated.”
“He said that about everything,” Ethan corrects. “Rain, snow, wind, excessive sunshine. According to Hank, optimal weather was seventy-two degrees, light cloud cover, and minimal humidity.”
“Optimal conditions for optimal performance,” several voices quote in unison.
The words hit like a gut punch—familiar, automatic, drilled into every one of them by the man they lost.
I laugh. I can’t help it. It bursts out, sharp and aching, too close to a sob. Because even gone, Hank’s voice still lives here. In their mouths. In their muscle memory. In the damn motto he barked before every mission like it was sacred scripture.
He made them better. All of them.
He made me better too.
The low thrum of approaching rotors cuts through the rain, growing louder until wind whips against the sides of the trawler. We step out into the storm as the helicopter descends toward the deck, searchlights slicing through the mist.
The bird touches down hard, engine whining as the blades slow. The door slides open, and Forest steps out, rain flattening his usually polished hair and soaking the shoulders of his jacket.
Stitch appears behind me in the corridor, water dripping from her own coat.
“Forest wants everyone in the main cabin,” she says. “Says we need to talk about tomorrow.”
We gather in the larger space, cramped but together. Forest stands at the front, papers in his hands, the salt wind having wrinkled his shirt and darkened the fabric over his chest and sleeves.
“Port authority knows you’re coming in with a KIA,” Forest says without preamble. “Guardian HRS has sent a team to receive the body. They’ll handle everything internally—no outside interference.”
I look around the room at faces that have become family. These people who bled with us, who watched Hank die, who’ve spent three days learning how to carry his absence.
“Just us at the dock,” Gabe says quietly. “No one else needs to be there.”
“That will be arranged.” Forest nods. “We’ll keep it contained.”
“Thank you.” The words come out rougher than intended. “For everything.”
