Page 146 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
FORTY-SEVEN
Assembly
GABE
The secure phonerings twice before Ghost’s gravelly voice cuts through the static.
“Figured I’d be hearing from you.”
“Need to ask a favor.” I pace the length of our deck, the ocean wind carrying salt and the promise of storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “Off the books. Personal.”
“Malfor.”
It’s not a question. Ghost doesn’t deal in questions when the answer’s already carved in blood and grief.
“Got a location. Montenegro. Same area where he held Sophia and the kids.” The coordinates taste like vengeance on my tongue. “Seventy-two-hour window before he disappears again.”
Silence stretches across the encrypted connection. In the background, I catch muffled voices—Cerberus planning, always planning, turning violence into science.
“Guardian sanctioned?” Ghost’s tone suggests he already knows the answer.
“Negative. This is personal.”
“Best kind.” The approval in his voice is unmistakable. “What do you need?”
“Transport. Support. Operators who know how to kill quietly and efficiently.”
“Montenegro’s not exactly a vacation destination. Rough terrain. Hostile government. Limited extraction options.”
“We’ve been there before.”
“Yeah, you have.” Another pause, longer this time. “You realize this is suicide without proper intel and backup?”
“I realize Hank’s dead because that bastard used our women as bait.” The words come out sharper than intended, rage bleeding through professional composure. “Every day Malfor breathes is an insult to his memory.”
“Fair point.” Ghost’s voice carries the weight of shared loss. “Usual rates apply. Plus combat pay for the personal touch.”
“Done.”
“Gear?”
“Everything. Long range. Close quarters. Demolitions. Whatever it takes to turn that compound into a crater.”
“Brass is gonna cream himself. He’s been itching for a real fight.” Ghost’s laugh holds no humor, just the dark satisfaction of men about to unleash hell. “Halo’s got new toys he wants to field test. Whisper’s been practicing his knife work.”
“When can you be ready?”
“Already am. Question is, when do you want to move?”
The question hangs in salt air between us. Seventy-two hours. Three days to plan, execute, and extract before Malfor slips away again. Three days to balance the scales.
“Tomorrow night. 0200 hours.”
“Cutting it close.”
“Close is all we’ve got.”
“Roger that. Rendezvous point?”
