Page 150 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
There are no words.
“Gear up.” My voice barely works. “We’ve got a war to win.”
Charlie team surges into the hangar like a force of nature, integrating with Cerberus like they’ve always belonged here.
We’re ready to descend on Montenegro like the wrath of God. The hand of vengeance itself.
For Hank.
Ghost appears at my shoulder, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
“Still think this is suicide?”
“Probably.”
“Good thing you won’t be doing it alone.”
I watch my team—my family—transform into instruments of violence, and for the first time since Hank died, I believe we might actually survive this.
More importantly, I believe we’re going to make Malfor regret the day he decided to make it personal.
FORTY-EIGHT
Blood Debt
GABE
The aircraft cutsthrough Montenegro airspace like a blade through flesh, engines muffled by modifications that make us invisible to radar and nearly silent to the mountain peaks below. Cold air seeps through the hull, carrying the metallic taste of violence about to be unleashed.
We sit in tactical formation, weapons checked and rechecked, gear secured with the obsessive care of men who know that a loose strap or forgotten magazine can mean the difference between going home and going into the ground. The aircraft’s cabin reeks of gun oil, sweat, and something darker—the collective rage of brothers who’ve come to collect a blood debt.
Death comes to Malfor tonight. And I’m going to be the one to deliver it.
I stare out the small porthole at mountains carved black against a star-drunk sky, breathing in recycled air that tastes like metal and fury. The peaks below rise like ancient teeth, jagged and unforgiving, the same mountains where we extracted Sophia and the kids from Malfor before. That operation ended with explosions and narrow escapes, but we all made it out alive.
Tonight feels different. Tonight carries the weight of promises made to the dead, of justice delayed but not denied. Tonight, I paint these mountains red with the blood of the man who killed my partner.
My finger traces the trigger guard of my rifle—custom work, precision barrel, rounds designed to punch through body armor like it’s tissue paper. Each bullet in the magazine carries Hank’s name, carries the memory of his last breath rattling in his chest while I held his cooling hand.
“Five minutes to drop zone.” The pilot’s voice crackles through our comms, professional calm masking the fact that he’s flying an unlawful combat mission into hostile airspace.
Ethan checks his gear one final time, movements precise despite the aircraft’s subtle vibration. Magazine seated. Safety on. Knife positioned for rapid deployment. His face holds the carved-stone expression he wears before we go to work—the look that tells enemies they’re about to meet something that doesn’t negotiate, doesn’t retreat, doesn’t show mercy.
Across from him, Carter stares at nothing, jaw working silently like he’s chewing broken glass. Still processing Jenna’s kidnapping. Still carrying rage that hasn’t found a proper outlet. His hands flex around his weapon’s grip, knuckles white with pressure that speaks to violence barely contained.
Walt and Blake exchange final equipment checks while Rigel reviews building schematics on his tablet, memorizing room layouts and defensive positions. These men have bled with me, killed beside me, and watched Hank die with me.
Now, they’re here to help me balance scales that death tilted too far in the wrong direction.
Cerberus occupies the aircraft’s rear section with the kind of professional calm that speaks to decades of off-the-books operations. Ghost studies satellite imagery, memorizing approach routes and defensive positions with the patience of ahunter who’s tracked prey across continents. His face holds no emotion, but I catch the way his thumb caresses his weapon’s selector switch—muscle memory from a hundred similar operations.
Brass arranges demolition charges with loving care, each explosive device positioned for maximum psychological impact. C-4 molded like clay, timers, and enough destructive power to turn concrete and steel into rubble and memory. He hums under his breath while he works—some half-remembered tune that turns preparation for mass destruction into a lullaby.
Halo tests electronic countermeasures, fingers dancing across devices that will turn Malfor’s defensive systems against him. His boyish face holds anticipation that borders on hunger—the look of a man who genuinely enjoys watching technology bend to his will. Small and unassuming until you see him work, then you understand why Ghost keeps him around.
Whisper sharpens knives with a meditative focus. The sound of steel against whetstone fills spaces between engine noise—rhythmic, hypnotic, the cadence of death being honed to razor precision. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The knives do his talking, and they’re fluent in terminal conversation.
The aircraft banks sharply, beginning its final approach to a mountain meadow that barely qualifies as a landing zone. Trees whip past the windows as we descend, the pilot threading the needle between peaks that could turn aircraft into scrap metal with one miscalculation.
