Page 156 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Jeb moves next, and something in his face makes the air itself seem colder. Rage distilled into something purer than fury, more focused than hatred. This is the wrath of a man who’s seen his woman tortured and found it unforgivable.
“My turn.” His voice cuts deeper than any blade, carrying harmonics of violence that make the storm outside sound like a lullaby.
He doesn’t reach for weapons. Instead, he lifts the heavy crystal paperweight from Malfor’s desk—three pounds of cut glass. Light refracts through its faceted surface, casting rainbow patterns across walls painted with blood and justice.
The first blow lands between Malfor’s shoulder blades. The sound—wet impact of crystal against flesh and bone echoes like hammer strikes in a cathedral of pain. Ribs crack. Vertebrae compress. Muscle tissue pulps under crystalline edges.
“You beat Stitch like she was an animal.” Jeb’s voice remains conversational, each word measured and deliberate. “Cane. Fists. Whatever was convenient when you felt like inflicting pain.”
The second blow targets the small of Malfor’s back. The crystal shatters against bone, leaving glass fragments embedded in tissue that will never heal. Malfor’s scream dies in his throat, replaced by gurgling sounds that suggest internal bleeding.
“You caned her. Whipped her. Tore her skin like you were decorating a canvas.” Jeb draws his combat knife—not the surgical precision of Ethan’s blade, but something cruder, designed for utility rather than elegance. “Left scars she’ll carry forever.”
The knife traces deliberate lines across Malfor’s back, cutting through expensive silk and flesh with equal ease. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to leave permanent reminders. Each line represents hours of Stitch’s suffering, payment extracted in skin and screaming.
“She still bleeds when she showers,” Jeb adds quietly, almost conversationally. “Wounds that won’t heal properly because of what you did to her.”
He straightens, knife dripping, and steps away. Professional distance is maintained even in righteous vengeance. The mountain of a man who could break Malfor in half with his bare hands, choosing instead to extract payment in precise measurements.
Rigel approaches next, loose-limbed and deceptively casual, like he’s strolling through a park rather than a slaughterhouse. His hands shake—not with fear, but with restraint. Fury held on such a tight leash that the effort makes his entire frame vibrate with barely contained violence.
“You gave Mia a concussion.” Rigel’s voice carries the lazy drawl of a man discussing weather patterns. “Threw her into a wall like she was a rag doll. Left her half-conscious on cold stone.”
He doesn’t use weapons. His rifle butt comes down like a sledgehammer, impacting Malfor’s temple with enough force to crater bone. Blood streams down the side of Malfor’s face as his head snaps sideways, eyes rolling back to show white.
“She still wakes up dizzy. Can’t look at bright lights without feeling sick.” The second blow targets the opposite temple. “You used the love of my life as target practice.”
The third blow isn’t to the head. Rigel drives the rifle butt into Malfor’s solar plexus, right where nerves cluster like electrical junction boxes. The impact steals breath and consciousness, leaving Malfor gasping like a fish drowning in air.
Rigel steps back, weapon still steady, eyes never leaving his target. The sniper who can kill at impossible distances, delivering justice at point-blank range with the same methodical precision that made him a legend.
Walt moves forward next, and there’s something different about his approach: less fury, more grief. The medic, who has spent his career saving lives, finally faces one that doesn’t deserve saving.
“You laid hands on Malia.” Walt’s voice breaks slightly, emotion bleeding through professional composure. “Bruised her. Hurt her. Made her afraid to be touched.”
He doesn’t hesitate. A single knee strike to Malfor’s gut, delivered with enough force to lift the broken man off the carpet. Malfor folds like origami, retching blood and bile onto expensive marble that will never come clean.
“She flinches when I try to hold her.” Walt grabs Malfor by what’s left of his hair, dragging his face up to meet eyes that burn with quiet fury. “She can’t let me touch her without panicking.”
The combat knife appears in Walt’s hand like magic, sliding between ribs. Not fatal—Walt’s too good of a medic to make killing mistakes. But agonizing. The blade finds nerve clusters and twists, painting new colors on the canvas of Malfor’s suffering.
“That’s for every time she woke up screaming,” Walt says quietly, twisting the knife one final time before stepping back.
Carter approaches last, and everyone in the room feels the temperature drop. Dead-eyed fury radiating like heat signature from a man who’s seen too much, lost too much, forgiven too little. The detective who’s spent his career finding justice for victims finally faces a monster who deserves none.
“You cut off Jenna’s fingers.” Carter’s voice carries no emotion whatsoever—flat, professional, matter-of-fact. “Two of them. Made her watch while you did it.”
He lifts Malfor’s trembling right hand, almost tenderly. Places it carefully on the blood-slicked marble desk, fingers splayed like a pianist preparing for a performance.
“You took two. I’m taking four.” Carter draws his blade—not a combat knife, but a surgical scalpel. Precision instrument for precision work.
The first finger separates cleanly at the knuckle. Blood arcs across white marble like abstract art painted in arterial spray. Malfor’s scream rises to frequencies that shatter what’s left of his dignity.
Second finger. Same joint. Same precision. Same arterial spray painting walls with the crimson evidence of justice served one digit at a time.
“She can’t write anymore,” Carter continues conversationally, working with the precision of a craftsman. “Can’t hold a coffee cup properly. Can’t type without pain.”
Third finger. Fourth finger.
