Page 158 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
I stare at the destruction below, watching fire consume the evidence of justice served and debts paid. The compound burns like a funeral pyre, expensive furniture and priceless artwork feeding flames that reach toward storm-laden clouds.
The empty space beside me feels different now.
Not a wound that won’t heal, but a memorial to the man who made me better than I ever thought I could be.
“It’s done,” Ghost says quietly, settling into a seat across from me while the aircraft climbs toward clearer skies.
“Yeah.”
“Feel better?”
I consider the question while Montenegro disappears behind us, taking Malfor’s corpse into the darkness where he belongs.
“No,” I answer honestly, tasting truth that’s bitter as cordite. “But it feels right.”
“Sometimes that’s enough.”
“Sometimes.” I check my weapon one final time. “Sometimes justice is what you do when peace isn’t possible.”
The aircraft banks toward home, carrying operators who’ve balanced scales that death tilted the wrong way.
Justice served through violence.
Love protected through war.
Memory honored through blood and fire and righteous fury.
Hank would understand. Hell, he’d probably approve. He always said some debts could only be paid in kind, and some threats could only be answered with superior violence.
I’m tired.
It’s time to go home to the woman we both loved, and to rebuild a life from what remains.
Time to find out if revenge tastes like peace or just another kind of emptiness.
Either way, Alexei Malfor will never hurt anyone again.
That has to be enough.
FIFTY-ONE
The Waiting
ALLY
The Guardian Grindhums with restless energy at three in the morning. The espresso machine purrs like a contented cat as steam wands hiss and portafilters click into place.
For the first time in months, every component works perfectly.
No temperamental pressure gauges.
No stubborn grind settings.
No mysterious electronic hiccups that plagued the machine since my arrival.
Tonight, even the coffee gods seem to understand Charlie’s Angels need comfort.
I stand behind the familiar counter. My hands move through the ritual of pulling shots and steaming milk while my mind stays three thousand miles away with men who’ve gone to collect a blood debt.
