Page 39 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Breach in three,” Ethan’s voice crackles through comms as we approach the kill house. “Wait for my signal.”
I stack behind Walt at the entry point, muscles coiled with three days of accumulated frustration. Through my earpiece, Rigel confirms overwatch position. Blake reports breaching charges armed, and Carter settles into his position with the team.
Everything is by the book. Everything is calculated. Everything is designed to minimize risk through overwhelming coordination.
Everythingfeels like wasted time while Ally suffers.
“Two,” Ethan continues the countdown.
My finger taps against my rifle’s trigger guard. The movement is small, unconscious, but Walt notices. He shoots me a look over his shoulder—a question and a warning combined.
But I’m thinking about quantum signatures and all the hours we’ve spent talking instead of moving.
“One.”
Instead of waiting for the coordinated assault, I hit the door early. Alone. Without backup.
Frustration overrides years of tactical training. The entry explodes inward as I breach the threshold, rifle up, scanning for targets. The simulated environment unfolds before me—furniture arranged to create firing lanes, mannequins positioned as hostile targets, and sensors that will register hits and determine mission success or failure.
I should wait for backup. Should establish positions and advance systematically.
Instead, I push deeper into the structure, hunting targets with single-minded intensity.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hank’s roar fills the comm channel, raw fury bleeding through his usual control.
But it’s Ethan’s voice that cuts through the chaos: “Gabe, fall back and regroup. That’s an order.”
The first simulated hostile appears around a corner—a pop-up target designed to test reaction time and accuracy. I engage immediately, double-tap to center mass, moving forward before the target even registers the hit.
“Gabe, fall back NOW,” Ethan commands, team leader authority demanding compliance.
But I’m already committed. Already moving toward the stairwell, where intelligence suggests the hostages are being held. Already proving that sometimes action beats analysis.
It feels good to actually do something.
The second hostile catches me in a crossfire I should have anticipated. Would have anticipated if I’d waited for backup, if I’d followed protocol, if I’d trusted the team to do their jobs while I did mine.
The training laser tags me center mass.
I’m dead.
Simulation over.
Mission failure.
“Target down,” the automated system announces with mechanical indifference. “Exercise terminated.”
Static fills the comm channel. Not the comfortable silence of a team that’s just executed flawlessly, but the poisonous quiet that comes after someone has fucked up catastrophically.
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The debrief room feels smaller than usual when we file in fifteen minutes later. CJ stands at the head of the conference table like a judge about to pronounce a sentence. He shows no emotion, but the way his fingers drum against the tabletop telegraphs controlled fury.
We take our seats—a team that just failed a basic exercise we should have dominated. The shame radiates off everyone like heat from a fever.
“Explain to me,” CJ begins, his voice carrying the weight of command authority and bitter disappointment, “how my best team just failed a drill that Academy recruits complete successfully.”
Silence stretches across the room. Walt stares at his hands. Blake’s jaw works silently. Carter’s cop instincts tell him to stay quiet and let someone else step on the landmine.
