Page 38 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Charlie team gearsup for what should be a routine training exercise. I know what it is—something to keep us busy while the techies try to figure out where the fuck Malfor’s keeping our women.
The magazine clicks into place with the same sound it’s made a thousand times before. Familiar. Reliable. Except today, even that small mechanical certainty feels wrong.
Everything feels wrong when the most important person in your world is missing.
The practice drill is a standard building clearance exercise. A simulated hostage rescue. The kind of drill we’ve run a hundred times and can execute in our sleep.
But my hands shake slightly as I check my rifle’s action, and I have to force myself to focus on the mechanics. Muscle memory takes over when conscious thought fails.
The kill house sits at the far end of Guardian HQ’s training grounds—a modular structure designed to simulate urban combat scenarios. Today, it’s configured as a three-story office building with multiple entry points, blind corners, and designated “hostage” locations marked by sensors.
Simple scenario: terrorists have taken civilian hostages on the second floor. Charlie team’s job is to neutralize threats and extract the friendlies without casualties. Basic Guardian HQ doctrine—coordinated entry, systematic clearance, overwhelming tactical superiority.
We should dominate this.
“Final equipment check,” Ethan announces, his voice carrying the crisp authority of mission command.
Around us, the team performs their pre-deployment ritual—magazines seated, comms tested, gear secured. Walt adjusts his medical kit. Blake checks his breaching charges. Carter inspects his rifle optics with the methodical precision of a man who’s never missed a shot that mattered.
The familiar choreography should be comforting.
Usually is.
But today, every movement feels like we’re all going through motions while something fundamental has shifted beneath us.
I watch Hank at the tactical display, studying building schematics with that focused intensity I’ve seen a thousand times. His jaw works silently—the tell that means he’s processing multiple variables, building contingency plans for contingencies. When he catches me watching, his expression hardens into something cold and professional.
We haven’t spoken directly since yesterday’s briefing room blowup. Haven’t looked at each other except when necessity demands it. The space between us thrums with unresolved tension, words that cut too deep to heal with simple apologies.
“Primary breach point, south entrance,” Ethan announces, studying the tactical display. “Gabe and Walt, you’re first through. Hank follows with Blake and Carter. Rigel provides overwatch from the north stairwell.”
Standard formation.
Proven tactics.
Precisely the kind of methodical approach that’s kept us alive through missions that should have killed us.
It’s also precisely the kind of careful, calculated precision that’s been eating at me for three days.
Hank nods his approval of the plan. “We’ll take our time with this one. Methodical approach, systematic clearance. No unnecessary risks.”
Take our time.
The phrase sticks in my throat like glass. Three days ago, “taking our time” meant Ally was safe in her lab, probably wrestling with some quantum equation. Now it means going through training motions while she’s…
I force the thought away, but my jaw clenches involuntarily.
“Questions?” Ethan asks, scanning the team.
The word hangs in the air.
Questions?
I’ve got plenty of questions. Like, why are we running practice drills while our women are in hell? Like, why does every conversation include phrases about “proper intelligence” instead of action?
“All good,” I say, but the words come out clipped.
Walt glances over, that careful expression that means he’s reading the temperature in the room. Blake’s watching me too, probably noticing the way my hands keep flexing into fists.
