Page 53 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Can you see her?” My voice barely carries the few feet between us.
Mia shifts on her bunk, angling toward Stitch’s cell. “Still breathing. Bruising looks bad. Possible fractured ribs.”
Stitch stirs on her bunk, a small sound of pain escaping before she stills again. My throat tightens around words I can’t voice. Apologies won’t help her. Guilt won’t heal her wounds. Despair won’t break our collars.
I watch the faint outline of her breathing through the night, counting each inhale and exhale like prayer beads. Each breath is a victory. Each minute she survives is a testament to her strength. To what we might all still have inside us, buried beneath compliance and fear.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot. I will do whatever it takes to bring Malfor to his knees.
EIGHTEEN
Insanity
GABE
The Pacific crashesagainst the rocks below—relentless, violent, perfect for how I feel right now. My hands grip the steering wheel harder than necessary as we wind up the coastal highway toward Insanity. Each curve reveals more of the sprawling estate perched on the cliff like some kind of fortress.
Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries cutting through the engine noise. Sharp. Demanding. Like the rage burning in my chest that won’t quit, no matter how many deep breaths I take.
Hank sits in the passenger seat, silent as stone. The space between us thrums with everything we didn’t say after that clusterfuck in the gym. His split lip is healing, but I know the words we traded are going to take a hell of a lot longer to mend.
Maybe never.
And it’s my fault.
The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and seaweed through the open windows, mixing with the aroma of eucalyptus from the trees lining the road. It should be calming. Should remind me of the mornings Ally would drag us out to the deck to watch the sunrise over the water, her hair whipping around her face as she pointed out dolphins in the distance.
Instead, it makes my chest feel like someone’s taken a blowtorch to it.
“Turn here.” Hank’s voice is flat, professional. As if we’re heading to any other tactical briefing instead of the place where we’re going to figure out how to get our woman back.
The outer gate to Insanity stands twenty feet high, wrought iron twisted into patterns that look like musical notes if you squint. The intercom crackles before I can reach for it.
“About time.” Forest’s voice carries through the speaker, rough with exhaustion. “Drive straight up to the main house. Everyone’s waiting.”
The gate swings open with a mechanical hum, and I gun the engine up the winding drive. The mansion sprawls across the clifftop like it grew there—all glass and stone and impossible angles that probably cost more than most small countries’ GDP. Multiple levels cascade down the cliff face, connected by bridges and terraces that make the whole place look like something from a dream.
Or a rock star’s wet fantasy, which is probably more accurate.
I park behind a cluster of tactical vehicles. The whole gang’s here for whatever Ethan has planned.
Gravel crunches under our boots as we walk toward the main house. The full scope of Insanity spreads out before us as we round the corner. The clifftop estate stretches for what has to be acres, with multiple buildings connected by covered walkways and gardens. To our left, the separate house where Forest, Paul, and Sarah live sits like a smaller echo of the main mansion, complete with its own terraced gardens and ocean views.
But it’s the scene at the gondola station that catches my attention.
Charlie team is clustered around the boarding platform—Ethan, Rigel, Walt, Blake, Carter, and the rest of the crew. Mac from Alpha team stands with his arms crossed, his expressiongrim. Brady from Bravo leans against the gondola’s control housing, while Jenny from Delta paces in small circles like a caged predator. Forest stands near the back of the group, a mountain of packed muscle that makes everyone else look small by comparison. Paul hovers nearby, his dark eyes scanning everything with automatic vigilance.
Doc Summers is there too, her attention focused on the center of all the activity.
And in the middle of it all, Mitzy crouches beside the gondola mechanism with a toolkit spread around her like she’s performing surgery. Her psychedelic hair, currently sporting streaks of electric blue and hot pink in a sharp pixie cut, catches the afternoon sunlight as she works, her snarky attitude evident even in the way she handles her tools.
Forest spots us approaching first. “Heard you two had a moment.” His dry tone makes it clear he knows exactly what kind of moment we had. “Are you done tearing each other apart?”
The question hits differently coming from him. Forest knows what it’s like to have the person you love torn away. He, Paul, and Sarah have been through their own version of hell, and the way his eyes search my face tells me he’s looking for the same fractures that almost broke him apart.
“We’re functional.” Hank’s response is controlled and precise. The kind of answer that says everything and nothing.
