Page 85 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Four guards flood the space, weapons drawn, visors reflecting the wide-eyed panic I can’t hide fast enough.
“Up. Now.”
Their voices slice through the stale air, sharp and cold. No explanation. No delay.
Just the snap of urgency that means something’s changed—and not for the better.
Rough hands seize my arms, drag me upright. My legs—asleep from hours curled on the metal bunk—refuse to support my weight. Boots scrape concrete as they haul me into the corridor.
Across the cellblock, more guards extract the others. Malia emerges curled inward, arms wrapped around her midsection, eyes swollen from tears. Mia follows, face blank, her fingers trembling against her thighs. Stitch moves stiffly, her body stillcarrying the wounds from the whip beneath blood-stiffened clothing.
Rebel emerges last, defiance etched in every line of her body despite her splinted arm. A guard shoves her forward, eliciting a hiss of pain but no submission.
Jenna stands shakily in the corridor, bandaged hand clutched against her chest. Gray circles shadow her eyes—a testament to hours spent battling infection and pain. Her cauterized stumps must throb with each heartbeat, yet her spine remains straight, chin high despite everything.
“Move.” The lead guard gestures with his rifle barrel.
They herd us down unfamiliar corridors, not the route to the labs or work details. Overhead lights flicker, casting our shadows as fractured ghosts against concrete walls. The air changes—salt and heat replacing the sterile chill of interior spaces.
We emerge into the courtyard, but nothing here resembles yesterday’s execution ground.
The transformation stops my breath. A massive screen is mounted on the compound wall. Speakers flank the display, professional-grade audio equipment gleaming despite the darkness. A drone hovers overhead, camera lens focused downward, recording everything.
The setup resembles a theater. Or an execution chamber.
Malfor stands before us, hands clasped behind his back, smile curving lips too thin for genuine warmth. His suit—charcoal gray today—absorbs light rather than reflects it. Guards flank him like extensions of his will.
“Good evening, ladies.” His voice carries the smooth confidence of a man who owns everything he surveys. “A change of schedule. Something special I’ve arranged for your—education.”
His voice crawls beneath my skin like burrowing insects. My silence only widens his smile.
“You’re wondering about this setup.” He gestures toward the screen. “I thought you deserved to witness something firsthand. A demonstration of futility.”
Ice spreads through my chest. Whatever comes next will break something vital inside us.
Malfor steps away, produces a remote from his pocket—not the collar control but something sleeker, designed for the equipment surrounding us. He presses a button.
The screen flares to life. Night-vision green bathes us in sickly light as aerial footage fills the display. The ocean stretches black and endless. The island edges are barely visible as jagged shadows against darker water. Stars speckle the upper portion of the frame, but something else moves among them, cutting through the darkness.
“What am I seeing?” Malia whispers, the first words any of us have spoken.
“Patience.” Malfor adjusts something on the control panel beside the screen. “Context is everything.”
The camera angle shifts, and an image resolves into mechanical shapes.
Helicopters. Four of them, flying in tight formation.
My heart lurches against my ribs. It can’t be…
Targeting data overlays the screen, displaying altitude, speed, and distance. Numbers tick down as the aircraft approach. Another data stream shows perimeter defenses activating, tracking systems locking onto the incoming crafts.
“Interceptors deployed,” announces a mechanical voice from the speakers. “Target acquisition in progress.”
“What is this?” The question scrapes my throat raw. My hands fly to the collar around my neck, clawing at the metal edges. I can’t breathe. Can’t think past the roar of blood in my ears.
“Live feed.” Malfor’s smile stretches wider, and I catch the predatory gleam in his eyes as he watches my reaction. “Happening right now, just beyond the visual range of this compound. Your friends at Guardian HRS believe they’ve mounted a successful stealth approach.” His chuckle lacks all humor. “My systems detected them twenty-seven minutes ago.”
This has to be a trick. A manipulation. He’s showing us old footage, archived material designed to break us. But the telemetry data streams in real time, coordinates updating second by second. The tactical displays show current weather conditions, wind patterns that match tonight’s storm front approaching from the west.
