Page 90 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Here, in this concrete box, something dies inside me that will never live again, but something else takes its place.
Something cold. Something patient. Something that doesn’t need hope, rescue, or salvation.
Hank and Gabe taught me many things during our time together. How to defend myself. How to think tactically. How to survive when survival seems impossible.
And one lesson above all others: how to wait for the perfect moment to strike.
Tomorrow I’ll return to the lab. I’ll build his quantum network. I’ll be the model of submission and defeat.
Beneath that mask, I’ll become the weapon Hank and Gabe trained me to be.
Because monsters like Malfor never look closely at shattered things. They never notice the edge—until it slips beneath their skin.
Grief and fury braid together in my chest. I never got to say goodbye. But I swear on Hank and Gabe’s memory—I’ll make sure you pay for every second of love you stole from us.
The vow settles into my soul like armor. Tomorrow, I begin the long game.
Tonight, I mourn the future that died with Hank and Gabe, and forge a new one from grief and rage and the unbreakable bonds between women who refuse to be broken.
Even when everything else is taken from us, we still have each other.
And we still have the will to make Malfor pay.
THIRTY
Fathoms Deep
HANK
“Taking fire! Taking fire!”The co-pilot’s frantic call crackles through the intercom a heartbeat before impact.
The first missile slams into our helicopter’s tail. The concussion hits hard. A pressure wave compressing my lungs, the taste of burning metal and hot electronics flooding my mouth. The helicopter lurches violently sideways, throwing us against our restraints. Alarms shriek to life, their discordant wailing like wounded animals. Red emergency lights flood the cabin, turning familiar faces into blood-streaked masks.
The cabin fills with the acrid stench of burning hydraulic fluid and scorched wiring. My ears pop as cabin pressure shifts. Metal groans around us, the airframe protesting abuse beyond its design limits.
“Tail rudder hit!” The pilot shouts above the cacophony as a second impact rocks the fuselage. The helicopter pitches nose-down, then wobbles like a wounded bird.
G-forces press me into my seat as the aircraft shudders violently. Blake’s tactical gear breaks loose across the cabin, scattering equipment that becomes deadly projectiles in the chaos. A med kit slams into Walt’s temple, opening a gashthat instantly wells with blood. Through the windows, I glimpse tracer fire streaking past—deadly lines of light cutting through darkness.
“Engine down. Hydraulics failing.” The pilot wrestles with the controls, his voice strained but professional. “Losing altitude at twenty feet per second.”
Six enemy aircraft circle us like predators, executing a coordinated attack pattern that leaves no escape vectors. This isn’t random fire. This is a carefully orchestrated kill box.
“Options?” Ethan’s voice cuts through the chaos, the single word carrying the weight of command.
“Water landing.” The pilot fights the stick as warning indicators cascade across his console. The staccato beeping of failure alerts creates a hellish percussion against the alarms. “Only shot we’ve got.” Sweat cuts tracks through the grime on his face. “Hit land at this speed and nobody walks away.”
I assess our situation with the cold logic that’s become second nature. Ocean temperature: 72 degrees. Distance from shore: 3.2 miles. Night visibility: minimal.
Not ideal. Better than becoming scattered wreckage across jagged terrain.
“Ninety seconds to water impact.” The pilot maintains a death grip on the controls, voice level despite the tremor in his hands. We spiral down.
Impact imminent.
Beside me, Gabe reaches for his tactical vest, securing his dive gear. His face reveals nothing, but I recognize the tightness around his eyes—the look he gets when shifting into combat mode. We all carry standard equipment for coastal operations—compact rebreather good for sixty minutes, folding fins, thermal protection integrated into our undersuits.
“Ditch the bird.” Gabe secures his sidearm in its waterproof holster, the sound of the snap loud even against the mechanicaldeath throes surrounding us. “Not dying up here when Ally’s still out there.”
