Page 12 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Because of Malia?” I piece it together from the bits of information I remember.

Malia and I became friends during our captivity, and she told me all about her boyfriend, Walt, and how he was shot during her kidnapping. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and it ate her up over the months we were held captive.

I know her brother Malikai well. I worked hand-in-hand and shoulder-to-shoulder with him to get that fusion reactor up and running.

“Exactly,” Gabe replies, his voice threaded with understanding and determination. “When Malia and her brother Malikai were kidnapped, we were already prepping for the mission. Your situation brought it into sharper focus.”

I understand the broader web of connections that brought us all to this point. It makes sense now—personal and professional alliances converging, all of us tangled in the same net.

As we ride crammed together in the backseat, shoulders, hips, and knees touching, their steady presence enfolds me, and the tension thrumming under my skin eases. These men, who’ve been there in the shadows during pivotal moments in my life, are now a tangible, anchoring force.

I’m grateful that Hank and Gabe were upfront about our past encounter. They could have kept it to themselves. My memories of that time are a blur, fragmented pieces of a nightmarish puzzle I’ve suppressed and exiled to the farthest edges of my mind. Their decision to share the truth with me speaks volumes about their character and integrity.

Instead, they offer honesty as a first step—a bridge toward trust. By opening that door, they invite transparency, laying a foundation for whatever comes next.

And I hope something comes next.

We reach the airport before too long. A planelooms ahead, massive even in the muted light of dawn. The hull gleams cold gray steel, catching the early rays, making the jumbo jet an imposing yet comforting sight in the barren landscape.

The wind bites sharply as we step out of the SUV and onto the tarmac. I pull Hank’s sweatshirt tight around me, feeling the warm, comforting embrace it offers. His scent—earthy and steady—infuses my senses as I bunch the collar up and take a deep inhale.

Gabe catches me in the act, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. His playful look makes me feel shy for being caught savoring the moment, and I return his grin with a sheepish smile.

“Come on,” he says with a gentle nudge, his tone teasing yet kind. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

They flank me as we approach the plane, each step bringing us closer to the stairs leading to the entrance.

Orders echo from within the aircraft, a blend of sharp commands as the crew prepares for our arrival.

Mr. and Mrs. Chen and their son are ahead of us. Mrs. Chen’s small frame sags, knees buckling. Hank jumps to help, steadying her like he’s done it a thousand times before. His barely-there nod down at her is enough to calm her, and she continues up the steps, gripping the narrow railing tightly. Hank’s focus shifts back to me as soon as she’s secure.

“Step up,” Hank’s voice radiates calm authority.

I climb slowly, one step at a time, the weight of my body dragging against every effort. The thin railing is cold in my grip, and my breath hitches as the world feels like it’s swaying beneath me. When my knees feel ready to give out, there’s that faint press again—Hank, just close enough to catch me if I fall.

It’s weird that now is when I feel weak. Not during the escape. Not while running toward the vehicles. Not when banging back and forth in the back of that truck during our desperate attempt to outrun the explosion.

It’s now.

After I’ve had rest, after my brain’s had a moment to catch up, suddenly, the strangest feeling of overwhelming exhaustion fills mybody. Each step feels heavier than the last until, finally, mercifully, I reach the top of the stairs and step inside.

The air inside is warm and still, so calm, it feels like the world outside never existed. I take a shaky breath.

It smells wrong. Not the wrong I’ve grown used to—sweat, filth, and antiseptic—but the wrong of somewhere I don’t belong. Coffee faint but tempting, soap clinging to the air like a promise. Something beneath those—clean linens, maybe upholstery?—makes my chest ache in ways I’m not ready to process. It smells like normal but feels like a life I don’t remember.

Not anymore. Not after months of captivity.

I stand frozen in the entryway, hovering, until Hank and Gabe step forward, gently easing me inside.

The cabin is cavernous after the compact SUV, and the noise of movement echoes faintly as we step in, but what strikes me most—the thing that practically paralyzes me—is the softness.

Plush seats stretch down the aisles in neat, perfect rows coated with what look like affluent comforts—folded blankets on every seat, narrow trays tucked against the armrests. It’s not just utility—it’s kindness. This place embraces compassion, a concept I struggle to retain without fracturing.

The other hostages are already shuffling into seats, clumsy and disoriented but calmer now that we’re here. Mr. and Mrs. Chen and their son sit near the middle. Malikai collapses in a neighboring row, his head tipping back with a long, tired exhale.

And there’s Malia with Walt. She looks lighter. Not happy—none of us could possibly look happy—but her expression has lost some of its heaviness. As if Walt lifted some weight off her shoulders, making enough space for her to breathe again.

She laughs, a small, breathy sound that shouldn’t exist here. But it does.

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