Page 2 of Rescuing Rebel
Women drained of life gaze out from behind corroded iron bars with empty, tormented eyes. Their gaunt figures resemble mere skeletons, the tragic result of unending terror and deprivation. They appear more spectral than human. I clench my jaw at the rank air and the rags used for bedding. Monstrous men dehumanized these women, but we’ll help these poor victims reclaim what was taken from them.
The air grows thick with emotion: the heartrending sound of relief, the silent gratitude in a tight grip, the paralyzing shock evident on faces that have forgotten the feeling of freedom. The degradation these women suffered is palpable in every putrid mat, every untreated wound, and every sunken cheek—a sickening testament to Artemus Gonzalez’s inhumanity.
As we reach the last cell, a fiery-haired woman stands out from the others. Fierce intelligence flickers in her gaze, her spirit unbroken despite the condition we find her in. Though her surroundings scream of the same degradation, her defiant eyes speak of a resilience that’s hard to find. The lock falls away with a clink, but she doesn’t wait for my help. She strides out, a beacon of strength amid despair.
“Form up!” My voice rings out, commanding and clear.
Charlie team forms a protective circle around the women, ensuring every step they take is one step closer to freedom. We’re not out of the woods yet, but Charlie team will not fail.
Shouts in the distance and the clatter of hurried footsteps grow louder. Armed resistance is imminent. Our pace quickens, the sounds of battle looming as we move, always vigilant, weapons at the ready.
The dimly lit corridor vibrates with tension, and the weight of responsibility for my men and the vulnerable women has never felt heavier. Every corner we turn, every shadow that moves, might signal the start of a confrontation I’m desperate to avoid but am fully prepared to face.
Suddenly, the sharp report of bullets interrupts our cautious progression. A cluster of Artemus Gonzales’s henchmen burst forth from a side passage, their weapons aimed and ready. There’s no time for diplomacy, no room for hesitation. We react as we’ve been trained, moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
We’re death walking.
“Cover and return fire.” I signal two of my men to flank our left while the rest shield the rescued women, pushing them to the safety of alcoves and side passages. Our primary focus is ensuring no further harm comes to these traumatized souls.
Though far from the battle-hardened mold of Charlie team, the redhead displays an impressive awareness of her surroundings.
Not one to be sidelined, she aids in ushering the more vulnerable women into protective spots, a whispered word of encouragement or a steadying hand guiding their way.
Bullets ricochet off the stone walls and sparks illuminate dark corners as the firefight intensifies. Charlie team’s resolve shines through. Every shot we take is calculated, and each move is strategic. After a tense few minutes, the corridor goes silent, save our rescues’ occasional whimper or muffled cries.
Emerging from our defensive positions, we quickly assess the situation. Artemus’s men lay defeated, and though we have a few scrapes and bruises, no major injuries are sustained. Every member of my team and every rescue is accounted for.
We navigate our way out of the estate, moving toward the exfil staging site, a small farmer’s hut at the edge of the nearest field.
Unfortunately, another sound, a more menacing threat, pulls me up short. Boots on the ground, moving toward us. I raise a hand and make a fist, signaling the group to stop. Using hand gestures, I instruct the women to huddle low and stay silent. We take cover behind a looming concrete divider, the cold of it pressing into my back. I send two of my team ahead to scout the oncoming threat.
Time stretches, every second punctuated by the thumping of my heart. Suddenly, the relative silence is broken by thepop-popof gunfire, tearing through the tranquility of the night. The ambush is quick and intense. My team takes out the desperate and poorly trained gunmen.
Then, suddenly, there is silence.
Hank, Charlie-Two, raises a fist, then spreads his fingers wide. It means the threat’s been neutralized.
“Head for the farmer’s hut across the field,” I bark out the order, pointing to a small, dimly lit structure in the distance.
Our exfil location was chosen for its field where our chopper can land and extricate those we’ve rescued.
Under the covering fire of Charlie team, the women, driven by a mixture of fear and determination, dash toward the safety of the farmer’s hut. Once inside the modest dwelling, they huddle together, some praying, others staring into the void, their faces pale but resolute.
My team and I take defensive positions, prepared to hold our position and defend those we’ve rescued.
I call in a status update to Command. “Charlie-One to Command, all friendlies secure. Ready for extraction at LZ, over.”
The mission is complete now, but the real fight has only begun. Helping these women reclaim what those monsters tried to destroy—their dignity. Their humanity. Their futures—this is where the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists truly shine.
“Charlie, hold for exfil,”Command and Control calls out through the comms.“Bravo inbound.”
“Copy that.”
Inside the dimly lit farmer’s hut, the women murmur quietly in huddled groups, seeking whatever consolation they can find. Their threadbare clothes hang loosely on malnourished frames, and I scan their faces one by one as my team secures the perimeter.
My gaze sticks on one woman—the redhead with fiery locks and stunning aquamarine eyes. She holds herself taller than the others. Something in her manner sets her apart from the hopelessness surrounding her.
Before I can approach the intriguing redhead, Bravo team arrives with their precious cargo—Alec and Barbi.