Page 39 of Power Surge

A low angry animalistic growl rumbles through the earpiece in my right ear. Reluctantly, I tear my gaze off her for the thousandth time in the last fifteen minutes. Tank curses, and a smile ticks at my lips before I shut it down. Around me, other guys of the alpha team scan the room, one seeming more on edge than the rest of us.

Agent Smith. There’s no doubt he’s good at watching for threats. Randi is in good hands with him around. Now, safefromhim, that's a different question. Tank and I agree there’s something off about him, something that keeps me on alert any time he's around.

An agent murmurs one word, and acknowledgments of the potential threat echo in my earpiece as Randi moves about the large ballroom, greeting the various minsters and advisors of the king. The king himself stands at the end of the receiving line several people down, the last for her to thank for the opulent banquet tonight. The purpose for this trip has been successful so far. The call last week between the king and Randi, and now her being here showing her support, has eased his twitching finger off the rocket launchers. Somehow she's convinced him the US is already looking into the attacks and will hold the people guilty of the bombings accountable.

Which we will.

We are.

As long as our time doesn’t run out before it's too late. These countries are balanced on the tip of a sharp knife; one skirmish, one more conflict, can cause all hell to break loose.

But if anyone can stop it all from happening, it's her. Beautiful, caring, crazy, and lovable Randi Sawyer. I was a fool to let those several weeks slip by without being at her side. Not anymore. No, I'm here now, and I'm fucking here to stay.

Her high-pitched fake laugh pierces through my distracting thoughts. Scanning the room, I sweep the crowd with a calculating gaze, monitoring their proximity to the president before focusing back on the woman now conversing with the king.

At his beckoning, the two make for the obnoxiously large dining hall. Sweet scents of roasted meats, crisp wines, and other delicacies float through as two white-gloved servants swing the doors open. A low grumble releases from my stomach. Fuck, of course I forgot to eat before leaving the suite. Randi’s eating habits are rubbing off on me, it seems.

Shit, that means she didn’t eat either.

Not that any of us have had time to today. Air Force One touched down before the sun was up this morning. Immediately we raced to the king’s palace, where Randi was ushered into several grueling hours of closed-door meetings. Hell, Randi barely had time to change into that red Carolina Herrera gown before rushing through the long stone hallways to not be late for her own welcoming banquet.

At least our stay is a short one. For optimum security, Tank decided the visit would be in and out, leaving less time here for something to happen.

Too bad, really. I'd love to check out the pool.

Inside the banquet room, everyone finds a seat in one of the twenty chairs lining the long table. Servers rush through the service doors, each balancing platters of varying foods or trays holding long-stemmed glasses with bubbling liquid. Around the room, the king’s security line the walls with US agents scattered throughout.

I don't search for T or any of the other guys. I already know where each are stationed and what their main focus is from the detailed rundown Tank made us cover four times on the flight here.

The clatter of silverware echoes around the open room while soft murmuring and boisterous laughter carry through, bouncing off the gilded walls. The device at my wrist vibrates, signaling the half hour mark.

Only four more hours before we can tuck her safely back into her suite.

Fuck, this will be a long damn night.

* * *

I wince as the leather harness slides over my shoulders, the muscles protesting the small movement from being tense for the past five hours. After securing both of my sidearms in the provided safe, I perch on the end of the bed to toe off one shoe and then the other. The clatter of the second shoe hitting the stone floor is muffled by a pounding knock. Before I can call out to whoever is on the other side, Tank shoulders through the door and steps inside the small room.

“I need you to do something for me,” he says, exhaustion and worry evident on his tight face and tired eyes. We all are. Even though Saudi Arabia is our ally, we're still in the middle of a potential war zone. Even without that threat, there are several insurgent groups excited for a chance to harm Randi, which would send the US into a tailspin. Plus, we still haven’t identified Whit’s plan to follow through on his threats since Randi didn't choose him as VP. That's a whole other shit pile we're trudging through each day.

“I'm not rubbing your feet,” I respond, attempting my normal humor. “Go haze Smith and tell him he has to since he’s the new guy.”

“I don't like her being in that room alone.”

“Agreed.” Even with two agents stationed outside her suite’s door, I don’t like it. There’s more than one way to get into that room, even if the other is a good three-story climb to her balcony. “What are you suggesting?”

“You, in there with her, tonight.”

The skin along my forehead creases as both my brows rise. “That will look a little suspicious, won't it?”

Tank reaches up to run a hand over his shaved head. “It will, but I'd rather people talk, not having any evidence of foul play, than her be in there alone and vulnerable. Without a female on our team, we're up shit creek in situations like this.”

Weak, tired, and fucking cranky as hell from the near twenty-four-hour shift, I gaze back at my bed longingly.

“I'm not asking you to stand guard all night,” Tank clarifies, no doubt seeing that I'm just as exhausted as he is. “I'm only asking you to stay in the room with her overnight and get the hell out before anyone wakes up tomorrow morning.”

I huff and shake my head, a few dark locks falling across my forehead. I swipe them out of my eyes and focus on the floor. “I'm fucking sick of sneaking around.” Annoyance at the whole situation and why we have to still hide our relationship simmers in my gut. “Why does her personal life matter? Why would anyone care if she was caught screwing an agent?” I yank a sock off my foot and hurl it into the corner.

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