Page 72 of Power Surge

I grip her hand and give it a hard, reassuring squeeze. “We've got you, Mess. Focus on what needs to be done and let us worry about the rest.”

The buttons down her black blazer pull as she inhales a deep breath. “Will this ever get easier?” she asks.

“No,” Tank and I say in unison.

Tank’s deep voice clips through our earpieces, signaling our ready to exit. An acknowledgment is returned, and the door swings open. Randi accepts the offered hand and slides out of the limo into the brightening morning. Tank follows, with me hot on his heels. Hands at the ready, I match her step for step as we ascend the stairs, skimming a searching scan over the crowd. Bright light flashes from the multitude of cameras, holding my focus for half a second before shifting past to assess the countless faces once again.

We almost make it without incident.

We’re halfway to the embassy doors and the protection they offer when the false sense of safety shatters.

A single shot of a high-powered rifle booms through the peaceful morning. Three steps ahead comes a shout of pain, the marine’s face contorting as he stumbles forward before slipping on the edge of the stair and falling. The clatter of metal from his assault rifle hitting the concrete stairs muffles the second shot and following screams.

“Sniper,” Tank and I bellow in unison, mine as a warning to the marines within hearing distance, Tank’s a command to our guys on the roof through our connected coms.

The years of training in the army and Secret Service slam into place, washing a calming wave over my panicking thoughts. Wrapping her in a bear hug, I send us into a controlled fall and cover her body with my own. Through the madness, agents bark their visuals as everyone works to identify the location of the shooter.

I squeeze my lids shut and hug her tighter, preparing for impact of another round of shots. Through the coms, an agent yells to get her inside the building. The concrete at our feet takes the full impact of a round; bits of rock break apart, slicing through the thin material covering my legs and imbedding in my calf and thigh.

Too close.

Again a shout comes through the coms, ordering me to get her inside. My protective instincts kick into hyperdrive, and I hesitate moving her out from under me. First, that wasn’t Tank’s deep voice issuing that order to move her inside, it was someone else—someone whose voice I can't identify with all the chaos around me. Second, my gut fights against the idea that we’ll be safer inside.

I have to make a choice. Lying here on the steps, we’re sitting ducks.

Follow the sane choice and rush her inside those doors, or listen to my gut that’s kept me alive this long?

Decision made.

Scooping her off the ground, I race to take cover between two large supporting columns. Their wide circumference offers protection from the direction of the gunfire.

“What the fuck?” Randi’s voice is quivering as badly as her shaking body.

I palm the gun in my hand, adjusting the grip. With a slow exhale, I shift to look around the massive column and take in the full scene. A half-second glance is all I get before a round nicks the stone inches above my head. I whip back around to safety, panting at the close call.

“Why didn't they take you out first?” I mumble into her ear, though it’s more to myself, attempting to make sense of it all. Voices shout and snap through the earpiece. I sort through them all, piecing together what’s going on out in the open. The cuff of my sleeve scrapes across my lower lip as I shout into the mouthpiece. “Tank, where are our fucking snipers?”

The returning silence has dread sinking in my gut.

“Tank?” I say again, louder this time.

“Little fucking busy here,” his deep voice says over noises in my ear. “The three original fucking snipers are unresponsive.”

I curse. Whoever this is knew the original plan right down to the placement of our snipers. Hell, they knew when we were fucking arriving.

“What? What's going on?” Randi begs beneath me. “Is T okay? Please tell me T is okay. This is my fault. This is all my fault.” The words are barely over a whisper. I wonder if she even knows she’s saying them out loud.

“He responded. Tank’s okay,” I say into her hair. For now, I leave off the end. Who the hell knows where he is in all this. It’s not like I can peek back around to make sure he’s somewhere safe. “We have to get you out of this shit.” But the not knowing who leaked the day’s security plan, whether it was someone on our team or those who knew from the embassy, makes me hesitant to seek shelter inside.

“Our sniper is on the move,” Tank says. My heart races at the lack of chatter in the background. Tank must have switched to our one-on-one channel. He knows something is off just like I do.

The cool, smooth stone meets my forehead as I lean forward. “If we go inside, then we're trapped, forced on the defensive.”

“Where else is safer than the embassy?” Randi questions. “Should we call the president?”

I shake my head. “What if they're the ones behind this? No, we can't trust anyone but our team.” And maybe not even that. But I leave that part off for her sake. “Tank,” I say into my mic, using our private channel, “we need to get her out of here, back to Air Force One. Cover me while I get her to The Beast.”

I switch back to the main channel. Hysteria floods through, with that same unidentified voice hollering above it all, demanding we get her inside the embassy.

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