Page 73 of Power Surge

“Covered,” Tank clips.

“Baby, on the count of three, we’re moving. Just follow me, and I’ll get you out of this. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“One.” I thread my free hand in her hair and yank her head back. My lips slam against hers in a demanding kiss. “Two.” Releasing her hair, I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her slightly off the ground.

“Three.”

Forcing my feet into motion, I slip around the column, placing us right back into the line of fire.

Fuck, I hope I know what I'm doing.

Chapter Twenty

Randi

Stomach acid rises up my throat, threatening to spill from my parted lips. Marines, agents, and streams of crimson scatter the once pristine embassy steps—the same steps I ascended moments earlier, unaware of the life-altering attack about to commence. Pain-laced moans and desperate calls for anyone’s help filter through other screams and shouts.

Guilt cuts my heart like a dull rusted spoon.

A stiletto snags an edge of the concrete. Lurching forward, I free-fall for half a second before Trey’s strong arm wraps around my waist and tucks me close to his side once again. The pointed toes of my pumps scrape as I'm dragged down the remaining steps. A few agents stay hunkered down behind the limo while Tank stands tall, a gun in each hand, the barrels pointed toward the chaos ensuing in the streets.

A scream rips from my throat as I'm pushed from behind, forcing me to stumble the last step. Hands outstretched, I prepare for impact when an agent catches me before I hit the ground. A familiar face peers down at mine.

“I've got you,” Champ says, his face pale and pinched in pain. Without another word, he shoves me into the now open door. A dark-suited body barrels over me, diving deep into the limo, followed by two others. A screech of rubber against asphalt assaults my ears, the smell burning my nostrils. The limo lurches forward, tossing me back, my head nailing the headrest.

Tank shouts commands and directions into his coms. Trey's deceptively calm voice doesn’t fool me, and probably not the person he’s on the phone with, detailing instructions to the crew on Air Force One. While Champ….

Fuck. Champ.

He slouches, an elbow pressed against the leather seat, cursing like a sailor as he peels his jacket off. Red, and lots of it, stains his previously pristine white dress shirt.

My arms shake, nearly as useless as overcooked noodles, as I ease my ass to the floorboard and crawl toward my injured agent.

Buttons ricochet around the limo, the tiny bits of plastic hitting the windows and leather seats. Carefully, I help him strip out of the soggy shirt. The ripping of Velcro sounds around us as I remove his vest straps and tug it over his head. A hole at the curve of his waist weeps blood, trickling little streams to the seat beneath him.

Staring at the wound, I shrug out of my blazer and press it tentatively against Champ's side.

“Harder,” Trey's voice rumbles behind me. Checking over my shoulder to make sure he’s talking to me, I see he has the mouthpiece pulled away from his lips. Hitching his chin toward Champ, he sends a pointed expression to the jacket bunched beneath my hands. “More pressure, Mess.”

I wince and dare a peek at Champ, scared of what I’ll find. Skin a bit paler, sweat dots his forehead and upper lip, but he doesn’t pay me any attention as he types one-thumbed on his cell phone. “It’s just a graze,” he says on a hiss as I press the jacket against his side once again. “Still hurts like a dirty motherfucker.”

“Air Force One is ready for departure. We can take off as soon as we arrive. Any remaining agents and personnel can catch a flight with one of the cargo planes.” The coarse carpet of the floorboard digs into my palms and knees as I twist to face Trey, waiting for more information.

In unison, the three agents bark unique curses. I stumble back, my heart racing as the limo takes a hard right.

Phone forgotten, Trey stretches toward me, hauls me off the floor, and manhandles me into a bucket seat before strapping me in tight. My shallow breaths are more like wheezes with the near suffocating constriction of the seat belt and lung-seizing fear creeping its way back into my veins. I observe in awe as the three secure their lap belts while keeping their guns and intense focus trained out the window.

“What—” I start when a sudden lurch of the limo cuts me off. Like a rag doll in a dryer, my arms and legs sail through the air while my core remains safely strapped into the seat. The seat belt digs through my dress shirt as I'm shifted right, then left. Tears threaten at the overwhelming terror for not only my safety but those in the limo with me. I swallow hard, shoving them down, and concentrate on stabilizing my neck to prevent my head from snapping off with every sharp turn.

The nerve-racking strain and chase last several minutes before Tank relaxes and gives an all clear. Out the window, the city of Cairo fades and the airport we flew into just hours ago comes into view. Just like in the movies, the limo speeds down the runway, skidding to a halt directly in front of the stairs. US mixed with Egyptian military surround the jet, their massive guns pointed every direction.

With a resounding click, Trey unsnaps my seatbelt and urges me out of the limo into T's awaiting hands. Right before we ascend the stairs, my heel slips, twisting my ankle in an unnatural way. Agonizing pain screams from the tendons and ligaments from below the knee down to my toes.

I lean heavily on T, his hand nearly swallowing my slim waist. Supporting most of my weight, he assists me up the stairs at a rapid pace until we're safely inside my second home.

Doctors charge toward me, ripping me from T's hold and hauling me toward the back of the plane. Questions about injuries are tossed one after another, so fast I can’t respond quickly enough. Stumbling, I strain to see over my shoulder, desperate to make sure Trey makes it onto the plane all right.

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