Page 12 of Power Term

At two more intersections, I do the same, analyzing which way would provide the least amount of exposure before changing routes. After one turn, I pause and retreat a step, backtracking to whatever snagged my attention.

The urgency in my gut tells me there’s something here… there.

Balancing on the balls of my feet, I squat and inspect the object. Not bothering to secure the glove over my sweaty hand, I use it to pick up what looks to be a fire-engine red piece of something.

Not just something—a nail.

Randi’s fake nail.

It’s a long shot, sure, but at this point, even a long shot is better than nothing.

Encasing the evidence in the glove, I shove it deep within a front pocket. Even with the sun rising there’s not enough light to check for additional signs of a struggle. Phone out, I use the flashlight function to help me scour every nook and crevice within a ten-foot radius from where I found the nail.

On my hands and knees checking under a rank dumpster is how Tank and Champ find me.

“I think I found a bit of her nail on the ground just there,” I say, gesturing behind me. Satisfied I haven’t missed anything obscured under the green metal bin, I push myself up. Staying on my knees, I dig both clenched fists against the top of my thighs in frustration. “But nothing else.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Tank says, offering a hand to help me off the ground. A clap pulses down the alley as our hands connect. With his inhuman strength, he yanks me to a standing position with ease. “Now that we know this is the way they came, we can get more agents down this way to help look.” A few sharp commands into his radio and it’s done, a team of various agency agents en route to our location. With an incline of his head in the direction I was headed before I stopped, Tank says, “Let’s find where they loaded her. There could be evidence there as well.”

On reflex, I nod at the issued command from my team lead.

With renewed adrenaline flowing at finding the minuscule piece of evidence that proves there was a struggle, it’s better that I let him do all the thinking. Murder and annihilation are the most prevalent thoughts at the moment. Partly because of the uncontrollable rage pumping through my system, but also if I concentrate on the unknown person’s death, then images of her scared, alone, and hurt can’t consume me.

I can’t function with those debilitating images. Murder and causing excruciating pain are a much better option for a fully functioning Agent Trey Benson.

Using the hem of my T-shirt, I swipe away the beading sweat from my brow and follow Tank and Champ. Their heads move on a swivel, scouring around each dumpster, every nearly disintegrated cardboard box, piles of discarded trash, and a random pile of ratty blankets.

Again something in my gut draws me up short. I skid to a halt, bits of rock shifting beneath my boots. Tank and Champ pause several steps ahead and turn to where I stand staring at the pile of blankets.

Tanks brows furrow. “What is it?”

Not wanting to spook the man or woman, I press a single finger to my lips and point at the lump on the ground.

Please don’t be dead.

On quiet steps, I inch closer. A foul cloud of body odor, fluids, and who the hell knows what else engulfs me. I gag on reflex before switching to breathing through my mouth to keep from smelling the growing stench. If this guy helps us locate Randi, I’ll not only offer him a shower and clean clothes but buy him a damn house with as many showers as he wants.

I still when the mountain of shredded blankets and old newspapers shifts.

“I’m not here to hurt you or make you leave,” I say as calmly and sincerely as I can muster with my emotions raging like a damn hurricane inside. “I just wanted to ask if you saw something earlier. A man, and maybe a woman, come down this way.”

Nothing. In fact, the person beneath the mound of debris seems to shrink further in on themselves. I hold back my growl of frustration. We don’t fucking have time for this shit.

Time to step up my game. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey with your name on it if you help me,” I state.

A full head of slick, greasy gray hair pops from under the blanket mountain. His cloudy eyes level my way, a scowl forming beneath a white wiry beard. “I’m a vodka man.”

“A handle of vodka it is, then.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally something we might be able to use. “If you’d just answer a few questions for—”

“I’m homeless, not deaf, boy,” he chastises while leveraging off the ground to sit upright. Back against the brick wall, he drapes a blanket over his crossed legs. “I heard ya the first time. Yeah, I saw people.”

“People?”

“Two fellas, one hellcat.” I choke on a half laugh, half sob. He points down the alley where we just came from. “Her tumblin’ out that one’s hold is what woke me. Fought like hell to get away.”

“What happened next?” I somehow get out over the growing lump of dread lodged in my throat.

“He hauled ’er up and ran, followin’ the other one in a suit.”

---