Page 19 of Power Term

“Shit,” Tank barks. The SUV’s tires screech as we fishtail along the shoulder. Only when he regains control does he slam on the gas pedal, sending me flying against the seat. “It’s fine. It means she’s alive. Shoot it over to our guys at the FBI to get a track set up on that number and analyze the hell out of that picture.”

I nod numbly as I send the picture to our FBI contact. Against my better judgment, I enlarge the picture of Randi again. “She looks fucking terrified. What the hell did they do to her?” The picture blurs as wetness gathers in my lower lids.

“You’re letting your relationship and feelings for her cloud your judgment again, Benson. Stay focused. My guess, whatever you see on the screen is from the wreck, not them. We saw the town car, the splintered passenger window. They’re not hurting her.”

Yet. That’s the word he leaves off for my sake. But he’s right. I am letting my feelings for her and our personal relationship hamper any unbiased, unemotional thinking. Not that knowing I need to detach myself can actually help me do it.

She’s scared and hurt. My girl, the one I swore to protect as my job and as the love of my life. I failed her. This is proof that I don’t deserve her or the love and trust she so freely offers me.

“Snap out of it, Trey, or I’ll pull this fucking truck over and beat some sense into you, which will waste valuable time. Time she doesn't have.”

He’s right. Like always.

Fuck, I need a cigarette. The craving hits hard and fast, making my fingers tremble with need for nicotine to calm my restless nerves.

To help realign my focus, I swipe the picture, ready to delete the entire text. If it’s still here, available for me to look at whenever I want, it’ll keep pulling my focus. Maybe that’s why whoever sent this….

Wait a fucking minute.

“My number isn’t listed anywhere, and not many people have it,” I muse while raking my hands through my hair over and over again like it might help me think faster.

“Only half of the women in DC.”

I shoot an annoyed glare his direction. “Not the time for jokes, asshat.”

“Just an observation.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase that. Not many people capable of kidnapping the motherfucking president under the watchful eye of her Secret Service agents have my damn number.”

“Agreed. So who does that leave us?”

My eyes shift back and forth, my sight unfocused as I mentally go through the list of names. “Well, all of our team, but they were at the crash site.” My knuckles turn white from my clenched fists. “All but one.” Fury builds in my gut, heating my blood and skin. “That motherfucker is a part of this. I know it. I just fucking know it.”

The most logical explanation is he’s been the one on the inside this whole time, leaking our information to those who wanted to harm Randi. I don’t know why, and to be honest, I don’t fucking care. All I want is her back safe and whoever responsible to have a bullet between their eyes.

“It all points toward him,” Tank muses, jerking the wheel to the right. We take the exit that will take us straight to the agency’s main office. “We’ll know more in five minutes. Hold on.”

With that quick warning, he slams on the gas, sending us hurtling through the streets. Other drivers honk, and a few even raise their hand out the window to flip us the bird. Not that I care. Fuck them and their need to get to work. We’re on a mission to save a life—hell, maybe even save the country.

Not that I think Sam would do a poor job in the president role, it’s just not his role to fill. Randi, as much as she can’t see it, has done a phenomenal job as president and still has so much she wants to accomplish before the end of her term.

The SUV’s tires squeal as Tank slams on the brakes, finagling the large vehicle into a compact car parking spot around the corner from our destination. I’m out before the engine is cut, racing through the packed downtown sidewalk, shouldering my way through as I zigzag toward the front door of the agency’s building. Heavy footfalls and barked commands behind me to get out of our way tell me Tank is hot on my heels.

The glass door nearly shatters as I slam it open, the metal handle clipping the other side door with the impact. Not waiting for the elevator, I make a beeline for the stairwell and bound up the steps three at a time until I reach the floor where I know we’ll find the director.

With everything that happened this morning, between the president being taken and so many agents dead, I doubt I’ll find her holed up in her office. More than likely she’ll be in the war room surrounded by other high-ranking officials and those she trusts.

That’s my destination.

I grip the cool metal lever and give it a hard yank, but the door doesn't budge.

Locked.

The door rattles under the pounding of my fist. I relentlessly beat on it until the unmistakable click of a lock releasing reaches my ears. An inch of a gap appears between the door and the frame—all I need. Wedging a steel-toe boot into the small crack, I thrust a shoulder and hip against the thick wood.

It bursts open from my assault, and a pained cry comes from somewhere between the door and the wall, not that Tank nor I care as we storm into the room. A quick assessment of those in the room verifies what I assumed earlier. Ten directors and higher-ups sit or stand around the long conference table, folders, pictures, and documents scattered along the dark surface.

Ten sets of eyes blink in shock at the interruption. All except the director, who looks more resigned than surprised at our rude entrance.

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