Page 4 of Power Term

“Step back, sir,” says the kid who’s about to be on the wrong end of the fury-laced panic that’s thrumming through my veins, making me slightly unhinged.

“Secret Service,” I state impatiently.

The flickering camera flashes and overhead streetlamps highlight his unimpressed gaze as he slowly gives me a once-over. Lips pursed, he shakes his head and goes back to scanning the area for threats and keeping the excited crowd at bay.

Huh. Never had that kind of reaction before.

I glance down at my own appearance to see why he so quickly dismissed me as a real agent.

Well, hell. Okay, now I get it. Dry-Fit T-shirt inside out and backward—I was wondering what was tickling my neck on my run over here—wrinkled-as-hell jeans with the zipper half up and button unfastened to the point that I don’t know how they even stayed up this long, and untied military-style boots. No wonder this kid thinks I’m a fake and probably in need of medication.

I search through every available pocket for my credentials to prove to this asshole that I am in fact a legit agent, but I come up empty. Pursing my lips in annoyance, I inhale deep, my nostrils flaring at the foul smells that assault my nose.

“I left my shit at home, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m Trey Benson with the fucking Secret Service. Now let me the fuck through.” Nose to nose, I’m screaming in his face. He doesn’t know why I’m so on edge, why the accident behind him is extremely personal to me, but I don’t care in this moment. All I want is for him to fucking move so I can find out what the hell is going on and find my fiancée.

“No one gets through,” he hisses through gritted teeth as he widens his stance, readying for a fight.

Already on a hair trigger, my rising annoyance mixes with the desperation to get past this fucker, shoving me over the edge of reason. Lips pulled back in a snarl, I reach for one of the guns strapped to my body, 100 percent okay with shooting my way through if I have to.

Just as my fingers brush the grooved grip of my nine millimeter, familiar broad shoulders and a bald head rising over the soldier’s catch my attention. On the far side, several feet from where I stand, Tank stalks along the inside circle of the soldier wall, peering over their heads like he’s searching for someone in the crowd.

Both hands cupped around my mouth for maximum volume, I let out a sharp attention-grabbing whistle, one I used during widespread canvassing assignments in the army, then bellow his name over the thumping of the helicopter blades and excited crowd. I debate shoving my way toward him when he pauses and turns my direction.

His intense gaze locks on me. Immediately he sets across the closed-off street, his focus never wavering as he weaves through the FBI agents inspecting the evidence.

My trepidation rises with each step Tank takes as he draws closer. I’m eager to get around this fucker who’s holding me back from entering the scene, yet at the same time I know the moment I walk into the protected circle, all this becomes true. Right now I straddle a fine line. On this side, I have the knowledge of what happened but not the proof or the details. If I don’t see it, it didn’t happen, right? If I don’t step over the invisible line, thus changing me from outsider looking in to acting agent, none of this is real. It’s crazy to think this way, sure, but compartmentalizing this shit might be the only way I keep my emotions in check until we find her.

Tank’s mitt of a hand encases the soldier’s shoulder and yanks him backward. He struggles to stay upright, opening a small gap just wide enough for me to slip through.

“He’s with me.” Tank dangles his credentials in front of the kid’s face, and I take the opportunity and move to stand beside my friend.

Not wasting time, Tank turns on his heels and strides from the sidewalk, stepping down onto the street where the destruction waits.

A couple feet from the town car—hertown car—I pause, taking in the mangle of metal. My heart squeezes like someone has it in a vise grip as I stare at the open back passenger door and the empty back seat.

Tank’s heavy footsteps pause, his comforting presence welcome as I inhale a shaky breath, doing what I can to keep the fear of what’s happening to her in this very moment from shutting me down. I can’t break, not when she needs me.

“We’ll find her. We’ll get her back.”

I nod, not daring to speak past the lump lodged in my throat. My fingers tremble as I rake them through my hair, relishing the sharp bites of pain as a few tangled strands yank and pull at my scalp.

“Get it together, Benson. Randi is out there waiting for you to piece this together and find her. She’s counting on you finding her before it’s too late.”

Again I dip my chin in agreement, but this time with conviction. Rising determination shifts my focus into overdrive, shoving aside all the other swirling emotions keeping me from thinking straight.

Wrangling the varying emotions that radiate from the happy memories we made only hours ago in my condo when she said yes to the paralyzing agony of the unknown, I shove them down with a deep fortifying breath.

Tank’s right, like always.

She needs me more than ever. I can’t fail her. Iwon’tfail her. Not when our happy ever after was within our grasp. Whoever did this will pay, but first I have to find her.

“What do we know so far?” I ask, my voice void of any feeling.

“Did you know your shirt’s wrong?” Tank asks. Normally we’d joke, have a good laugh at my haphazard state, but not tonight.

Stripping off the shirt, I flip it right side out, sink my arms back through the sleeves, and tug it over my head. Then I button my fly, tie the damn boots, and fix the jean cuffs to look somewhat more professional than the disheveled mess I was moments ago.

A puff of air explodes from my lungs at Tank’s palm connecting between my shoulders for a comforting pat on the back. With a firm grip on my shoulder, he guides us around the town car to the hood, where the lead SUV is practically sitting on the dashboard. His grip tightens as we take it all in from this new angle.

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