Page 6 of Power Term

Fuck, I have to find her.

The tips of my fingers tremble as I run them along the smooth thick polyester seat belt down to the metal clasp and back up again in case I missed something lodged in the chest strap.

I pause their journey halfway up as a thought hits. Going back to the metal clasp, I pull it out for further inspection. I glide two gloved fingers along the shoulder strap and lap belt again to double-check I haven’t missed a cut or slice. But I haven’t. The entire belt is still intact.

Gripping the outside frame, I haul myself out of the town car and turn, pointing back inside. “We need someone to dust for prints on the seat belt release. There aren’t any lacerations on the strap, which means they released her or she did.”

Something deep in my gut tells me she didn’t willingly release her safety belt. If she did, there would be evidence of her attempting to scramble away to the other side of the seat or blood on the door handle where she tried to escape.

Tank bellows the order for an FBI agent, sending several jogging our way.

“Tank, Playboy. Over here.”

Tank and I turn our attention to the far side of the secured perimeter. Champ squats at the very edge, his back nearly leaning against a soldier’s legs, pointing at a glistening puddle on the ground.

I arch a questioning brow Tank’s way as we stride toward our fellow alpha team agent.

“I reached out to them all after I spoke with you,” he says in response to my silent question, pursing his lips at the end like he’s holding himself back from saying more.

“Looks like vomit. Already had someone bag a swab and sample for testing. If it’s from Randi, we’ll know if there were any drugs in her system.” Champ’s determined gaze meets mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.” The resolve in his hard tone and clipped words offers the boost I need to push past the idea of her possibly being drugged and unable to fight back against whatever is happening to her.

Hands tightened into white-knuckled fists at my side, I slowly turn, taking in the entire scene from this new vantage point.

“We know there had to be more than one attacker,” I state more to myself than to the other two waiting as I talk through the details we know. “But there isn’t any sign ofhowthey got away before the backup units arrived. What do we know about the timeline? From the moment the possible explosion went off in the street to when the standby convoy arrived?”

“When other agents arrived and realized she was gone, there was zero sign of her or the attackers. There were only dead agents and the wreckage. I spoke with one of the backup agents when I arrived on scene. He stated several canvassed the surrounding area while other secured the scene. Every alley was checked, but they didn’t find any evidence indicating which way they’d gone or how they got away.”

I nod absentmindedly at Champ, letting him know I heard him even though my unfocused gaze is on the surrounding crowd. There were only two options for escaping before the backup arrived just moments after the crash: by foot or by vehicle.

I have to think like them. How would I get the most protected woman on the planet away from the wreckage before the cavalry arrived? Based on the details so far, these fuckers knew the route, the number of men, hell, even the new surveillance we installed recently. They had to know additional backup would arrive within minutes of the wreck.

I glance back to the town car, this time looking at it from their perspective.

It would need to be quick and undetectable.

The blacktop pounds under my boots as I stride to the open back passenger door of her town car. Mimicking what would’ve been done to remove her, I go through the motions like I’m unstrapping Randi and tugging her out into the early morning air. She doesn’t weight much, so even if she was drugged, her limp body wouldn’t be too much for an average-size man to carry easily.

I count out ten medium-length strides from the car to what we believe is her vomit, which could either be from drugs administered to keep her compliant or from a concussion. Based on the town car’s impact with the lead SUV, I suspect the nausea was from a concussion.

“Twenty seconds to remove the president and carry her here,” I state to Tank and Champ. “Now where would I go if I didn’t want to risk a getaway vehicle being spotted and pursued by the coming backup convoy or a man being seen carrying a limp body down the street?”

A beat of silence falls between us as the repetitive thump of helicopter blades pulses above us. Spotlights illuminate the area, eliminating every shadow while Secret Service and FBI agents alike shout to each other about evidence collection or needing more body bags.

“We need to move, search, do fucking something.” I rake my fingers through the longer strands of my hair, tugging at the ends to help keep me focused. “We split up. Each take a different alley. That’s the only way to escape this shit show with the president without being seen.”

Assuming they’re on board, I scan along the length of the street. I count three alley openings close enough for an optimal escape route. “Tank, you take the one there.” I point to the farthest from where we stand, then to the next closest. “Champ, you take that one, and I’ll take the last one.”

I shoulder through the wall of soldiers and shove through the spectators. A pulse of anger sizzles through me at their ogling. This is a fascination for them, a bit of drama for their boring everyday lives. But for me, it’s my life. They’re staring, whispering at the visual representation of what remains of my heart and soul with Randi missing.

Wrecked.

Burning.

Destroyed.

I have to get her back.

My life depends on it.

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