“No.” The word is more of a slur with my numb lips.
A dark laugh rumbles through the trunk. Revulsion churns my already sour stomach as hot breath brushes against my ear.
“He doesn’t like to play with his toys, but don’t worry, Madam President. I do.”
I scream and scream, but the trunk remains silent; I’m only able to call out for help in my mind.
“Stop fucking with the mark. We leave now to stick with the timeline.” Even with the distance and hollowness of the trunk, I hear the annoyance in the clipped tone.
The tip of a slick tongue slides down the exposed column of my neck. “Soon.”
A hand presses over my eyes and slips down, closing my lids with the movement.
For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, my body is moved against my will. First my legs are bent and maneuvered, something tight bites into my skin securing them together, and then the same with my hands before the trunk shuts with a deafening bang above me. The coarse floorboard rattles at the roar of an engine starting. With every bump I’m bounced and jostled, and at the turns I roll to and fro, unable to steady myself.
Panic sends my pulse racing. The roar of the engine and honking of other horns are all I can hear, leaving me alone with my darkening thoughts. Tied, drugged, and suffocating in the intense heat and no air, claustrophobia grips me, stifling my already short, raspy breaths.
Before I succumb to the panic attack, a pleading prayer blasts through my thoughts and images of the death that awaits me.
Find me, Trey. Find me.
Chapter One
Trey
The unmistakable stench of death fills my nose as I run along the sidewalk, my boots pounding the pavement, untied laces flying in my wake. There’s a heaviness weighing in the early morning air, thickening as I grow closer to the chaotic scene. I could find my way by the scents filling the air alone—scorched rubber, burning fuel, and the sharp coppery tang of spilled blood—but there’s no need. No, I only need to follow the bright search lights of the low-circling military helicopters, flashing red and blue of local police units, and, of course, the growing crowd.
I pause at the edge of the onlookers, men and women alike who’ve poured out onto the streets in their nightclothes and robes from the neighboring apartment and condo buildings. I inhale more to steady my nerves than being out of breath from the quick sprint from the dark alley behind my own building to here.
Forgoing pleasantries and gentle prodding, I shove a shoulder through the outer layer of people and make my way to the center of the crowd, where I’m needed and my answers await.
Almost to ground zero, the crash site, I slam into an immobile human wall. A wall wearing fatigues, a massive assault rifle held between two hands secured across his chest, and a clear “don’t fuck with me” expression on his serious face.
“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—her town 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.
I won’t fail 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.
“I don’t know much, got here a minute before you. Plus I want our take on it all before I listen to their bullshit investigation.”
“Why?” I ask as I crouch low, pressing the tips of four fingers to the road for stability, and inspect the SUV’s undercarriage. Loose pebbles of asphalt crunch under my boots as I swivel in varying directions for different viewpoints.
“We know the standard routine when she visits you, but no one else does. We’re aware of how many cars, agents, the route, backup… that gives us different insight. Not better but different. Now tell me what you see.”
Damn, the man is smarter than most people give him credit for. With his large size, people think he’s all bulk and no brains. But he’s not in charge because of his size and past NFL record. It’s because of this, the way he processes things and sees different angles. On top of that, he’s observant and insightful, two of the main reasons he’s the alpha team lead and we all follow him with our full trust.
A few chunks of dark hair slide across my sticky forehead as I lean closer to the still warm blacktop. I’m no mechanic—I don’t even drive my own car to get serviced, it just magically happens—but the twisted metal beneath the lead SUV looks wrong.
“Did something explode from the ground?” I ask. Knee to the blacktop, I lean closer and inhale. “Smells like explosives, but hell if I know what kind.” Tank’s hulking figure settles beside me to see where I point under the front portion of the undercarriage. “Just there, it’s blackened and twisted.” I stand and step away from the two entangled vehicles to see the picture as a whole with this new slice of information.
“The blast point could be covered up by the debris,” Tank muses through a grunt as he shoves off his thick thighs to stand.
Rock fragments and other questionable material sprinkle from my dirty palm as I rake a hand through my hair.
“This was well thought out, meticulously planned, unlike the prior attempts.” Rounding the SUV, I pause on the other side. Blood drips from the gaps in the metal where the front passenger seat should’ve been. Grief grips my stomach like a tightening fist. I force my gaze away. There’s no need to know who was riding shotgun, or driving, or in the other SUVs. Only one thing matters now, and that’s finding the clues to locate Randi. Then murder the devil behind the abduction.
A vaguely familiar agent approaches, his wide eyes taking in the mess before him. “The FBI director will be here shortly, and ours is back at headquarters reviewing the information as it comes in.” At my side, he takes a deep breath and rests both hands on his hips. “Every single agent was shot in the head point-blank. A few appear postmortem. Whoever did this covered their tracks to make sure no one could identify them.”
“What about the new video surveillance we had installed?” Tank asks, his head on a swivel as he searches the lampposts for our cameras. He requested several to be secured along this route once we realized her visits to my condo would be a weekly routine.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I snap, clenching my jaw so tight the muscles ache. “What do you mean? There can’t be nothing.”
“Whatever stopped the lead SUV also disrupted the video feed. All signals are down in a two-block radius.” Tapping a pen against his palm, the agent takes in the surroundings. “What in the hell was the president doing in this area so early?”
Tank and I exchange a quick look. Neither of us is answering that loaded question.
Clearing my throat, I bring the topic back to the surveillance issue. “I’m no expert, but a sizeable explosion to halt a small motorcade coupled with an EMP of some kind isn’t normal.” I shake my head, trying to get the pieces of information we know to fit together somehow. “That is fucking sophisticated. Who are these assholes?”
I say assholes knowing full well this couldn’t have been done by one man. No, this was a team, a highly qualified and funded team with one objective: Randi, President of the United States. And now they have her. For what—
No, I can’t let my mind go down that dark path. I have to stay here in this moment if I want to help find her.
I swallow hard, my feet moving of their own accord before stopping in front of the open passenger door of the town car. Her flip-flops lie discarded on the floorboard, shimmering drops of crimson dotting the leather. Fear rakes like talons into my chest, stifling my breathing at all the blood. Leaning deeper into the interior, I examine the spray pattern. A spray of tiny droplets and chunks of something coat the back windshield and seat. It’s all covered in sprinkles of red except a small void where she would’ve been sitting.
I shift, turning to the front seat, where it seems most of the blood exploded from. A shouted curse slips as I’m met with a gaping, oozing skull cavity pointing at me from the front passenger seat.
Seeing the dead agent with the back of his head missing shouldn’t fill me with relief, but it does. Because the blood splatter isn’t hers.
It’s not her blood.
I make it a mantra to keep my focus from slipping as I examine the back seat again, hoping to find anything useful. A blinking light from the floorboard on the other side of the car snags my attention.
“Gloves,” I grumble over my shoulder and blindly stretch an open hand behind me.
The soft thin latex glove slapped into my awaiting palm is a complete contrast to the brutality of the incident I’m investigating. It slides easily over my fingers, catching on my sweaty palm. Reaching to the other side, I stretch as far as I can without disturbing the other evidence. With the tips of two fingers, I slide the phone closer until it’s within reach and duck back out of the town car with it carefully cradled in my hand.
With a press of the Home button, the screen flares to life, displaying the red battery in the right-hand corner, several unread texts, and ten missed calls from Taeler. The sliver of optimism that she’d somehow managed to keep the phone and the tracking device within on her through the wreck and abduction dissolves, feeding the worry about how in the hell we’re going to find her in time.
“It’s hers,” I say, dropping it into Tank’s large latex-covered hand.
Arms crossed over my chest, I stare into the dark car. There has to be something we can use; no one’s that good to not leave anything behind.
Diving back into the wreckage, I scour every square inch of the area void of blood splatter, looking for something, anything that will help us find her. If she was fighting, there could be hair, skin, clothing left behind. Unless she was unconscious from the impact of the SUV or drugged.
I shake that thought before it can fester and distract me from the task at hand.
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 in
tact.
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 of how they 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.”
Power Term: A Secret Service Romantic Suspense Series (Power Play Book 5) Page 2
