Chapter 12 #2
Her lungs burned. She needed air. Needed to breathe. But breathing meant inhaling whatever was on the cloth.
She held her breath. Counted. One. Two. Three.
Her vision blurred. Her head spun. Her body turned to lead.
She couldn’t hold it anymore. Had to breathe.
The chemical smell flooded her system, invaded her lungs, spread through her bloodstream.
Her hands fell away from his wrist, heavy, and her legs buckled. He caught her weight. “It’s okay, ma’am. I got you.”
He was making it look like she was sick. Like he was helping.
Britta’s thoughts fragmented. Not Secret Service. Fake. Trap. Help.
Her vision darkened at the edges. The hallway tilted. The man’s face swam above her. Blurry. And nothing worked. Her mouth wouldn’t form words.
The darkness spread. Consuming. Pulling her under.
Her last coherent thought: Where’s West? Someone find West. Tell him. Help. West!
Then blackness swallowing everything.
West stood near the bar. The reception had taken over the patio—round tables arranged across the flagstones, the beach where Ford and Scarlett had married just beyond.
White linens. Candles flickering despite the afternoon sun.
String lights overhead, ready for evening.
The beach providing backdrop—Atlantic sparkling, waves rolling in steady rhythm.
Music played from speakers. Something upbeat and modern—he didn’t recognize the singer. They clearly needed Britta’s playlist.
Guests mingled. He’d never realized how many Marshalls Scarlett’s husband, Ford, came attached to. They were, as a whole, loud and affectionate. Knox arguing with Tate about something. Wyatt laughing. Win telling a story that had Hawkeye doubled over.
Funny, Hawk had never mentioned that his brother was a superstar actor. Whatever.
Ham stood with York, talking, serious—so probably about whatever was happening outside their sheltered, happy, celebratory world.
Not West’s problem.
He checked his watch, glanced at the house, waiting for Britta. His hand brushed the small folding knife in his pocket—an old EOD habit he’d never managed to break, not even for a wedding. Some part of him never fully relaxed.
He’d watched her during the ceremony. Couldn’t help it. She’d sat three rows from the front in a dress that made his chest ache—floral, flowing, elegant but comfortable. Her hair styled but loose. Face glowing with happiness.
And then she’d caught him looking at her and their eyes had met. Held. His mind pulsing with everything he couldn’t say in that moment: Last night was real. I’m in love with you. We’re going to make this work.
She’d smiled. The kind that reached her eyes and made West’s heart stop.
Then the ceremony had ended and the chaos of transition had separated them. Britta disappearing inside to freshen up. West helping move chairs with the other guys. The reception setup happening fast. They’d traded only a few words—a hey, see you at the reception—before Chávez had moved her along.
That had been—West checked his watch—twenty-two minutes ago.
She should be back by now.
West scanned the patio again.
RJ stood with Glo near the cake table. Emberly and her ex-SEAL boyfriend by the bar. Fraser Marshall talking with his wife and the princess and, if West could remember right, Fraser’s brother by the pool.
Yeah, the place was packed with ex-military tough guys. No need for Secret Service, really.
But the guests were here for a wedding, not protection.
Where in the world was Britta?
West’s pulse kicked.
Just calm down.
She’d gone inside to fix her hair or reapply lipstick or do whatever women did that took longer than men expected.
She was fine. Safe. Surrounded by the Secret Service, even though West couldn’t see Chávez’s positioning from here.
Except his tactical brain wouldn’t shut off. Twenty-two minutes was a long time. The bathroom was on the main floor. Her room was upstairs if she’d needed to change. Neither should take this long.
West set down his water glass. Walked toward the house, keeping it casual. No one worried here.
The French doors stood open, the cool air-conditioning hitting his face as he entered. The main floor stretched ahead—living room, dining room, kitchen visible through doorways.
The catering staff moved throughout the kitchen, preparing food for the reception dinner. Waitstaff walked past him, carrying refreshed appetizer trays.
No Britta.
West walked down the hallway. Toward the guest bathroom. The door stood open. Empty. The sink dry. No sign that anyone had been there recently.
Huh.
He climbed the stairs two at a time. Down the second-floor hallway to the room Britta had used. Knocked.
No answer.
West opened the door. The room was pristine—her bed made, her suitcase by the closet. Laptop closed on the desk.
But no Britta.
West’s breathing changed. Faster. Shallower.
She wasn’t upstairs. Wasn’t in the bathroom. Wasn’t in any obvious location.
Maybe she’d gone back outside through a different door. Maybe she was at the reception already and West had missed her in the crowd.
He jogged back downstairs, through the main floor, out to the patio. He scanned the gathering. Systematically. Every table. Every cluster of guests. Every person standing or sitting or moving.
Still no Britta.
And now, officially, he was worried. West’s tactical brain shifted gears. From casual concern to operational assessment. Where were her Secret Service agents? Patterson should be visible. Martinez was usually positioned no more than ten feet away. And Chávez was practically her shadow
The perimeter had Secret Service—he could see two agents near the beach stairs, one on the lawn. And there, Mitchell by the serving table.
But the immediate area around the reception? Empty of federal protection.
That was wrong. Protocol required close protection when the protectee was present. If Britta was here, Chávez should be visible.
Which meant either she wasn’t here—or something was very wrong.
West pulled out his phone. Texted Britta.
West
Hey, you okay?
No response.
Tried calling. Straight to her unset-up voicemail.
And now his heart raced.
He found Fraser first. Standing with Ham and York near the pool.
“Fraser.” West’s voice came out too sharp. Too urgent. “Have you seen Britta?”
Fraser turned. His expression shifted, reading West’s tone. “Not since the ceremony. Why?”
“She went inside twenty-five minutes ago. Said she was freshening up. I can’t find her.”
“Did you check—”
“Bathroom, her room, every room on the main floor. She’s not there.” West’s hands fisted. “And I can’t find Chávez. Can’t find Martinez. Can’t find any of her detail.”
Ham’s glass of champagne stopped halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Her Secret Service agents. They’re gone.” West went cold. “All of them.”
Logan was already moving. Pulling out his phone. “I’ll check the perimeter. See if they repositioned.”
Fraser’s expression went hard. Professional. “Could she have left? Gone somewhere?”
“Without telling anyone? Without her detail?” West shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t.”
“Okay.” Ham set down his beer. “We search the property. Systematically. Every room. Every building. Guesthouse, security building, storage.”
They split up. West took the main house again. Room by room. Closets. Storage. Anywhere someone could be.
Nothing.
He found Daisy in the kitchen, coordinating with catering staff. “Have you seen Britta? President White’s daughter?”
Daisy looked up, immediately concerned. “Not since the ceremony. Is something wrong?”
“I can’t find her.”
“I’ll help look.”
They searched together. Daisy checking the catering areas, service entrance, places West might not think of.
Still nothing.
West’s phone buzzed. Text from York.
York
Perimeter agents haven’t seen her. They’re starting a sweep.
Another text.
Fraser
Guesthouse empty. Checking security building.
West walked back through the main hallway. His tactical brain cataloging details. Looking for anything out of place. Any sign of—
He stopped.
Something white on the floor. Small. Near the bathroom door.
West crouched. Picked it up.
Lipstick. White case, the initials engraved in the small container: B. W.
West’s world tilted.
Had she dropped it? What was this evidence of? Stumbling? Being grabbed? Fighting back?
“West.” Fraser’s voice. Behind him. Urgent. “You need to come with me. Now.”
West turned. Fraser stood in the hallway, his expression grim. Ham and York beside him.
“What?” West’s voice came out rough.
“We found Chávez.”
West followed them. Down the hall. Through a side door. Into what looked like a service corridor. Storage closets and utility rooms.
Fraser stopped at a closet. Opened the door.
Chávez sat inside. Slumped against the wall. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Ankles bound. Gag in his mouth. Eyes half open and unfocused. Patterson lay beside him.
West’s breathing stopped.
Fraser was already cutting the zip ties. Removing the gag. “Chávez. Can you hear me?”
Chávez’s head lolled. His eyes struggled to focus. “What…what happened?”
“You tell me.” Fraser checked his pulse. “You’ve been drugged. Both of you.”
“Someone”—Chávez’s voice slurred—“came up behind me. Didn’t see…Injection? Cloth over my face? Everything went…” He blinked. Tried to focus. “How long?”
“At least thirty minutes.” West crouched in front of him. His hands shaking. His voice barely working. “Where’s Britta?”
Patterson had roused too, and now her eyes widened. “She…inside. She said she was going to freshen up.”
“I told Martinez to accompany her,” Chávez said.
Fraser snapped Patterson’s zip ties. “Where is Martinez?”
“Not responding,” Fraser said. “Someone took down her entire detail.”
“No.” Chávez tried to stand. Couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t support him. “There’s no way—”
“There was a way.” West’s voice came out hollow. Empty. “And they took her.”
Fraser’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. His expression darkened. “It’s Coco. She’s got something.”
They half carried Chávez and Patterson to the main area.
Coco stood in the dining room. Laptop open. North and Skeet stood with her.
“Talk to me,” Ham said.