Arthur drove the car, his memory frantically rushing through the files on Peter that he had read earlier. It was a bit blurry as, at the time that he was reading all of it, he was filtering out the sounds of her moans and his grunts as they had been in the middle of intercourse, what seemed like ages ago, but, were, in fact, only a day or two. His hands had stopped shaking, since they now had the steering wheel to lean on, but he felt the withdrawal of intense adrenaline hit him like a ton of bricks. First, he felt the incessant urge to yawn, followed by a weakness in his muscles, and a trembling in his stomach. He felt like heaving, but there was nothing to throw up. He swallowed, knowing that the right thing to take now would be sugar.
Dammit! He didn't have any time to think about himself. Elizabeth was in terrible danger, being held for ransom, to blackmail the President into some terrible act. He wondered just what they planned, wondered what they would do to her if the President, as he should, refused to negotiate with terrorists. The just that thought made his mind go crystal clear. The president wouldn't be able to do anything. He would have to shoot the fuck off of the pieces of shit that were holding her now. The trembling went away, as did the nausea and weakness, replaced by training and ice-cold resolve to get her back.
It wasn't just his duty, although, if asked, that was what he would say drove him to escape from Federal confines, wounding three agents, possibly more... how many were there again? He shook his head. He would say that duty drove him when, actually, what drove him was... What was it? Love? Attachment? Or was it glorified duty? No matter. He was getting Elizabeth back, and Peter was going to help him, whether the shit liked it or not. He would beat the guy until he had no bones left in his body larger then a toothpick if her had to. Elizabeth was going to be found.
He pulled his car to a silent halt near the surgeon's house. Switching the pile of rust off, he stepped out, imagining what he looked like. Maybe it would help to hammer home the point that he was seriously not shitting around. He walked over to the walkway, and was about to step on it when the sound of movement came to his right. His heart jumped to his throat, and his right hand grabbed the gun that was tucked into the side of his pants, and he turned to where he heard the noise. But it wasn't a threat. The person hugged him close, and he nearly jumped out of his skin in relief. It was Elizabeth. He hugged her close, his skin still sweaty, his chest still bare, and his arm still bloody from when he had busted the window of the car.
"Oh shit Lizzy," He whispered," What the fuck happened to you? Where's Peter? I am sure he can help us out..."