“You knew this would happen. From the very beginning, you knew.”
“I'd be a fool if I didn't.” His tone and pointed look tell me I'm the fool. “I hedged my bets two ways to ensure I'd be in my rightful role by the end of the year.”
“Meaning keeping tabs on where my most vulnerable weakness was at all time and trying to kill me with poison.” They're my words, I said them, but I still don't believe it. Shaking my head, hoping that will make everything clearer, I seal my chin to my chest. “You bastard.” Rage obliterates the guilt and shock. “You rat fucking bastard. She's a kid!” I scream.
“She's a pawn. Just like her mother.” The crystal thunks to the top of the side table. “Birmingham used you to win the White House. Don't think this move is all me. He's a shit player in these games, which is why I knew he'd need… leverage over you in some way. This didn't have to happen, you know.” He gives me his Joker-esque smile. “You could've taken the easy way out and just died.”
My mouth gapes. What am I supposed to say back to that?
“But you didn't, so here we are.”
“What about Kyle?” I blurt. “There’s no way he’s aware that you're here right now, offering to help.”
Shawn huffs into the glass now at his lips. “He's a fool too. Didn’t even think twice as to why I was offering up her location without any strings attached to the favor. He's panicking, which is deadly to everyone around him. You cornered a wounded animal, Trailer. What the fuck did you think would happen?”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Like I said, I hedged my bets, and right now you're the winning dog in this race. What will it be, Trailer Trash? Your daughter’s location for a small nomination, or sticking to your guns and hoping that pussy is bluffing?”
Sweat dots my brow and upper lip even though I’m shivering. I gnaw on a bit of ragged nail. Trey's intense stare burns into me, but I don't look to him for guidance because this isn't about him. It's only about saving Taeler.
“I'll do it. Now where's my daughter?” I put as much strength into the words as possible, but it costs me. Slumping back, I steady myself against a built-in bookshelf to stay upright.
“If only it were that easy. I'll need a written agreement before sending the coordinates and details to your rent-a-cop boyfriend.”
My ears and lawyer brain perk up at the mention of a written agreement.
“Seriously? You want a paper trail or an electronic trail of what you're agreeing to? It's blackmail, Shawn. Now who's the fool?”
A high-pitched squeak from his grip tightening along the sweating glass pierces the room.
“They won’t be traceable.”
I force a snort—first time for everything. “You can't believe that. Did you see the information I have on Kyle? The videos, the voice recordings, pictures, emails. Everything is traceable, Shawn. Everything.”
He leans forward, holding the delicate glass between both hands.
“How did you get that information, Trailer?”
My smile is edged with near hysteria and a shit ton of loathing for the bastard sitting on my couch. “Not a chance in hell am I giving up my source.”
I can almost see the wheels turning in his brilliant yet evil brain. “Fine. No agreement. But if you go back on this, Trailer, you will pay. With your life or someone’s you love, there will be retribution.”
Swallowing hard, I dip my chin in agreement. Whatever. I'll worry about all this later. Right now all I need are those damn coordinates.
“Fine. Now where the hell is my daughter?”
26
Trey
Strain pulses through the Suburban with a throbbing beat as our caravan of SUVs speed through the empty streets of Washington DC. Our destination? The White House. Our goal? Kill the motherfucking president.
Okay, that's not the actual goal, but I desperately wish it were.
Instead, our less lethal objective is to bitch-slap the bastard until he resigns from the presidency. Behind me, Sam fidgets to the point of annoyance, and to his left, Randi stares, uncommonly calm, at the back of Tank’s shiny head.
Glancing over my shoulder, I check on her again. She’s been in this strange catatonic-type state for a while, only breaking out of it the few minutes after we got word that Taeler was rescued and safe. It took the team in Paris just a couple of hours to get her to the embassy after receiving the exact coordinates from Shawn.
I tighten my grip around the hard handle. It had to happen. I know it did; we wouldn’t have gotten Taeler back if Randi hadn’t said yes to Whit’s demands. But holy hell, we might be in worse trouble with him as VP than Birmingham as president.
“Is your head in the right space for what's about to go down?” Tank murmurs. Stealing a quick glance my way, he sighs. “You know things can go from zero to shit storm in less than a second.”
“I'm aware. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”
He huffs. “I'm more worried that you'll see Birmingham and kill him on sight before we even get a chance to confront him.”
My fingers tighten around the “oh shit” bar of the SUV. “That's a warranted concern, I suppose. But I'll keep my cool. If I shoot him, then his guys will shoot me, no matter how much they like me—”
“Which they don't.”
I chuckle, a bit of the building tightness in my muscles and the single-minded drive to hurt Birmingham dissipating. “You're kidding me, right? Everyone loves me. I'm the fun one.”
“And that makes me what?”
“The dad. Plus, they like me because I always pay when we go out.” My smile drops. “Guess that won't be happening again.”
“Why do you say that?” Tank keeps his gaze forward as we approach the White House. “Get your IDs ready.”
I toss mine to the dash and reach back for Sam's. “Because I'm not rich anymore. I have to live like….”
“The rest of us?” Tank laughs as he hands all the security badges to the gate guard, who inspects each one carefully before looking into the back seat.
“Madam Vice President,” he says with a dip of his chin. “Is the president expecting you?”
“I have no doubt that he is,” she says, her tone even, void of any emotion.
The SUV inches forward, nearly hitting the rear bumper of the one in front of us as the gate opens wide, allowing our caravan access.
“I'm assuming he'll be in the residence side,” Randi says. “Go through the side entrance.”
Tank nods and presses on the gas once we're clear of the gate.
“And you know you're wrong, right?” Randi says.
“About what?” I ask. I lean forward to get the full view of the iconic building as it grows larger through the windshield. Examining the property, I identify the extensive security presence on the grounds and on the roof, massive guns at their sides.
“Just because your mother said you were out of the family doesn't mean that it actually happened. Do you remember who set up the original trust?”
“My grandfather, I think.”
“Well, there you go. She actually has no rights over your trust unless he made her some kind of advisor or trustee. Plus, there is a crap ton of paperwork involved that has to be signed and filed to remove someone's access.”
“No shit,” I mutter to myself. “You mean this whole time I didn’t have anything to worry about?”
“All you had to do was google it, Trouble.”
“Live and learn, I guess.”
“Can you two discuss this later?” I want to snap back at Sam for interrupting, but he's right. There's a time and place to talk about my inheritance, and that sure as hell isn’t now. “We need all our heads in the game. Who knows what else Birmingham has up his sleeve?”
Nodding in agreement, I reach for the door handle and push it open as Tank shoves the gearshift into Park. The early morning breeze offers little relief from the heavy humid heat. Even at five in the morning, it's still fucking hot. Immediately I sense sweat bea
ding along the nape of my neck and along my temples.
The other two SUVs have already parked, and the teams inside have unloaded, ready to escort Randi and keep her safe. They don’t know the full extent of what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, only that a threat was sensed and security was heightened.
Leaving Sam to open his own damn door, I stride around the Suburban and tug Randi's open. I wait, keeping the door held open wide for her to exit, but she doesn't move.
“Randi?”
“She's safe now,” she says to no one in particular. “But what’s to say it won't happen again? What if she's taken again and Shawn isn't there to give us the location?”
“It's part of the job, Randi,” Sam says somewhere behind me. “But after today, once Birmingham steps down, the threat to her lessens significantly. Once he steps down, he loses all standing, any leverage he had with those with power here in DC. I wouldn’t be surprised if they turn their focus to silencing him, to be honest.”
“Will it be enough?” Finally acknowledging my presence, she turns in the seat, allowing her legs to dangle outside the door. “I don't know if I can go through with this.”
“You don't have a choice.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep calming breath in before turning to face the DOJ jackass. “Listen here, you—”
“I have a choice of turning in my resignation too.”
Sam's eyes widen at her words, as do my own.
“You can't mean that,” he says, taking a step closer. Hand to his chest, I shove him backward.
“If that's what she wants, then that's her call, not yours.” Turning back to Randi, I step between her legs and hold her face between my hands. “Mess, baby, I know it's a lot to take in. I get that 100 percent. Your daughter was in trouble, she was taken, but she's fine. The marines have her. She's safe. But you can't let that fear drive you, drive your decisions from here on out. You took this job to make a difference. Do you think you've accomplished everything you wanted to?”
Her dark hair sways with the shake of her head.
“You have so much more to offer, so much more to change in this city. Don't give up because of tonight. Don't be afraid to continue forward. I'll be here, and so will Tank. We'll move Taeler into the White House if that's what you want. There's no place safer.”
The soft delicate skin of her cheeks slides beneath my brushing thumbs as we all give her a few moments to consider my words, consider what she really wants. If she wants to bounce out of this town, give up and walk away, I'll support her. But as much as she considers herself drowning in the VP role, she's killing it. I've never seen a VP work so hard and get so much accomplished in a short amount of time. If she leaves, the inky darkness that has begun to recede from this city will swallow it whole once again.
But as much as I don't want that, as much as I want her to stay and fight, I won't make her.
“Okay,” she says with a tight breath.
“Okay what?”
I roll my eyes at Sam, all for Randi's benefit, rewarding me with a small smile.
“You're exactly what I imagine as an attorney,” Tank grumbles to my left.
“And what's that?” Sam says, just as annoyed.
“Annoying as hell and can't take a fucking hint.”
And just like that, the world rights itself with her growing smile. I return the look and move back, allowing her to step down. Skimming her small hands over the black tailored pants and retucking her pale pink dress shirt into the back, she stares up at the White House.
“Let's do this.”
Tank seals himself to her left side and me to her right. Stride for stride, we march toward the door currently being held open by an agent. The rest of the guys flank around us, creating several layers of human armor with her in the middle.
“Madam VP,” the agent says in greeting. “Washington, Benson.” Tank and I dip our chin in acknowledgment but continue forward, keeping pace with Randi. “He's in his personal office waiting for you.”
“Joy.” Randi sighs.
With her fast pace, it takes less time than normal to reach the president’s personal office in the residential wing.
“You're with me, right?” she asks under her breath before turning the doorknob.
“Always,” I say at the same time Tank gives her a “Hell yes.”
The door opens noiselessly. Inside, the four of us pause, giving Tank and me a moment to assess the room.
Three agents linger along the wall, two on the left side and one on the right, and I can sense at least two more at my back. The large space has a single sitting area with four leather chairs surrounding a low coffee table. The mahogany desk similar to the one in the Oval Office sits near the back of the room but is clearly the center of attention. American flags dot the two front corners along with a single lamp and other papers and knickknacks scattered over the top.
Kyle sits behind the desk, his dimpled chin resting on the point of two fingers with his elbow anchored to the desk. A heavy scent of alcohol wafts through the room. Upon a deeper inspection of Birmingham, I notice his bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and nearly white lips, as if all the color has leaked from his face.
Tank and I notice his drunken state at the same time, seconds after entering the office. As one, we step in front of Randi, creating a human wall between her and Birmingham.
“Everyone out,” Birmingham barks, and if I'm not mistaken, there’s a slight tremble in his words. “Except her.”
“Not a chance,” I say back as composed as I can. Drunk, this clown is a loose cannon. Even I know not to poke him in this state.
This is a terrible idea. We need to get her out. Now.
It only takes a single glance from him to the two behind us before arms wrap around mine, sealing them to my sides. With grunts of exertion, the agents haul us back, edging us toward the door. Well, me. They’re edging me. The other agent has yet to make Tank budge.
“Stop,” Randi shouts, her voice firm and commanding. All movement ceases. “Everyone stays in this room, Kyle. It's over.” The buttons of her shirt strain with each of her heavy breaths. “You have no more cards to play.”
“How did you do it?” he asks. Grabbing the empty glass, he strangles a nearly empty decanter and pours four fingers of the dark liquid over the melting ice. I don’t miss the tremble of his hand or the bits of liquid that splash out.
“You really don't know?” Her steps are hesitant as she approaches the back of one of the leather chairs. Leaning forward, she rests her forearms along the back. Everything in me tenses the closer she puts herself to that ticking time bomb.
“Whit,” Birmingham snarls.
Randi gives a slow nod.
“That bastard,” he mumbles. Taking a few swallows of his drink, he slams the glass to the desk, splashing liquor over the top and several nearby papers. A single dribble slides down his chin.
“It's over, Kyle. You'll find a prewritten resignation letter in your email.” With a glance over her shoulder, she nods at Sam, who has his phone in his hands. “It's in your email now. This is what you’ll sign, and the other attachment is what you’ll read on camera.”
“You really think you can do this role?” Leaning back, he tucks both hands beneath the desk. Tank and I share an apprehensive look. “The country is on a downward spiral. It's fucked. There's nothing we can do about it except exploit it where we can. I did nothing wrong,” he yells. “And you.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end at the pure loathing in those two words. “You don't deserve this seat, this position. I pulled you out of that ass-backward town and gave you everything. This is how you repay me, you fucking cunt? You're nothing but trailer trash and never will be anything more.”
I jerk against the arms still holding mine down. I’m going to kill him. Tear him limb from limb and bathe in his fucking blood.
“That might be the case, but here I am. I've struggled my whole life, fought for every single thing I've earned. Did you think I
’d just step aside now because it’s going to be difficult? This country, its people, are worth me fighting for. I might not be the best option out of everyone in the city, but I sure as hell am the best option between the two of us. Now sign the fucking resignation papers.”
“I underestimated you, I'll give you that. But so have you with me. Desperation makes for desperate actions.” He stands, the office chair he was sitting in rolling back a foot. In slow motion, he raises a small-caliber gun from beneath the desk, the shaking barrel pointing at Randi's chest.
Seven other guns slide from their holsters.
Five are pointed at me and Tank, two at the current president.
“Everyone, stop,” Randi says, voice shaking. Raising her hands, she takes a step backward. “Kyle, what are you doing?”
“I will not be ruined, Walmart, especially not by someone like you. You're nothing. No one. I'm the fucking president of the United States.” I catch the uneasy exchanges between the agents at the hysteria in Birmingham’s high-pitched voice. “I am not stepping down.”
A somewhat insane laugh bubbles out of Randi. Another strangled chuckle bounces off the walls. Leaning forward, she presses her hands to the top of her thighs as the strange laughter continues.
“I'm sorry,” she says between breaths. “This isn't funny. I just can't—” A loud snort booms through the office. The other agents’ eyes slide to me for guidance. “Shit, this is bad.”
“Birmingham, this is it.” Against my better judgment, I lower my sidearm and slide it back into the holster at my ribs. “Let me talk him down,” I say out of the corner of my mouth to his personal agents. “What do you think you'll get by shooting her?” I ask him.
“Her not in office.”
Well, there's that. Maybe another question is better.
“You know if you shoot her, you're not walking out of here.” I tilt my head to where Tank stands, his gun trained between Birmingham's brows. “So yeah, you might hurt Randi—because let’s be honest, there's no way you're a good shot under pressure—but you'll be dead. Whether you step down or are six feet under, it doesn't matter, because she'll still be in the president seat, not you. You hear me? Now lower your fucking gun.”
Power Switch: Power Play Series Book 3 Page 26