Power Term: A Secret Service Romantic Suspense Series (Power Play Book 5)

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  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.

  Hold on, Randi. I’ll find you. Hold on for me.

  Chapter Two

  Randi

  A chest-rattling bang from somewhere close by jolts me awake. My brain batters against my skull with its own thundering pulse, making me loathe this day before I’ve even opened my eyes. The intensity of the headache feels like a migraine, but I haven’t had one of those in years.

  Fuck, I wish I could stay in bed, or even have the luxury of hitting Snooze. But the country’s problems won’t wait. There’s no lazy morning for the woman running the United States.

  I toss my head to shift the hair that’s fallen across my nose, the small movement sending a stabbing pain along my neck all the way down to my toes.

  Another noise, something I’ve never heard while snuggly tucked in bed within the safety of the White House, drags my attention from the new odd pain.

  What the hell is going on out in the hall?

  I shift to sit up and find out what the racket is about, but I can’t. I try again but fail to move even an inch. Confusion clouds my already slow thoughts as I jerk at my hands to move the infuriating tickling hairs strewn across my face. More strange pain radiates from my wrists.

  My heart races, slamming against my chest. Blinking through the stickiness coating my lashes and dry, scratchy eyes, I will my lids to stay open. My blurry vision clears, revealing an unfamiliar exposed industrial-looking ceiling above me.

  Instead of smooth white plaster, rusted metal beams crisscross with bundles of exposed thick black wires and silver-coated ventilation ducts of some kind. Struggling through the sheer agony of the simple movement, I twist to look toward the only natural light shining in the run-down warehouse. It takes a moment of zero movement and deep inhales and exhales through my nose for the discomfort to diminish to a non-excruciating level and my vision to focus. Across the expansive abandoned room, along the far wall, a row of filthy cracked and broken windows allows slivers of warm sunlight to filter through. The soft rays that make it through the grime and gaps highlight the dust floating in the stagnant air.

  The oblivious bliss that my confusion offers only lasts a few seconds before the swarm of images and memories assaults my already struggling brain. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m so fucked.

  Dread settles in my gut like lead weighing me down from the inside at the last thing I remember before the trunk shut over my unresponsive, drugged body. Of what that one dick for brains whispered about playing with his toys. A shiver of revulsion shakes my shoulders.

  I need to get out of here. Now. No matter what I have to do or endure.

  Whatever they have me tied up with digs into the bare flesh of my wrists and ankles, but I fight through the slicing of my skin and protesting muscles. Panting, I give up after a minute of attempting to escape with brute force, which is obviously getting me nowhere. Resting back on the hard surface, I grit my teeth as the adrenaline fades and the damage I caused shifts into a fire-hot burn along my wrists and ankles.

  “Think, Randi.” My cracked voice is barely a whisper. What do I know? What do I have that could help me get the hell out of here without ripping my hands and feet off?

  First things first, I need to take inventory of what’s broken, bruised, and okay on my own body.

  I lick my dry lips, preparing for the worst—the pain and knowledge that even if I do get out of these restraints, my legs could be broken, or something else that could hinder my escape. I start with my toes, wiggling one and then adding another in. Besides the raw sensation along the tips of my toes and feet, I’m good there. Slowly I work my way up my shins, past my knees. And because avoidance is the healthiest option at this point, I skip over the apex of my thighs, too scared that will break me mentally if I discover I was abused while drugged.

  Swallowing the tears that are lodged in my otherwise dry throat, I take a deep fortifying inhale.

  Terrible idea.

  Horrible, awful, delusional idea.

  Immediately my lungs revolt as if I’d swallowed burning coals. A violent cough shoves all that air back up my dry throat with a hacking cough. To force whatever is lodged in my lungs up and out, my abs tighten and flex while my back presses hard into the solid surface beneath me in an attempt to gain some leverage, doing whatever needed to not choke to death on my own phlegm.

  That is not an option for tomorrow’s headline.

  President found dead. Choked on own spit.

  She should’ve swallowed.

  A delirious snort tickles my nose between violent coughs at my slightly disturbing and gross humor. A cool smooth surface slides along my cheek as I force up whatever is lodged in my chest. A tangy, metallic taste fills my mouth as I ready to spit whatever was in my lungs as far as I can.

  Which, of course, doesn’t even go half a centimeter. Spit and what I now suspect is mucus and coagulated blood oozes along my warm cheek before slowly dripping away.

  Awesome. Tied up and covered in my own spit—and from the skull-splitting pain in my brain, probably a concussion too boot.

  Oh, and bonus, no fucking clue where I am or who the
hell took me. Or why.

  Let’s be honest: there could be a lot of answers for the “why” question. I’ve made some formidable enemies since appearing on the DC scene. One who’s already tried to poison me once and another group who’ve sent multiple assassins to kill me.

  But with those assholes who attempted to drive the world into war for monetary gains dead, or worse, at some nondescript CIA black site location, there’s only one asshole whose loathing exceeds all others.

  Shawn fucking Whit.

  Shawn is who I’d place my bet on setting this all up. There’s no way he could’ve pulled this off on his own though. Which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest considering he isn’t the type of sociopath who gets his hands dirty. Watch someone destroy me and get off while doing it, sure, that’s Shawn. But not actually executing the kidnapping of the president and murder of over a dozen agents.

  I choke on a sob.

  Those men, my agents, are dead. All of them.

  Warm tears escape from the corners of both eyes, descending over my temples and trailing along my jawline. Despair grips what little hope I’ve held on to this far, suffocating it until all that’s left in its place is a desolate chasm where it used to live.

  Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes turn into what feels like hours of lying there despondently, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Eventually the leaking tears dry even though the grief continues to strangle my heart.

  The bright glaring sun through the windows and the increasing sweltering heat are both signals I’ve been here for a good while. Yet no one has checked on my well-being or explained their demands. I’m not sure which is worse: lying here alone with only my increasingly dark and rampant day dreams as company or meeting the men who took me and them clearly detailing out what they have planned for me.

  I could die here today. More than likely I will die right here in this abandoned warehouse alone and in quite a bit of pain.

  Stealing my spine, I drum up any semblance of courage I can, preparing myself for the inevitable.

  It’s okay if I die. Everyone will move on. The world will still turn and live their lives.

  Then a happy memory of a smirking, honey brown-eyed man flashes before my eyes. The look of sheer happiness and relief when I said yes sticks to the forefront of my mind, reminding me of what I have to live for and blasting through the despair I unconsciously slipped into for self-preservation.

  A new wave of agony takes hold as more faces, more memories, emerge, reminding me of what I would leave behind if I just gave up now.

  Taeler and that sweet baby. I’d never get to see my only daughter become the fantastic mother I know she’ll be. Or get to see my grandbaby grow up to be just as crazy and dramatic as her mother and grandmother.

  Tank and Sarah. I wouldn’t ever get to thank them for being the friends I’ve always wanted but never had and for showing me what true love and respect in a relationship looks like.

  Mom. A bit of an odd cookie now, sure, but I’m so proud of her, even if she thinks everything can be cured by honey or an oil.

  Vlad. Okay, that one is a stretch.

  This is my inner fighter, the badass I’ve always wanted to be, pushing me to not give up but to wage the same war on them that they’ve done to me. I’m not some helpless victim who takes things lying down. That’s never been me. I’ve always fought, struggled, and worked to get anywhere in life. Sure, escaping all this alive might be a bit trickier than undergrad and Harvard, but I have to at least try.

  The emotionless chill that settled into my blood is driven out by their love for me and mine for them.

  I can’t give up.

  What the ever-loving fuck was I thinking?

  Yes, I’m miserable, yes, I’m frightened, and hell yes, my chest and soul ache with the deep, urgent need for Trey, but I can’t let that hold me back from fighting.

  It’s me and me alone until Trey finds me. Until he and Tank swoop in and save the day. Which, deep in my gut, I know they will. Before it’s too late, well, I’m not sure about that one, but I know they will come. I just have to hold on, not give up until they do.

  Which means I have to fight.

  Fight for my life and for the lives that will be affected if I die here.

  Today is not the day I take my last breath.

  Neither is tomorrow.

  Trey and I will have our happily ever after. I won’t let anyone take that away from me, not now, not when I’ve finally found my source of happiness.

  No. I’m not giving up.

  Whatever happens next, whatever they want from me, I’ll hold on and wait for Trey.

  I can do this. I’m the motherfucking president of the United States of America, and I will not bow down. I will not give up or give in.

  These fuckers think they’ve already won no doubt.

  Too bad for them, they don’t know how damn scrappy a girl from the trailer park can be.

  I picture myself bursting out of these restraints and going all assassin on the assholes the moment they bust through the door. Like all those heroines do in the movies. I just need to channel my inner Beatrix and go all Kill Bill.

  If only I had a sword like hers in the movie. Oh, or a black mamba in my pocket. Maybe I should commission one and a secure traveling case for future abduction attempts. Hell, what a time for a unicorn army. All I’d have to yell is the code word “Impale,” and everyone trying to hurt me or those I love would die by unicorn stabbing.

  “Fuck yeah,” I whisper to myself. “Impale. Impalement for them all.”

  A heavy scraping sound echoes through the empty room, putting a pause on my vindictive thoughts and daydreams of becoming a killing machine. I survey what I can see of the room but come up empty. Straining to see what’s behind me, I jolt, the restraints holding my jerking body in place, at the bang of what sounds like a heavy door slamming shut.

  A soft squelch, like rubber shoes against a slick surface, causes the hair to rise along the back of my neck and down both arms. My chest shakes with the ramming pound of my heart. Fear clogs my throat and steals the breath from my lungs.

  Closer and closer the even steps grow until they stop, still out of my line of sight. An eerie sense of being watched crawls across my skin. Jerking against the restraints, I attempt to angle my body to the side and for a better angle to see who’s lurking behind me, but I can’t.

  Frustrated, I flop back prone on the table. “What do you want?” I growl like a wild animal as I test the restraints once again. Now would be a grand time for the plastic ties to somehow weaken on their own, allowing me to break free and play out the massacre I plotted moments ago.

  My question receives no response. Blood rushes in my ears, making it difficult to hear anything, but still I strain to listen, not wanting to be snuck up on. Something moves directly behind me, casting a long shadow across my face and chest.

  Chin in the air, I strain my neck, arching as far as I can to look behind me.

  Ice licks down my spine as an unfamiliar set of uncaring eyes locks with my own.

  “Please,” I beg. “What do you want? Let me go.”

  A harsh chuckle escapes his lips as he reaches closer to fist a thick handful of my dark hair, his short jagged nails scraping across my scalp. I cry out, my hands fighting to be free and help alleviate the pressure. With a painful yank, he jerks my face forward, my chin slamming into my collarbone, severing my visual of the man. A pitiful whimper escapes as cool, rough fingers firmly trace along the edges of my trembling upper lip before moving to the lower. The scents of dried blood, gunpowder, and onion infiltrate my nostrils, evoking my gag reflex. Not wanting him to see how much his proximity and touch terrify me, I restrain the sob that’s desperate to escape.

  Those same two fingers shove between my lips, forcing them apart and invading my mouth. I thrash my head, attempting to dislodge them as he thrusts them deeper. I gag, revolting against the intrusion, but the hold on my hair tightens, keeping me at his mercy. Something hard
presses against the crown of my skull. Up and down it rubs against my hair as his fingers mimic the movement inside my mouth.

  My attempt to scream is choked back as he forces another finger into my already full mouth. Jaw straining, tears flow as saliva drips from the corners of my mouth and down my neck.

  “Just prepping your fuckable mouth for my big cock to shove down it. I want to feel you choke on my dick until you can’t breathe.”

  Revulsion sends a shudder down my spine, but there’s nothing I can do to make him stop.

  Then it does.

  The fingers are ripped from my mouth, and his unimpressive dick stops humping my head. I scream in pain as chunks of hair rip from my scalp as the hand still gripping it is jerked backward.

  Heaving for breath, weeping, and trembling all over, I almost miss the hushed words said somewhere behind me.

  “I told you the rules,” someone, a male, states.

  “Fuck you. We’re not partners. This is a onetime deal between us. You can’t tell me what to do. I risked my life helping you get that woman, and now I’m going to reap my rewards.”

  “I paid you plenty.”

  “Well, unlike you I always play with my toys before I destroy them. We’re not all fucked in the head like you, you damn freak.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for the other man’s response.

  “I wanted to wait until later to do this, but you’ve pushed my hand.” A soft pop of air has me stiffening at the distinct sound of a gun fired with a silencer. “Fucking hell, I hate carrying dead bodies. This is why I wanted to wait.” The distinct click of a man’s dress shoes draws closer. “That is now two of my so-called acquaintances you owe me for.” I jerk at the voice, its somewhat familiar low, rough tone. “Maybe I should make you carry him instead.”