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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  The man steps deeper into my little cinder block cell, slamming the door behind him. My eyes narrow the closer he gets. There’s something familiar in his stance, something that suggests I’ve seen him before.

  “Do I know you?” I ask as he checks the dark corners of the room.

  Silence stretches as he sidesteps to move out of my line of vision. My sides ache as I twist to gain another look, but he’s stopped directly at my back, preventing me from seeing him.

  “Who are you?”

  Silence.

  I huff, letting out the frustration, exhaustion, and discomfort in one tight breath.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you something. They will find me. He will find me. And when he does, you’ll have the full force of Trey’s wrath on your head. Not to mention I have a button that could launch a nuke up your ass. Or hell, I could just call in a favor to the SEALs. We’re friends.” I roll my eyes at my own embellishment. “Okay, fine, maybe ‘friends’ is a little exaggerative, but they know me. I’m kind of a big deal.”

  I don’t hide my snort.

  “You did drag me out of a bulletproof town car among a caravan of dark SUVs, so I’m guessing you already know who I am.”

  “More than you know” comes a muffled voice behind me.

  Stretching my neck from one side to the other, I steel my spine, readying to ask the hard questions. “Tell me, were you behind the attacks in Egypt and Saudi Arabia?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Okay,” I say on a pushed breath. “Was it you who said I was responsible for your two friends? One of which you shot because he was assaulting me, I’d like to add.” No one will miss that fucker. Who humps a scalp? I shiver in revulsion. “You did the world a favor with that one.”

  I scream as my head is yanked back by a fist gripping my hair.

  “I’m worse.” Immediately he drops his hold, and I sense rather than see him retreat a step.

  “Your fingers aren’t fucking my throat, and your tiny penis isn’t dry humping my head, so I have to disagree with you on that one.” Maybe I can get to him, make him see I’m a human being, not just a hostage and Shawn’s plaything. That’s what they always say on those crime shows, right? “Do you like unicorns?”

  Direct tactic to building a connection. I like it.

  “That fucking unicorn obsession of yours is strange.”

  My ears perk up at that. So he knows I’m oddly fascinated by the mystical, beautiful creatures. Interesting. Only my inner circle and friends know that. Well, them and my….

  Realization washes over me like a bucket of ice water.

  My agents, the ones by me every day and night. They’d all know about my unicorn-loving heart.

  So that means this man, one of the two who abducted me, is not only someone I know but someone who was on my protection detail.

  Trey and T were right all along.

  But it’s worse than a mole.

  Way worse.

  This agent wasn’t just leaking information.

  He’s a damn traitor who wants me dead.

  Chapter Five

  Trey

  “Come on, hurry the fuck up,” I demand as the elevator slowly descends toward the lobby. Worry-filled glances are exchanged among the few business-dressed men and women. My impatience and combat attire, plus exposed guns, warrant their unease.

  Before the elevator can level off at our destination, I wedge my fingers between two doors and pry them open. An alarm goes off, but I ignore it and the whispers as I rush through the busy lobby and shove through the revolving door. The morning sun’s heat is already brutal in its assault as I step from the shade of the drive-through canopy and onto the sidewalk. Spotting Tank’s idling SUV parallel parked up ahead, I increase my pace, eager to hunt for Smith.

  “The hell you wearing, Benson?” Tank asks as I slide into the passenger seat. I slam the door shut behind me with one hand and adjust the cold air flow toward my face with the other.

  Before I respond, I shift along the leather until I’m comfortable and secure the seat belt behind my back in case I need to make a quick exit. “They brought the war to me, to my turf. Don’t expect me to get dressed up for their fucking funeral.”

  He purses his lips like he wants to make another comment. I dare him with a sharp gaze to question the black cargo pants, black T-shirt, and combat boots. Sure, it’s not standard uniform, but neither are all the exposed weapons. But fuck protocol. Fuck uniforms. Fuck the Secret Service right now. I’m getting my girl back come hell or high water, in one piece, safe, and I’ll burn the world down to do it if that’s what it takes.

  “No fucking way I could do what needs to be done in a suit.”

  “Are you talking to me or yourself like your crazy girlfriend?”

  Turning to the window, I smirk because honestly, I don’t know.

  “What did you bring me for breakfast?” Tank asks, eyeing my empty hands as he weaves through traffic toward downtown.

  Digging into a side pocket of my cargo pants, I toss one of the two granola bars onto his wide lap. Reaching to my other pant leg, I pull out two travel-size protein shakes. After setting both in the cup holder, I lean back and stare out the windshield.

  “It’s all I had. Beth was busy feeding that guy from earlier.” I pause, thinking through the events of the morning for the thousandth time. “I think whoever took Randi would’ve doubled back after everyone was gone to make sure he didn’t leave behind any witnesses.”

  “It’s a possibility.” Tank tosses his phone across the console. I snag it midair before it can hit me square in the chest. “Get someone to stake out the area after the scene is cleaned up to watch for any abnormalities.”

  With more force than necessary, he flicks the blinker, signaling as we enter the highway.

  Running a hand through my hair, I observe the trees and other cars whiz past the window as Tank speeds along the shoulder of the road to miss all the early morning traffic. “We need to be a hundred different places at once right now. Fuck!” I yell, pushing all my frustration into the one word.

  “It’s why we have a team, Benson. A solid team. We’re doing the digging while the others are at the site working the investigation with the FBI and Homeland. From there they’ll peel off and search elsewhere. But we’re here. This is our focus. You’re no good to me, or her, scattered.”

  A slight vibration along my thigh signals an incoming text or call on my phone I’d shoved deep into a pocket of my cargo pants before running out of the condo earlier. To miss a stalled car, Tank jerks into the HOV lane before weaving in and around the congested four-lane highway. One hand gripping the “oh shit” bar for dear life, I rummage around the few pockets in search for the now silent phone.

  Flipping it one-handed, I press the side button to see who reached out. A text box appears from a number not saved as a contact with a thumbnail-size picture attached. Loving a distraction from Tank’s Fast and Furious style of driving, I swipe the screen and open the messaging app.

  What fills my screen is so unexpected, I can only stare at it for a few seconds.

  Everything shuts down. My lungs, my heart, my mind—every cell is nonfunctional as I fixate on the picture of the woman I love. Fear and shock resonate behind her hazel eyes. Blood soils her hairline and speckles her cheeks like red freckles. A blueish tint darkens the fair skin along her forehead down to her cheekbone.

  “What’s going on?” I don’t respond to Tank. I can’t. “Trey, answer me.” Eyes wide, I rip my stare from the screen to look unfocused at the driver seat. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  It’s only now I realize trembles are racking my body, the phone in my hand shaking. Pitching forward, I rest my head between my knees and gulp down air to keep me from passing out.

  “Randi,” I say between gasps. I hold the phone across the console for him to get a quick glimpse.

  “Shit,” Tank barks. The SUV’s tires screech as we fishtail along the shoulder. Only when he reg
ains control does he slam on the gas pedal, sending me flying against the seat. “It’s fine. It means she’s alive. Shoot it over to our guys at the FBI to get a track set up on that number and analyze the hell out of that picture.”

  I nod numbly as I send the picture to our FBI contact. Against my better judgment, I enlarge the picture of Randi again. “She looks fucking terrified. What the hell did they do to her?” The picture blurs as wetness gathers in my lower lids.

  “You’re letting your relationship and feelings for her cloud your judgment again, Benson. Stay focused. My guess, whatever you see on the screen is from the wreck, not them. We saw the town car, the splintered passenger window. They’re not hurting her.”

  Yet. That’s the word he leaves off for my sake. But he’s right. I am letting my feelings for her and our personal relationship hamper any unbiased, unemotional thinking. Not that knowing I need to detach myself can actually help me do it.

  She’s scared and hurt. My girl, the one I swore to protect as my job and as the love of my life. I failed her. This is proof that I don’t deserve her or the love and trust she so freely offers me.

  “Snap out of it, Trey, or I’ll pull this fucking truck over and beat some sense into you, which will waste valuable time. Time she doesn't have.”

  He’s right. Like always.

  Fuck, I need a cigarette. The craving hits hard and fast, making my fingers tremble with need for nicotine to calm my restless nerves.

  To help realign my focus, I swipe the picture, ready to delete the entire text. If it’s still here, available for me to look at whenever I want, it’ll keep pulling my focus. Maybe that’s why whoever sent this….

  Wait a fucking minute.

  “My number isn’t listed anywhere, and not many people have it,” I muse while raking my hands through my hair over and over again like it might help me think faster.

  “Only half of the women in DC.”

  I shoot an annoyed glare his direction. “Not the time for jokes, asshat.”

  “Just an observation.”

  “Fine. I’ll rephrase that. Not many people capable of kidnapping the motherfucking president under the watchful eye of her Secret Service agents have my damn number.”

  “Agreed. So who does that leave us?”

  My eyes shift back and forth, my sight unfocused as I mentally go through the list of names. “Well, all of our team, but they were at the crash site.” My knuckles turn white from my clenched fists. “All but one.” Fury builds in my gut, heating my blood and skin. “That motherfucker is a part of this. I know it. I just fucking know it.”

  The most logical explanation is he’s been the one on the inside this whole time, leaking our information to those who wanted to harm Randi. I don’t know why, and to be honest, I don’t fucking care. All I want is her back safe and whoever responsible to have a bullet between their eyes.

  “It all points toward him,” Tank muses, jerking the wheel to the right. We take the exit that will take us straight to the agency’s main office. “We’ll know more in five minutes. Hold on.”

  With that quick warning, he slams on the gas, sending us hurtling through the streets. Other drivers honk, and a few even raise their hand out the window to flip us the bird. Not that I care. Fuck them and their need to get to work. We’re on a mission to save a life—hell, maybe even save the country.

  Not that I think Sam would do a poor job in the president role, it’s just not his role to fill. Randi, as much as she can’t see it, has done a phenomenal job as president and still has so much she wants to accomplish before the end of her term.

  The SUV’s tires squeal as Tank slams on the brakes, finagling the large vehicle into a compact car parking spot around the corner from our destination. I’m out before the engine is cut, racing through the packed downtown sidewalk, shouldering my way through as I zigzag toward the front door of the agency’s building. Heavy footfalls and barked commands behind me to get out of our way tell me Tank is hot on my heels.

  The glass door nearly shatters as I slam it open, the metal handle clipping the other side door with the impact. Not waiting for the elevator, I make a beeline for the stairwell and bound up the steps three at a time until I reach the floor where I know we’ll find the director.

  With everything that happened this morning, between the president being taken and so many agents dead, I doubt I’ll find her holed up in her office. More than likely she’ll be in the war room surrounded by other high-ranking officials and those she trusts.

  That’s my destination.

  I grip the cool metal lever and give it a hard yank, but the door doesn't budge.

  Locked.

  The door rattles under the pounding of my fist. I relentlessly beat on it until the unmistakable click of a lock releasing reaches my ears. An inch of a gap appears between the door and the frame—all I need. Wedging a steel-toe boot into the small crack, I thrust a shoulder and hip against the thick wood.

  It bursts open from my assault, and a pained cry comes from somewhere between the door and the wall, not that Tank nor I care as we storm into the room. A quick assessment of those in the room verifies what I assumed earlier. Ten directors and higher-ups sit or stand around the long conference table, folders, pictures, and documents scattered along the dark surface.

  Ten sets of eyes blink in shock at the interruption. All except the director, who looks more resigned than surprised at our rude entrance.

  “Agent Washington, Agent Benson, what is the meaning of this?” she shouts from where she leans over the table, a stack of pictures in front of her.

  “We need answers,” I snap, not releasing her furious yet exhausted look. A sliver of guilt eats its way through my conscience. I’m being a dick when she just lost many good agents.

  I shrug a shoulder at my internal turmoil, dispelling the thought on softening my tone.

  “We’re working on that now. Go back to the crash site, wait for further orders—”

  “No,” I state through clenched teeth. “We need answers now on that shady-ass agent you put on our team last year. He’s associated with what happened this morning somehow. Now we just have to find him.”

  Her shoulders rise at my words as several tension-filled lines form along her forehead and between her brows.

  “We can’t find him… again,” Tank adds from where he stands calm and collected beside me, his tone and stance the picture-perfect professional agent.

  Fuck that shit. We need answers, even if I have to be an asswipe to get them. I’ll apologize after I save Randi and lock her away for the rest of her life to ensure something like this never happens again.

  A shake of her head sends several short blonde strands cascading forward, creating a makeshift shield to hide her emotions from us and the rest of the room.

  “Give us a moment,” she says with a sigh. The order hangs in the still room, everyone still standing exactly as they were when we barged inside. “That means now.”

  The shuffling of papers and scrape of chair legs along the worn paper-thin carpet fill the room as the ten people surrounding the table jolt into action. Everyone files out of the room, the one I nearly flattened to a pancake with the door the last to leave, casting a glare in my direction before slamming it closed behind him.

  With everyone gone, I move deeper into the room and pause across the long conference table from the director. Pressing the tips of two fingers against a photograph, I slide it along the smooth surface toward me for a better look. Hopefully they know more than Tank and me. That way we can combine information and piece this puzzle together faster by working together and sharing intel.

  “First of all, it’s not what you think with Agent Smith,” she says, staring at a picture on the table. It’s one of the entire scene, three wrecked cars, the chaos and destruction palpable even on paper. “Second, I want you both to know I take full blame for this. I never should’ve approved the smaller convoy when she went out to visit her”—she flicks a wrist—“specia
l friend.”

  Tank’s cough has me peering over my shoulder, his sly smile there and gone in a flash. Good to know the boys have kept who Randi was visiting private. Who knows what the director would say if she found out Randi’s “special friend” was actually me.

  “No one expected this to happen, ma’am.” Tank steps closer and folds his arms along the back of a chair left pulled away from the table. “It’s no one’s fault except the people who orchestrated the attack and abduction. Which brings us back to Smith and our suspicions that he’s a part of this somehow.”

  “What makes you feel you have enough evidence to accuse a fellow agent of treason?” The bite in her tone signals we’re walking on thin ice. True, it is a heavy allegation, but we do have proof.

  “There was a witness who saw—”

  “What witness?” Her sharp scrutiny levels me from where she sits. “No one has mentioned a witness being found in any of the reports that have come through.”

  “That was our intention.” Shoving the picture away, I press both hot palms to the table’s cool surface and lean forward, pressing most of my weight onto my hands. “Based on the information this man gave us, we suspect the men who attacked had inside information. Information only an agent would know. If no one knows there’s a witness, then the agent responsible for leaking the president’s route and the new surveillance we had installed won’t know we’re on to them.”

  “Who is it? And how do you know he’s telling the truth?”

  “On our inspection of various connecting alleyways—which is how we believe the attackers escaped without the backup convoy seeing them when they arrived—we came upon a homeless man.” Now in full alpha team lead mode, Tank’s words are cold, calculated as he recites what we know to the director. It doesn’t pass my notice that his gaze hasn’t dropped to the table where the pictures of our dead friends and agents lie haphazardly spread out. He’s hurting at the loss. Hell, I am too, but that can’t shift our focus from the current objective—finding the president.