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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “Ew, no. I’d rather die first.” I wince. “Wrong choice of words considering my current situation.”

  A low chuckle rumbles from where he stands now leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his black T-shirt. It’s the same man as earlier; guess he switched his suit out for this mercenary look. All black, even down to the turban-type covering wrapped around his face and head. “Believe me, that fucker Birmingham felt the same way, even at the end.”

  “How…?” Realization sucks the words right out of my throat. A cold chill races through my body, freezing me to the bone. Tears pool before escaping out of the corners of both eyes. I was right, Kyle didn’t commit suicide. This asshole killed him. “Why?” I choke out.

  “Money. Money is always the answer to the ‘why’ question. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

  “You. It was you. All of this was you.”

  “Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. All of this was you. I’m simply the man hired to execute what was already put in motion. All those people, all the death that’s happened in the last year, was all because of you. Those agents dead or injured—your fault. The death of that pompous ass Birmingham—your fault. And today, your death—your fault.”

  “Unless I agree to his demands.”

  Silence. I swear it’s so silent I can hear the sweat dripping between my breasts.

  “What?” he asks calmly, but the change in his stance from relaxed to defensive with my simple statement tells me otherwise. I watch in fascination as he begins to pace again.

  “What the what?” I respond innocently, even though I know exactly what I’ve just uncovered. Shawn is a sociopath and willing to lie, steal, and kill whoever to get what he wants. Apparently this idiot in front of me took Shawn at his word that I’d be dead by morning.

  A hysterical laugh tickles in my lungs, wiggling its way up until it bursts from my dry lips.

  “You actually trusted him?” Another fit of giggles shakes my shoulders. “Oh, you are so fucked.”

  A bone-crunching backhand lands squarely on my right cheek. I scream at the impact, the force like razors up my throat.

  “No one plays me,” he snaps. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He’s playing you.” Swiping my thick tongue back and forth, I gather the sticky liquid filling my mouth and spit the blood to the floor. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Wrong, Randi. Fucking wrong.”

  “Right, and unicorns aren’t real.”

  “Stop it with the fucking unicorn shit,” he bellows. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he paces from one end of the room to the other. “You’ll be dead by the end of the night, and I’ll get to rip apart your boyfriend in the very near future. I deliver you, keep you compliant until the next stage of his plan, and then I leave and kill Benson. This is the plan.”

  My heart lodges in my throat at the idea of Trey being in danger—because of me. “Don’t hold it against me that I hope you’re wrong about the me being dead bit. Don’t take it personally, but I like this thing called living and want to keep doing it.”

  “Fuck, you’re strange.”

  “Thanks?” The rhythmic clip of his boot heels against the hard floor fills the quiet as I debate my next move. It’s like chess. No, screw that. I don’t know how to play chess. Checkers. This is like checkers. “The big-set ones like they sell at Cracker Barrel.”

  “If you don’t stop talking to yourself, I will kill you now despite the amount of money it’ll cost me if I do.”

  “Or you could kill Shawn,” I suggest. “He told me he’d let me go if I willingly stepped down and he moves into the VP role when Sam moves up to president. Which means I’ll have to step down publicly. Which means I’ll have to be breathing, as in alive.”

  “I know the difference between dead and alive, you idiot.”

  “Just wanted to make sure I was clear.” I roll my eyes. “What about Egypt? Was that your fuckup too?” Totally on a roll. I can’t feel my fingers or toes, but damn, I’m on top of it with my psychological game.

  Who knew, right?

  “I. Don’t. Fuck. Up.” The pause between each word emphasizes his disagreement to my accusation. “They did. Not me. Those motherfucking idiots wanted me hands off, said anything else would be too obvious it was me, which would lead the FBI straight to their door. But you took care of that anyway, didn’t you? Which, I must say, helped me in the long run. Got those fuckers out of my hair so I didn’t have to keep playing their information game, allowing me to do what I do best.”

  “Monologuing?”

  I flinch at his menacing step in my direction.

  “Kill. Slowly.”

  “Why do you hate him so much?” I ask. This I’m truly curious about. “Trey, that is? Why hold such a grudge when all he was doing was his job? And me, I guess.” I wiggle in the chair to ease the numbness in my ass and immediately regret it. The shift puts pressure on my at-max-capacity bladder. “Oh shit. I’ve got to pee. Can I get a hall pass?”

  “Then pee.” He nods to the chair I’m sitting in.

  “Ew. Surely there’s a spare bucket or cup or tin can lying around this place that I can use? Come on, do you really want to torture me wet and stinky with my own piss?”

  That makes him debate the pros and cons of allowing me this one small freedom. With an exasperated huff, he reaches an arm back, withdrawing a menacing-looking blade. With two steps, he crouches in front of me. I wince as the ties holding my ankles to the chair tighten before releasing altogether. Relief floods through me at the little bit of mobility as I flex and straighten my feet.

  I stare at the covered face still kneeling in front of me. His dark eyes narrow, no doubt waiting for me to attempt an escape. Lucky for me I’m not that stupid. My hands are still fucking tied, which means I’d get nowhere fast. Plus with the exhaustion and dehydration, I’m in no condition to run or fight or even stand on my own.

  A tightening followed by a rush of blood shoots to my fingers at the loss of the zip tie. Leaning forward, I shake out my hands before bringing them up to inspect the damage.

  I cringe at the slices of ruined flesh marking my wrists and shy away from looking at my ankles. A tight grip under my arm hauls me upright before I’m immediately released, like he can’t stand the thought of touching me longer than necessary. Each step is agony, but I rejoice in the freedom of walking free.

  Bright sunlight assaults my sensitive eyes as we stumble out of the windowless room. I squint to ease the pain, using the brief opportunity to take in some of the details of where I’m being held—but there’s nothing. Just the same abandoned warehouse as before. It seems I wasn’t moved at all, just relocated from one open space to a more intimate one.

  A finger pokes between my shoulder blades, urging me forward. I stumble, barely regaining my footing before I fall forward and slam against a wall, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

  “There’s your bucket.” He hitches his chin toward a rickety plastic construction bucket. “Piss.”

  “Fucking animal,” I grumble. “Turn around, at least.” My shaky fingers are already working the top button of my jean shorts as I survey the damage. As expected, both ankles look as sliced and raw as my wrists. Both legs have long-dried red streaks crisscrossing the skin, along with some that still weep crimson, possibly injuries from the wreck and the broken glass. The jean material of my shorts is stiff with dark red. I pause the inspection and shoot my captor, who’s still facing me, a questioning look. “I asked if you’d turn around.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Madam President. Piss with me watching or don’t piss at all.”

  “Don’t watch. That’s fucking creepy,” I snap.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Creep,” I mutter as I place my back to him and tug the stiff shorts and underwear down to midthigh. Palm pressed against the cracked drywall, I balance myself as much as possible and squat, then focus on peeing. At thi
s awkward angle. With someone watching. Hell, I can’t perform like this. A burning sensation radiates in my bladder, an urgent demand to pee. “Can you hum or something?” I huff over my shoulder. “I can’t pee when it’s this quiet.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You’re the one who took me, so don’t get all pissy that I ask for a little tune to help me pee.”

  “I could always stab you in the thigh. I’ve found excruciating pain triggers the release of all bodily functions.”

  Almost like my body understood the threat in his deep tone, the barrier holding me back vanishes. I nearly groan at the delightful sensation of my full bladder releasing. By the time I’m done, both thighs tremble from the exertion of squatting, and the pain in my side and neck have gone from ouch to debilitating.

  All thumbs and no fingers, I work the top button of my shorts, failing three times to push it through the small slot before giving up. I turn, mouth open to tell this asshole to kill me or leave me be, when a groan of metal has both of us turning toward the sound.

  I stagger back, my backside pressed hard against the drywall as I dart my gaze around the warehouse, desperate for an exit. A sinister smile plays on Shawn’s handsome face, the promise of pain brightening his eyes as he strides to where we stand.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s on her feet. So glad you’re awake for this. Now the real fun begins.”

  My knees wobble and give out. Sliding down the wall, I sink to the floor, unable to do anything other than make myself as small as possible.

  “I’ve waited too long for this, Trailer.” Hand raised, he gestures back toward the windowless hellhole I just walked out of. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  I swallow hard, relishing the burn along my dry tongue and throat. This cannot be happening. I thought I’d have more time, a chance to escape.

  Now, with both men and the wicked gleams in their eyes, I understand the gravity of the situation.

  This is the day I die.

  Chapter Eight

  Trey

  “Fucking hell,” I mumble under my breath as I methodically creep toward the slumped body of Todd Rosen, checking each small section of the floor for evidence before stepping closer. “What the hell happened here?” I rake trembling fingers through the longer part of my hair and yank the ends.

  The metal desk within my reach, I pause my careful steps to stare at the dead body. It’s slouched, somehow still sitting in the leather office chair, head tossed back, jaw slack, and mouth open wide, the expression resembling ecstasy, as if someone unseen was blowing him off beneath the desk. Well, it would look like ecstasy until you took in the one-inch blackened hole between his thin brows and fragments of brain and skull splattered over the back of his chair and wall.

  Shaking off the disturbing scene, I shift my focus to the desk. A single black laptop sits open. Not able to see the screen from this angle, I tilt over the desk and find the screen is black. A single cell phone lies haphazardly nearby, plugged into its charger with another exact replica charger a few inches away. Odd. Why would he have two chargers for the same type of phone? Unless he had two, one conveniently missing from a room with a dead shady politician.

  Nothing seems amiss, no signs of a struggle happening here or anywhere around the spacious office. Leather armchairs are upright, magazines and papers neatly stacked on top of the glass coffee table, and even here on the desk, the pen holder and other small objects sit undisturbed. In fact, the only thing in this office that looks out of place is the body, blood, and gore.

  Bending at the waist, I put myself closer to the desk’s surface, looking for… fuck, who knows. I’m an agent, not a detective. The surface shines, minimal dust gathered around the unused areas, but a large area around the laptop seems smeared. As if a dirty cloth was used to clean instead of one with polish or cleaner.

  Standing back to full height, I glance over my shoulder and point to the desk. “Whoever did this wiped this area clean of fingerprints.” A single step to the right offers a different angle. Then another and another until I’ve rounded the desk and am standing just outside the blood splatter congealed on the oriental rug. This close, I scour the body without touching in hopes of finding more clues to what happened here. “His fingers look to be broken, unless they always had a ninety-degree angle that I didn’t notice.” Swiping a pen from the desk, I lean closer to the right hand and use the pen to carefully lift a stiff finger. “I’m no coroner, but there seems to be bruising and blood around the worst breaks, meaning it was done before the bullet to the brain.”

  Tank’s silence at my brilliant discovery draws my attention from the dead secretary to where he stands in the middle of the room. Head down, phone in hand, his thumbs fly across the screen completely absorbed, clearly not listening to my findings.

  “What are you doing?” I question, annoyed at my friend for being distracted by whatever’s on his phone.

  “I’m calling the FBI,” he snaps. Cutting those dark eyes my way, he tosses a hand toward the body. “In case you haven’t noticed, a fucking political figurehead was executed in his uppity fucking office.”

  “No, not yet,” I grunt as I step away from the desk. Marching toward Tank, I rip the phone from his hand. “Did you hear me? Don’t call them yet.”

  “Benson.” The deep rumble of his voice is laced with warning. “Give me back the phone.”

  “Five minutes. Give us five minutes to piece together what we can on our own before you call.” Only thinking of the need to delay that damn call, I shove the phone in my hand down the front of my cargo pants and nestle it neatly into my boxer briefs right beside my balls.

  “Bastard,” he growls. “Get my phone away from your dick. That screen touches my face.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, but it’s Randi’s life on the line, Davis.” I angle my head toward the body. “It isn’t a coincidence that Vlad said he didn’t trust Rosen, believing him to be dirty somehow, and the man turns up dead the same day the president is abducted. Something isn’t right here. You know it and I know it. Give us a five-minute window alone with the evidence to see what we can find, then call the FBI. You know as well as I do those bastards will swoop in, take over the scene, and give us shit for answers. We need the answers now, not later. Please, we need this to help us find her. I know it.”

  Dark, assessing eyes glance from me to the body and back again, each time looking more resigned to the fact that I’m right. With an exaggerated sigh, he crosses his arms over his chest. “You have your five minutes, Benson. Find something useful.” Disgust crosses his face as he hitches his chin toward my crotch. “And you’re disinfecting my fucking phone.”

  “Is it on vibrate?”

  “Yes,” he answers, brows tugging inward. At my growing smirk, he tosses his hands in the air, knowing full well why I asked. “Fuck you, Trey. That’s disgusting.”

  “What? I’m just saying I hope someone calls.”

  “Four minutes thirty seconds. Use your time wisely, you idiot.”

  Smirk still stuck to my face, I stride back to the body, this time with a little more confidence, and squat low to the floor to inspect the area beneath the desk and chair.

  “Benson.” I pop my head over the desk’s edge. “Don’t leave any damn fingerprints.” A pair of latex gloves comes flying at me. I snatch them midair before they can smack me in the face.

  “You really need to wash that mouth of yours out with soap,” I say loud enough for him to hear as I examine the worn oriental rug. “Sarah will have your ass if she hears you picked up cursing as a new bad habit.”

  Hands to my knees, I push up with a groan. There’s nothing on the damn floor that looks abnormal. I skip over the laptop, not enough time in my small five-minute window to crack the password and to access the data inside. I move to the iPhone and quirk a brow. I don’t need a password for that if I have the owner’s thumbprint, which I do. Well, I actually have the whole thumb, but all I need is the print.


  “First of all, I’m fucking stressed, so cut me some slack. Second, my Sarah knows how you talk. She’ll blame you as the bad influence.”

  I scoff as I snap on the latex gloves. “Even more reason to clean up your act before you get home. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for my death, now would you.”

  “Depends on the day, Playboy.”

  “Ouch.” I chuckle. Phone in hand, I draw it closer to the dead body and hold it below his right hand. “Just so you know, I do feel bad about this,” I say to the dead man. “But not enough to not do it. You understand, right?” The wrist bends under my slight grip; the guy hasn’t been dead very long if he’s still movable. It takes a few tries to maneuver the limp digit, but finally I find the right angle and apply pressure, clicking the phone unlocked.

  Excited to see what the device holds inside, I release the hand. It falls to the side, clipping the armrest on it’s fast descent.

  “Careful, you idiot. Don’t leave any bruises we can’t explain.”

  I nod even though I have zero clue what he just said. I’m too invested in what I’m not finding on the dead man’s phone.

  Nothing. No texts, no emails, no calls or contacts. Everything is gone.

  With a groan of frustration, I click on the Pictures app, hoping there’s something in there that can tell us what the hell Todd Rosen was mixed up in that ended with him shot in the forehead.

  “Fuck me,” I grumble.

  “What? What did you find?” Tank’s by my side, ripping the phone from my gloved hand and cradles it in his own. His eyes widen on the screen. With a hiss, he slams his eyes shut and drops the phone. It clatters to the desk before falling to the floor. “Little warning, asshole.”

  “I feel sorry for whoever was receiving those dick pics,” I grumble as I retrieve the phone to continue flipping through the photos. Holding it at arm’s length in case more pictures of his tiny junk appear, I swipe through the pictures. “Hell, nothing here either.”

  “The text history wiped?”