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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  Sure, I was a rich bastard too, but I never used my family name or money to cover my mistakes. No, I spent it all on clothes, shoes, and fast bikes and cars. But it seems I’m an anomaly.

  Midafternoon sun blazes high in the cloudless blue sky, its unrelenting rays scorching the exposed skin of my neck. Even with the material of my T-shirt wicking the sweat from my back as soon as it forms, I’ve sweated through the entire shirt from the intense summer heat. I’ve stood here, feet from where we found the cell phone, calling and digging for information on Whit while waiting for Smith’s Homeland buddies to give us another lead to track.

  Tank’s deep voice rumbles from across the street, where he chose to post up in the shade. But me, I couldn’t move from this spot. For some reason, the thought of crossing the street to be more comfortable made me angry. Why in the hell should I be comfortable, not sweating like a pig and dying of thirst, when Randi is out there probably feeling the same way without any option of escaping the heat?

  That’s why I can’t bring myself to move. It makes no sense, but in the back of my mind, it feels like I’m betraying her if I search for relief from my discomfort.

  The thin, solid metal of the phone slides beneath my tight grip with the sweat slicking my hands. I tuck the device into the back pocket of my cargo pants and wipe both soaked palms down the front of my shirt, which only wicks up the sweat from my chest, dampening the shirt further. I could wring the thing out at this point.

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Drops of sweat sprinkle from the tips of my hair as I rake a hand through the damp locks. “Where are you, Mess? Where the fuck are you?”

  A tickle against my ass draws me out of my discomfort. I retrieve the vibrating cell phone, flip it around, and check the screen.

  My eyes narrow at the call coming through.

  UNKNOWN

  A line of smeared sweat is left along the bottom part of the screen as I hastily swipe to answer Vlad’s call.

  “Please tell me you have something.” I hold my breath, tugging at my hair as I pace from the brick building to the curb and back again.

  “Do not expect me to ever tell you how this information was found.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I don’t give a fuck if you have damn spies lurking around DC and that’s how you got it. Just give me what you have.”

  “Coordinates will be sent to this number now. You make him pay for this, yes?”

  “Without a doubt.” I growl.

  “Good luck, then.”

  The glass peels from my ear as I pull the phone forward, eyes glued to the screen. A text flashes, the coordinates Vlad promised. But coordinates to what, he didn’t say. All that matters is this could be the location where I’ll find her.

  Gripping the phone so tight the frame bends, I shake out of the stunned stupor I’d frozen into and race across the street toward the SUV. I shout at Tank, yelling at him to hurry the hell up. At the first tug, the chrome door handle slips from my hand, rocking me back on my heels. Narrowing my eyes at the door like it personally offended me, I yank it open with more force than necessary and slide into the passenger seat before slamming the door closed behind me.

  The driver side door slams shut immediately after. “Where are we headed?” The engine roars to life. Warm dry air pumps from the vents before changing to lifesaving air-conditioned cold gusts.

  “Here.” I plug the coordinates into my phone and link the screen to the navigation system on the dash. “It’s a lead from the Russian. He told me not to ask how or where he got it.”

  “Probably has spies everywhere.” Without checking the mirrors, Tank slams on the gas, shooting us onto the street. The tires squeal as he makes a tight U-turn, unconcerned about the cars coming straight for us. Their brakes lock up as they come to a screeching halt to not T-bone us.

  “That’s what I said, but I don’t give a fuck right now. All that matters is her.”

  “It could be nothing, or hell, a trap.”

  I nod in agreement, but the feeling in my gut tells me the information is solid. “Vlad likes Randi, as strange as that relationship is. I think he’s actually concerned with her well-being and probably called in a few favors of his own to gain this information. I doubt he’d send us into a trap.”

  Tank shoots a cautious glance my way. “We need to let everyone know what’s going on. We have to call in backup.” The navigation voice tells us we’re ten minutes away. “We’re so far from the crash site they probably won’t have enough men over to us in time. We should wait—”

  “We’re not waiting,” I growl. “I agree on the backup. I’m texting the director now to send whatever air and land power they can drum up to this area. But we’re not waiting.” After messaging the director, I shoot a quick text to Smith with the same coordinates. A response comes almost immediately with his ETA. “Smith is twenty out. He’ll go in with us.”

  “Make sure they send an ambulance with her blood type—”

  “I fucking know what she might need,” I snap as my thumbs fly across the screen, texting back and forth with the director. “I’m not a fool. I know what I might be walking into and what I might find. But I’m not going there right now, Davis. Right now I’m focusing on the fact that we have a lead, and that puts us one step closer to her and me murdering those fucksticks.”

  “I get where your head needs to be now, but if we’re going in without backup, you cannot turn into a possessive, protective boyfriend when you see her in rough shape. I need Agent Benson with me covering my ass.”

  “It’s a big one to cover,” I slide in, trying like hell to laugh through the panic inside me.

  “Seriously. We clear the area, get the president somewhere safe, and then you can freak the fuck out.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I say as I will a cool calm to wash through me. It’s the same focused calm I learned to settle into during the few battles I engaged in during my stint in the army. It covered all emotions with a blanket, readying me to do whatever it took to save my own life and those of my brothers fighting alongside me. And I’ll do whatever it takes now to save her. “Just remember what we agreed.”

  “I remember.”

  “I don’t care if the place is crawling with cops and agents. I get my alone time with them.”

  Outside the windshield, well-kept buildings and businesses fade from this part of town, replaced with warehouses. The farther we drive the more deserted the area becomes. Litter collects along the curb, spilling over onto the sidewalk in some areas. Twenty minutes from where we found the phone, we’ve gone from trendy business district to the forgotten side of the city.

  Vacant warehouses with missing windows and doors line the street. Tall dried weeds sprout between the numerous cracks along the street and pieces of sidewalk that remain. A few buildings that are clearly abandoned are protected by hole-riddled chain-link fences that have failed at their job of keeping looters and vandals at bay.

  Gravel crunches beneath the SUV’s tires as it slows to a rolling stop. Tense silence swells, only broken by the grind of metal as I engage the slide on one of my nine millimeters. In the driver seat, Tank checks a clip before slamming it into place and doing the same with another three handguns. Tension rises to a near snapping point as we finish the last of our checks.

  “Ready?” His tone is gruff with worry. “Trey, if this—”

  “Ready.” There’s no need to voice both our fears. His is that this could be a trap, mine that this is a false lead. Neither fear will help the situation; we have to suck it up, shove it back, and do what we came here to do.

  Save the president.

  The specific warehouse smack in the middle of the coordinates Vlad sent is still a block away from where Tank parked the SUV, carefully hidden between two buildings. Even with the distance between us and the warehouse, we soundlessly ease the doors open, careful to not break the desolate quiet that’s engulfed this place. Remnants of asphalt, litter, and shards of glass crunch beneath our quick
steps as we creep closer, using forgotten dumpsters, stairwells, and sides of other buildings as cover.

  At the corner of a tall brick wall, Tank’s dark fist bolts into the air. I skid to a stop, nearly slamming my nose against his back. Chest ballooned out with a fortifying inhale, he peers around the building for a visual on our goal. Gun held tight between my hands, I seal myself to the crumbling brick while he debates our next move.

  Tank taps my shoulder moments later, pointing forward and then right, indicating which way we’ll zigzag heading for the new cover. Without hesitation, I follow behind him as he slips around the corner and dashes across the crumbling blacktop. The glare blinds me momentarily as I shift from the cool comfort of the shadows to race across the empty parking lot, dodging panes of glass and empty bottles to keep our approach silent.

  Breathing hard from the anticipation thrumming through my veins, I crouch beside Tank, who’s pressed against the building. Just steps away, around the corner, we’re concealed behind a set of steps leading up to a closed army green dented and rusted door. Elbows resting on my bent knees, bouncing on the balls of both feet, I wait for him to detail our game plan. Because that’s what he does. I’m the jokester who everyone loves, and Tank’s the planner. It works for us.

  “Let’s assume there are at least five armed men in that building plus the president. There’s no way Ponder took out all those agents, detonated the blast, and took out the surveillance system on his own. That team plus Whit.” With a quick glance around the corner of the building to the front door, he ducks back. “We need another point of entry,” he mutters low enough for me to hear but keeps his voice from traveling. “If this is a trap, they’ll be expecting us to come through the front door.”

  “There’s a low window around back.” Both our guns whip to the right at the first muffled word, our sights zeroed in between Smith’s brows. “Don’t shoot.” You’d think a man would be terrified with two guns pointed at his head while he stands unmoving, no gun drawn, but not Smith. No, that dumbass just stares us down with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Tempting,” I mutter while lowering the gun. How the hell we didn’t hear him approach is either a testament to our focus on saving Randi or his training. “Did you see anything else?”

  Crouching low next to me, he shakes his head and leans back against the building. “Just that one point of entry besides the massive loading dock doors, but those look rusted and would make a hell of a lot of noise. I peeked through the window before finding you two, didn’t see any movement.”

  “My gut tells me we’re at the right place.” I incline my head back toward the warehouse.

  “It could just be the two inside and that’s why we don’t hear anything. Maybe they killed off those who helped them this morning already. If I were them, that’s what I would do.” I raise both brows at Smith in surprise at his statement. “What? The fewer people involved, the less likely for things to leak or go sideways. If it were me, I’d only want me and the client to be breathing after this.”

  “Fucking hell,” I mumble. “Ten, five, two—who the fuck cares how many are in there? We need to get inside now.”

  “True. She might already be dead.” I lunge toward Smith, ready to snap his neck, but two strong hands grip my shoulders and hold me back. “Is the backup on its way?” Angling his head one way and then the other, he cracks his neck, the picture of casualness in this tense-as-hell situation.

  “Ten minutes out. I asked them to hold back until we give the signal.” A worried look crosses Tank’s sweaty dark features. “I don’t want to risk them feeling cornered. Shit will go sideways real quick if they do. If it is Whit behind that door with Randi, he’s liable to kill her and then himself before surrendering.”

  “Good pep talk,” I hiss. Moving the gun to my opposite hand, I flex my fingers in an effort to get the blood flowing from my white-knuckled grip. “Let’s be realistic here. If Whit sees me, he’ll immediately know Tank isn’t far behind.” The various potential scenarios shuffle through my thoughts. “But he doesn’t know about you.” I incline my head to Smith. “You take the window you spotted and lie low until absolutely necessary. The longer he doesn’t know you’re around, the better.” Turning on the balls of my feet, I face him square on. “Whit and the fucker who took her are mine. If you have to intervene, wound them, but do not take the kill shot. Understand?”

  His light eyes search mine before he nods and slips back the way he came.

  I wait until he’s out of sight before turning back to Tank.

  “I’m going through the front door. You can come with me or find another way in. I agree about not making Whit feel cornered, and if it’s several of his hired guys against one, he won’t. There’s no way that fucker is in there alone, which means all their attention will be turned to me. That will give you a chance to slip in and get Randi somewhere safe.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “You love me.”

  He shakes his head. “For some fucked-up reason.”

  “Again with the language. I really don’t want to get on your wife’s shit list.”

  “How about I make you a deal, Playboy?”

  Despite what we’re about to walk into, I smirk. “I’m listening.”

  “I won’t tell my Sarah about you teaching me such foul language if you make it out of here alive today.”

  The smirk turns into a full-on smile. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll let them bring you back to life just so she can kill you herself.”

  I cringe. “Deal. No dying or I’ll die twice. Now there’s a motivational speech for you. You should cross-stitch that shit on a pillow.”

  Not waiting for his response, I stand, suppressing a groan as my knees crack, then switch the gun back to my dominant shooting hand.

  “I’ve got your back, Benson. But please, for everything that is holy, don’t do anything stupid.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I offer him a smile. “Same, bestie.”

  “Gotta go and make it all weird.” He shakes his head, but a hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

  This is what we needed. A beat to relax, forget about the potential death we’re walking into, to ease the pressure the task of saving the president has resting on our shoulders.

  Brown weeds drape over the crumbling sidewalk and fill the thick cracks running along the cement as I walk along. I take the three steps in one leap, putting me directly in front of the door. On a burst of hot, dry wind, it swings open half an inch before squeaking closed once again.

  I pause, trepidation filling my gut and turning it sour as I stare at the unlocked door. No one would be that careless unless it’s part of the trap, allowing easy access to the inside of the building so they can ambush whoever is dumb enough to walk through that door.

  The heated metal burns my palm as I place a steady hand on the rough surface, but I hold it there despite the pain while I give myself a final inhale to focus every thought and muscle on what’s about to happen.

  Thoughts clear, I step forward, inching the door open, when a loud curse from the other side has every muscle locking in place.

  I know that voice.

  Hatred and loathing infiltrate my earlier calm at the sound of Whit’s string of curses.

  A slow, cruel smile spreads across my cheeks as his voice filters through.

  He’s here, which means she’s here.

  I’ve found her.

  Time to play, motherfucker.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Randi

  A shout, or maybe a string of shouted words, breaks through the peaceful darkness I’d slipped into. Nothing hurts here. No fear, no pain, no… anything. Just the calmness only the deepest shadows of my mind can offer, protecting me from what waits for me out in reality. I should remember this dark corner for the next deficit budget meeting.

  Reality creeps closer as the shouting intensifies, shattering my little unconscious haven. Shawn’s raised voice and
quick curses assault my ears, almost like he’s yelling directly beside my head. I cringe as he continues, demanding me to get up. A whimper escapes at a hard jostle of my shoulder, shaking my entire broken and bruised body and sending agony shooting along every bone, joint, and muscle.

  “Get up,” Shawn demands with a swift kick to my hip. I roll with the impact only to flop back to the floor.

  I can’t move. From the fact that every inch of my body is in pain, I know I’m awake and able to feel, but for some reason, my attempts to lift myself off this floor fail. Maybe I’m broken, too far gone inside my own mind, or perhaps my broken body has finally given up completely, leaving me defenseless to what’s to come.

  The conversation from earlier blares to the forefront of my mind, reminding me of what my unresponsive body has left me vulnerable to. A trickle of fear slithers through my veins and weighs in my gut like a lead ball, but still all I can do is stare unseeing at the far wall, my body limp.

  A shudder racks through my weak body at another incentivizing nudge against my side. My body moves with the motion, rolling halfway only to flop back to the floor like a limp rag doll.

  A distant part of my mind screams at me to wake the hell up and fight, to not give in this easily. I’ve put up a good fight; would it be that terrible to give in to the pain and fear, let it suck me under, never to breach the surface again?

  But the sadness of the truth holds back that fight. The truth that my whole life, everything I’ve done and worked for, no longer matters. I’ll never see Trey again. Never hold my grandbaby or hug my beautiful daughter again.

  Even with the end looming, I focus on the good memories. I’ve lived a good life with lots of love, struggles, and successes. The best part of my life started with that positive pregnancy test all those years ago and ended with Trey asking me to marry him.

  Grief’s claws shred my heart knowing we’ll never get our happily ever after. Never have lazy Sundays on the couch binge-watching Netflix or consecutive mornings waking up next to one another. Grieving the life I’ll never have but always wanted hurts and offers more physical pain than the injuries I’ve sustained so far. I have to accept the end of Randi Sawyer is near. No one will find me in time and save me from this terrible fate. Because even though it hurts to accept that we won’t be together until we’re old and gray, it hurts worse clinging to a false hope that all this will be over soon.