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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  A thrill rushes through my veins, both loving and hating the violence. I hate doing this, taking a life, but it’s either mine and Randi’s or theirs, and that’s not even a choice.

  Eyes puffy and swollen shut, nose gushing blood and cheeks split, he slumps to the floor, landing in the puddle of his own blood.

  A deep groan has me turning to the last man breathing. My one boot stomps against the floor as I approach the bleeding idiot who’s attempting to crawl away using one arm, the other limp by his side. With zero hesitation, I jerk the small knife from his upper back. His scream of pain is cut short on a gurgle as I slide the sharp blade across his neck.

  Shoving his face to the floor, I slowly stand, wiping the blood from the knife onto my black cargo pants before flicking it back into the casing. The silence sits heavy on my conscience as the weight of taking three lives in less than five minutes settles. I press both hands to my knees, bending forward to catch my breath.

  “Forgot how exhausting fighting for your life can be,” I mutter, hoping it will relieve some the guilt. There was no choice but to kill them, but it doesn’t make the aftermath any easier to process. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  “I like that plan,” says a soft voice at my side. Turning just my face toward Randi, I search her hazel eyes, looking for signs of disgust or accusations, but I only find understanding. “Come on, Trouble. Take me home.”

  Sliding her fingers through mine, I study our entwined hands, allowing the connection to center me. Bring me back to what’s important and what I’m fighting for. And that’s what will get me through the next step of escape.

  Her.

  Us.

  Forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Randi

  Whoa. That was… intense? Not sure if that’s the right word or not. A little scary, attractive in a badass way, and awesome. So is that intense? I’ll have to look up the actual definition when we get back to the White House.

  “Wonder if the library has a Webster’s dictionary on hand.”

  At his hard tug, I stumble against Trey’s rapidly rising and falling solid chest. From exertion or the thrill of it all, I’m not sure, but my quick pulse is definitely from the latter. Dry lips seal to my forehead, the arm around my hips holding our lower halves snuggly together.

  “I love you, Randi. Even the crazy-ass shit you think.”

  With a smile, I steal a chaste kiss and then step back, putting some space between us before I give in to the need urging me to rip off his pants and straddle his waist.

  “Come on, let’s go.” I nod to the door that remained closed during the fight. “Surprised no one came down to investigate the yelling.”

  “Those idiots were sent to rough me up before Whit does whatever he has planned. I bet they were expecting to hear some screams and yells.”

  “Good point.” Hands on my hips, I slowly turn 360 degrees, my bare heels swiveling easily on the concrete floor. “That door is the only way out, and our fire isn’t anything to write home about. So what’re our options now?”

  At his silence, I check over my shoulder and find him considering the mattress.

  “If this is an older mattress, then it will be extremely flammable. We could use it to help with the smoke cover.”

  One hand in the air, I offer it up for a high five. When he simply laughs instead of returning it, I slap my other hand against the raised palm, high-fiving myself.

  “You know that’s seven years bad luck to leave someone hanging like that.”

  “I think that’s breaking a mirror,” he replies on a chuckle as he tugs on and laces up his black boot.

  How in the hell we can have this conversation in this moment is beyond me, but it’s distracting. And I desperately need it before I implode from the pain and stress. I know the odds of us making it out of here alive, and they aren’t good. There are more of them than there are of us, and right now it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  “Let’s do this, MacGyver.” I barely have a chance to grip the other side of the thin mattress when his hand connects with mine, batting me away. With a grunt, Trey hauls it over his shoulder, carrying it on his own. I gnaw on a chipped nail, the sharp edges poking into my tongue and gums as I watch his fine ass flex with each step he takes. “You should wear cargo more often.”

  “Focus, Mess.”

  “I am focused.” I offer a smile when he glances over his shoulder. “On your cute ass.”

  The mattress thumps against the wall, covering the area that’s still slightly smoking. Ignoring my comment, he crouches between the wall and mattress.

  “Want some help blowing?” I shuffle from foot to foot, my anxious gaze darting from above the door to directly below it, where Trey attempts to stoke our measly fire.

  “Sure. You are a good blower. I know this from experience.” He tilts his head up, a wide mischievous smile on his blood-splattered face.

  “Thanks?” On tiptoes, I maneuver around the stairs’ supports and squat beside Trey. The T-shirt’s damp fabric slides beneath my chin as I rest it on his shoulder. I inhale deeply, pushing past the tightness in my lungs and the ache in my ribs before letting out a steady stream of breath directly toward the glowing, charred sheet.

  We alternate stoking the growing flicker until it’s bright orange end dances close to the dingy floral cover of the mattress. Crossing my fingers and toes, I watch with hope and fascination as the fabric melts with the heat. Foul-smelling black smoke rises from the burn marks, floating up and over the edge of the mattress.

  Additional smoke billows upward as the mattress finally catches and burns without our assistance.

  Trey turns with a proud smile, the tips of our noses brushing.

  “Well done,” I whisper. Reaching out, I wipe a few speckles of blood from his cheek. “I knew you’d save me.”

  “I’ll always come for you, Randi. Always.” A frown dips his lips. Unable to stop myself, I place a soft kiss to each corner. “I tried to get to you sooner. It was actually Vlad who gave us the coordinates to the warehouse. Ponder covered—”

  “Ponder,” I huff. “I knew I recognized that voice.”

  A profound line forms between Trey’s dark brows. “How did you not know it was him? Was he not at the warehouse with Whit?”

  I nod, the small movement rolling my brain around my skull. “He kept his face covered the entire time. But I knew I recognized the voice and figured out he was an agent at some point. I haven’t seen him since Shawn had him smack me around to make me compliant or whatever the hell he was trying to achieve.”

  Trey’s face hardens. Placing a palm to his cheek, I shake my head, wanting to chase away the self-accusing thoughts I know are rolling through his mind because he didn’t get there sooner. “Besides a few bruises, I’m fine. You came for me, Trouble. I didn’t let them break me because I knew, I knew without a doubt you’d find me. And look, here we are about to turn the tables on the asshole.” Sitting back on my heels, I give him a smile that probably looks like a grimace. “We really need to get out of here though. I need to get back to work.”

  “Everyone is looking for you. It’s the first time I’ve seen all the different agencies work together for a sole focus.”

  “What about Sam?”

  “They moved him to a bunker the moment we realized you were taken.”

  “Taeler?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hysterical.” My laugh turns into a groan. Wrapping a protective arm around my waist, I offer a small smile. “Think this is enough cover for you to do your Rambo act?”

  “Rambo act?” Bones and joints crack as he stands. Hands on his hips, he towers over where I still kneel. Heat flares behind those honey eyes as he reaches forward to run a hand over my matted hair. “Fuck, Mess. Even with your face bruised and swollen, you’re beautiful.”

  The sound of stomping boots and shouts snaps his attention above us.

  The hand cupping the back of my head g
lides forward, dangling in the air between us. Slipping my hand into his, I allow him to pull me up. He wraps both arms around my shoulders, tugging me into a gentle hug.

  “I need you to find cover wherever you can find it and make a break for it the moment you get a chance. Once you’re out of this fucking house, do not stop running—”

  “What about you?” His sweat-slick shirt sticks to my chest and cheek.

  “I have unfinished business with that psycho upstairs.”

  “That sounds ominous,” I say as I pull back to see him staring straight up, almost like he can see through the landing, past the door, and into the rest of the house.

  “I’ll enjoy killing him.”

  That should not be a turn-on.

  “Something is really wrong with me,” I mutter as I step out of his hold.

  “That makes two of us, because I’m so fucking hard it hurts.” I track the movement as he grips his cock over those sexy pants. “If I thought we had time, I would’ve kept you on your knees for a little longer. Now repeat what I said.”

  “You're so hard it hurts.” My voice is deeper than usual, husky with the need pumping through my veins and tightening my gut.

  At his chuckle, I rip my stare from his crotch to find a wide smile splitting his face. “Not that, Mess. The part about you running and not looking back.”

  “Oh, right. Take cover, run, don’t look back. Got it.”

  I open my mouth to tell him not to damage anything important only to have a billow of smoke fill my nose. I inhale on instinct, and the poisonous smoke burns through my nostrils and down my throat. Immediately my lungs revolt, sending me into a full-fledged coughing fit. Each flex of my abs attempting to force the smoke from my lungs sends stabbing pain blasting through every muscle.

  Eyes watering, I blindly follow where Trey directs me with a firm hand pressed to my lower back. Soft material wraps around my face twice, covering my nose, mouth, and neck. Using the edge of the clean material, I wipe at my eyes and blink to clear my vision.

  The sight of Trey with the white sheet wrapped around his face, only exposing his eyes, startles me. I know it’s not Ponder, I know that, but my subconscious apparently now freaks out at any face covering.

  I step back, and my calves slam against something hard, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms through the air as I tilt backward. In a flash, Trey is there. An arm locks behind my back, steadying me on my feet. Something like concern flashes in his narrowed eyes as he moves back, giving me space.

  “I’m sorry—”

  The words disappear as a rain of gunfire and male voices sounds upstairs. The distinct crack of rapid-fire shots booms through the empty room as a war seems to have broken out in the upper part of the house. A ground-trembling blast rattles my bones and has me seeking out Trey for answers. Without a word, he grips my hand and gently tugs me toward the base of the stairs.

  “Sounds like our friends are here.” The words are distant, muffled through the layers of sheet around his mouth. “Thank fuck. Keep your back to the wall.”

  The wooden studs dig into my back every few feet as I follow Trey up the stairs. He pauses at the landing. At his concerned glance over his shoulder, I shoot him a thumbs-up with my free hand. Fine lines crinkle at the edges of his eyes as he shakes his head.

  “I’m going through first. You stay back until the firefight dies down, and then you make a break for it. We didn’t go through all this for you to get shot.”

  “Good talk,” I mutter.

  “I love you.”

  Those long finger slip from my grip as he positions himself in front of the door, hand white-knuckling the metal knob. After several deep inhales, Trey yanks the door open.

  The ear-rattling noise amps to a deafening level. Without glancing back, Trey slips through. A second later, a body sails through the doorframe, his back slamming to the wooden railing with a thud. The entire staircase shudders with the impact. Blood gushes from his nose, and thin rivers cover his arms and neck, but still he struggles to stand, a gun dangling from a limp hand.

  Time freezes as his gaze lands on me. The earlier fear vanishes, turning calculating. With more strength than just a few moments ago, he grips the railing and hauls himself to a somewhat standing position.

  A fury-filled roar snaps both our heads to whatever’s happening outside the door.

  My hero in black storms through, boots stomping toward the man. Without hesitating, Trey slams the heel of his palm against the other man’s chest, sending him toppling over the railing into the puffs of dark smoke still rising from below. His bellow of protest cuts short with a hollow-sounding thump. I don’t dare look over the railing to see if he’s dead.

  “Come on.” Trey extends a crimson-covered hand, the other now gripping a black handgun. “Time to bust out of this joint.”

  My knees tremble, leg muscles feeling more like noodles than something that can actually support my weight. I cringe as another round of shots sounds behind my back, where the firefight is still going strong.

  “I can’t,” I whisper. The words are nearly silent with the covering over my mouth, so I shake my head so he knows. I’m weak—mentally and physically. The strain from the last twenty-four hours is finally coming to a head. I’ve held on as long as I can, but all my fight is gone.

  Tugging off the sheet from around his face, he nods. “Okay, baby. I’ll help you.”

  Careful to keep his movements slow, Trey steps closer. Blood-coated fingers pull at the sheet, causing it to lower and then pool around my neck. Mindful of my injuries, he scoops me in his arms and holds me tight to his chest. “I’ve got you, Mess.”

  I slide my forearms over his sweaty neck, interlacing my fingers at his nape to help me hold on. Not wanting to see the chaos we’re walking into, I press my nose to his chest and seal both eyes shut.

  Then we’re moving. Each of his heavy steps jostles me in his arms, but I stay silent despite the agony it causes. The shouted commands, cries of pain, and blasts of large guns assault my ears. I press one ear to Trey’s collarbone and attempt to cover the other with a raised shoulder.

  A muffled curse has me peeling my eyes open to see what’s happening.

  Bleeding bodies litter the floor. The heavy scent of gunpowder and blood fills my nose. My stomach rolls, but I swallow back the nausea. We’re in what looks to be an unfurnished dining room when Trey turns, taking us into another section of the house.

  One of Shawn’s douchebag guys tucks into the room at the same time, his focus out the window. He catches our movement, doing a double take.

  I watch in horror as the gun between his extended hands swings our way. It only makes it halfway before an ear-shattering boom rings out. He folds to the floor, the gun clattering beside him. Eyes wide, ears ringing, I search the room and beyond for the shooter who saved us when I find the hand beside my shoulder gripping a smoking gun.

  “Wow,” I say. Or I think I say. Hard to tell when one of your eardrums is busted.

  Keeping the gun raised, Trey restarts our trek through the house. Every so often he hides us around a corner, keeping us out of the direct path of the firefight or from others’ view. He does all this, fighting our way to freedom, while mumbling all the dirty-ass things he wants us to try once we’re out of here and back at the White House.

  The frequency of shots slows, creating a bubble of hope in my chest that the terrifying day is almost done. A long hall looms ahead of us, a door at the end with the top glass shattered. Trey takes a step down the hall, then another. The door busts open, the wood splintering at the hinges before falling to the floor with a loud crash. I shout in terror, curling closer into Trey as men dressed in all black and armed to the teeth pour through the door like ants at a picnic.

  I knew this was too good to be true. We’re not making it out of here alive. I’ll die in this hellhole. Panic rising, I barely hear Trey’s shouted words over my own thundering heart.

  “Was wondering when you special boys woul
d join the party,” Trey says above me. His arms relax a fraction, the gun barrel dipping to the floor.

  No one responds to his quip as they continue streaming past us, marching through the house and rounding each corner gun first in a uniform precision only military training can perfect.

  Ten feet from the door, I relax my near choking grip on Trey’s neck. Half-moon indentions and a few slices from broken nails mark his skin.

  Five feet from the door, I breathe easy, accepting that it’s all over and we’re safe.

  Three feet from the door, a massive shadow lengthens down the parquet hall floor as a mountain of a man blocks our exit.

  Trey trembles behind me, a silent sob catching in his throat.

  Me? My smile is so wide all the cuts along my lips reopen, but I don’t give a damn. Happy tears leak from my eyes.

  “I told him you weren’t dead.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Randi

  T smiles wide as he holsters the gun into his shoulder harness. Trey’s heart thunders against my side, his grip tightening a fraction, putting pressure on my hurt ribs. A pushed breath hisses through my clenched teeth as I fight through the pain; Trey’s too focused on his best friend being alive to notice he’s nearly squeezing me to death.

  “Why don’t you pass her over to me,” T murmurs, keeping his attention on Trey. “I’ll get her to the ambulance that’s waiting.”

  “You’re here.” Tipping my chin up, I try to read Trey’s expression. “The fuck?” He barks a laugh. “I saw them—”

  “It’s a long story, but yeah, I know what you saw, Benson. Now hand me the president, because Smith and I have a present waiting for you.”

  At the mention of the other agent, I turn back to the door. Smith now stands beside T, leaning against the doorframe dressed in similar tactical clothing as the small army still sweeping the house.

  The house that smells like death and smoke.