Power Surge
Power Play Series Book 4
Kennedy L. Mitchell
© 2020 Kennedy L. Mitchell
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Design: Bookin’ It Designs
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Proofreading: All Encompassing Books
Created with Vellum
To Annett and Michelle.
Thank you for all that you do!
Inspiration
“Don’t follow the crowd, let the crowd follow you.”
- Margret Thatcher
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
Also by Kennedy L. Mitchell
Prologue
Unknown
The arrogant bastard strides from one end of the opulent living room to the other, his face wrinkled and bunched as badly as his expensive suit. The cell phone pressed hard against his right ear has stayed suctioned there for hours now. Bits and pieces of the one-sided discussion are negotiating terms, but most of the high-pitched words passing his lips are him begging and pleading with whoever is on the other end.
An honorable man would slide from the shadows, reveal himself now to relieve this man of his insistent begging. Too bad for him, I’m nowhere near honorable. Maybe I once was, ages ago, but now there’s no hope for me ever returning to a redeemable man. It’s the thrill, the power I hold watching my prey and knowing their life is in my hands to take whenever I damn well feel like it that hooked me. Watching and waiting for the right moment is my favorite part of the job.
Does that make me a bit of a voyeur? Maybe. It would be a lie if I said I wasn't semi-hard right now from the anticipation coursing through my icy veins as I watch this man’s final few minutes of life. The growing erection has nothing to do with his gender, but the power I currently hold with him none the wiser. Tonight, when I'm done with the job and home in my multimillion-dollar brownstone in the heart of DC, washing away any evidence of this evening’s hit, I won't be whacking off in the shower because he's a man but because of the fear that emanates in his last breath.
That’s my second favorite part about my livelihood. The pure, soul-shaking fear that rolls off them in waves as I extinguish their miserable lives.
Women tend to beg for their lives and, more times than not, offer their bodies for me to do anything with in hopes of me sparing them. Once or twice, a woman was tempting enough to consider the offer, but I’m not a damn rookie stupid enough to leave DNA evidence behind—and disposing of a whole body is a pain in the ass and not worth the quick lay no matter how attractive the mark.
Men are the worst of the two genders when it comes to death staring them in the face. They melt into blubbering messes, pissing themselves and crying because they know. The men know the moment they see me emerge from the dark their life is over, and the fear turns to mourning for the future they’ve lost. They're scared of the pain too, which, coincidently, has never been voiced as a concern by a woman. Guess that makes them the stronger gender, even though the women are foolish enough to hold on to a glimmer of hope until the last second.
I feed off the tantalizing, invigorating, desperate fear they all produce during our… encounter. But the most delicious and erotic fear comes in that very last moment. Those few fleeting seconds before their life is snuffed out forever. I've tried to recreate it. Kill them, resuscitate them, then kill them again. But the second, third, and fourth time the light leaves their eyes and their soul dies, it loses something. So now, unless requested by whoever hires me, I stop at the first final breath, savoring that memory for when I get home and can wrap a fist around my thick dick, then stroke myself until I splatter cum all over the shower wall again and again as I replay the scene like a short horror trailer.
And sometimes, like tonight, I record those last seconds. It’s reckless, of course, and the agency who trained me would be highly disappointed by me keeping a kill memento, but since I can't stand the touch of another human being except in violence, a man has to do what he has to do to take care of his needs.
Tonight’s recording isn't only for my sick pleasures, however.
I don't ask for details on why a client wants a certain person dead. It’s a simple call, all clients vetted through a referral system, relaying the who and any specifics they’d like to add on to the hit. Each specific detail, anything veering off the normal hit menu, costs extra. Which is fine by me. I don’t do this just for the fear high alone. Leaving government work and freelancing has made me a very wealthy man. The way I see it, I’m one of the lucky ones. I do what I love and get paid a shit ton of money for it. I relish the lavish lifestyle I live with zero desire to go back to the basic life I had before.
A noise draws my wandering focus back to the room just beyond the balcony door hiding me from view. The ex-president halts his pacing, launching his phone against the stone fireplace a few feet from where he stands panting. The small device shatters into a million pieces against the stone hearth, the breaking glass piercing the otherwise quiet room. Two suit-covered men bust through the doors, guns at the ready, scanning the room for the cause of the noise.
Careful to keep each movement smooth, I slip deeper around the balcony’s edge, allowing the dark shadows to conceal me from sight.
A shiver runs down my spine despite the humid July heat. This is a new challenge. One I’m fucking greedy for after a few months of simple kill jobs. Never have there been so many erratic complications to work around to complete the job. The two federal agents—secret service or FBI is my guess based off their cheap-ass suits—will present a challenge, but I’ll take it on like no one else can. That's why the men hired me specifically. I'm the best. No one will ever suspect I was here tonight. Not even when I leave a dead body in my wake.
Sure, people will question why the recently dethroned president of the United States would kill himself, but that's not my problem. Once I walk out of here, the job is done, and those bastards who hired me will deal with the media storm that will come after the body is discovered.
Clearing my thoughts, I close my eyes and focus every cell on listening to the quiet conversation inside.
“Are you okay, sir?” says one of the agents, annoyance in his clipped words.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Sir, we’re tasked to—”
“I said get out. And unless my damn lawyers show up with my deal in hand, do not open these doors again.”
The quiet click of the doors is faint but sends excitement pulsing through my chest. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I should thank him for clearing the room for the rest of the evening.
Peeking through the glass pane, I move until a crack in the thick curtains crowded at the edges of the door allows me a visual inside the room once again. My mark slumps
his shoulders, rounding in what looks like exhaustion or defeat, using a few fingers to massage tiny circles along both temples. Based on images from his time in office, he looks like a completely different person.
The man elected president two and a half years ago was polished, smooth skinned, and had a confident aura about him that somehow slithered through the television screen. The defeated man in the room appears to be a shell of that man. Not a single drop of sympathy tightens my gut at the sight, however. He mixed himself up in whatever shit placed him in this position, putting him in my crosshairs. He should've known the type of men he was entangled with, and since he didn't, he’ll die a fool.
I’m not aware of the full extent of the why and frankly don't care. A job is a job. No emotions, no judgment. Stalk, kill, leave. This is the job. It's always been the job.
My calculating gaze flicks from the room to the moon slipping in and out of the clouds overhead. Rain is rolling in at some point tonight, at least that's what the weather man predicted. It's the reason I chose tonight for the kill despite it being a full moon. As long as it doesn't—
Before I can finish the thought, the clouds to the west illuminate with flickers of lightning.
I mouth a curse as I shift back to my target. Thanks to the weather, tonight’s hit now has to be hastier than I originally planned, which fucking sucks hairy balls. My anger grows as another violent display of lightning flashes in the building thunderheads. The need to off those inaccurate motherfuckers on the Weather Channel builds. How did they fucking miss the fact that tonight’s simple rainstorm would include a freaking lightning show?
Calming my raging pulse, I start to move, edging along the brick wall quieter than a slithering snake. My entire focus is on the man just beyond the balcony doors, Kyle Birmingham. Former president, current target, soon-to-be dead body.
I open the glass-paned door with ease, having picked and adjusted the locking system two days ago. Careful to not make a single sound, I step into the massive home before slipping behind the curtains. At my side, my fingers twitch as excited energy zips and zings through my veins, making my breaths short.
The idiot doesn't turn from the flameless fireplace as I creep up behind him, each step soft and calculated. Holding a tight breath, I slip a gloved hand over his mouth and yank, sending him careening backward. The moment his back slams against my chest, he struggles, fighting my hold with the blind panic of being caught unaware. Like I’ve done so many times before, I pop the lid off the plastic syringe with my thumb before stabbing the needle into his thick neck and shoving the plunger down, shooting the drugs into his veins.
The effects of the tranquilizer happen within seconds. His tight muscles, flexing as he fights me, immediately relax, his hands falling limp by his side. Ten seconds after I administer the drugs, his knees give out. I grunt at the large man’s full dead weight in my bear hold. Careful to keep quiet, I drag him to a single leather chair and fold the body down into the soft cushions.
Wonder if he knows this is the exact spot where he’ll die.
Grabbing several ugly-ass throw pillows, I cram one on either side of his legs to keep him from slipping around on the leather. Squatting, I push against his chest, sealing his back to the chair, and hold him there. I smile at his blank face. It will only take a moment before the initial effects wear off, allowing him the ability to blink and eventually speak. With the lightning storm outside threatening the darkness I need for an invisible escape, I'm eager to get this show on the road, but unfortunately for me I can't. A special—and costly—request of tonight’s job is to ask Mr. Birmingham a few questions before I take his life.
Which means instead of wrapping the tie I brought around his neck and getting this over with now, I’m forced to wait.
A corner of his lips twitches, followed by a sluggish blink.
Perfect. Both are the signs I need to get this show started, but not without some reassurances that he’ll stay quiet with some of his faculties returning. I shift to slip the 9mm from the leg holster around my left thigh and withdraw the silencer from a compartment of my cargo pants. With practiced ease, I screw the silencer to the barrel of the gun, my gaze never leaving his.
His hazy blue eyes widen, attention fully on my actions. The faint scratch of metal against metal is the only sound in the gloomily silent room. I pause, twisting on the balls of my feet at the muffled male voices carrying from beneath the door, reminding me of the high risk of being caught red-handed. I smile as a shiver of thrill zips down my spine.
“I'll make this quick,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.
His lips part, his chest puffing out with a deep inhale. The twitch of his right eye tells me exactly what he plans to do next. With a bored expression, I thrust the end of the silencer into his slacks, right against his ball sack, and pull the hammer back. Arching a single brow, I give a shake of my head in disappointment.
“The only sound you'll make is when whispering the answers to my questions. If you comply, then I won't blow off your balls one by one. Understand?”
A single tear streaks down his pallid cheek. Scanning his face, I don’t hold back my sneer of disgust. Sweat dots his brow, more tears build in those lower lids and if I’m not mistaken, the faint scent of piss wafts up from where my silencer is still lodged deep in his balls.
Fuck, now I have to scrub the silencer with bleach.
He’s fucking pathetic. Women really are the stronger gender.
I situate the tiny video camera onto the front pocket of my long-sleeve shirt and hit the Record button on the app. Bone popping against bone sounds as I crack my neck, bringing my thoughts to focus on the next several minutes. “First question, what do your lawyers know?”
His gaze drops. “Nothing.” The word is garbled and wet as saliva builds in his mouth, unable to swallow it down. “Yet.”
“Second. What does she know?”
I have zero idea what they're wondering she knows, or who “she” even is, but it's critical enough to tack on an additional quarter million to the contract to gain the truth to these two questions.
The man blinks once, twice before sealing his lips shut and shaking his head as much as he can with the drugs still coursing through his veins.
“I don't believe you,” I murmur, my words barely audible.
Sweat glides down from his forehead to his temples before combining with the stream of tears streaking his cheeks.
“Doesn't know,” he finally rasps. He tries to swallow a few times before he’s successful. “Idiot.”
I let out an inaudible huff. Adjusting my slight weight from the ball of one foot to the other, I debate his response while taking in his nonverbals. He's lying, but why? Is it the nature of what this woman knows, which would potentially put her in my crosshairs down the road, or is he only protecting this mysterious female?
“You will die tonight.” A stifled wail rattles from his throat. “Might as well tell me the truth.”
The blood seeps from his already pale lips as he seals them firmer together.
“Who is she?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
His head ticks to the side. Internally I curse at myself for letting the question slip.
“Why are you protecting her?” Fuck, what’s wrong with me tonight?
His eyes flick to the closed door. “I did this,” he rasps, his voice like sandpaper against course wood. “Me. Don't let them drag her into this.”
“I'd love to help if I gave a flying fuck.”
“She's just a pawn. A no one.”
“Your lover?”
A haughty laugh tries to escape his trembling throat. “No.”
“If she’s no one and not involved, why is she so special you're willing to risk your right nut being splattered all over this chair?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. Fuck, the tranquilizer is wearing off more than I’d like. This needs to end soon. I could take him, but if I leave any mark on the body, they’ll know it wasn’t a suicid
e.
I tug the ugly-ass tie I stole from his closet last week from the clear plastic baggie in my cargo pant pocket and dangle it across my thigh.
“Tell me,” I demand a little louder than I should.
“Do it.” Calm settles over his ragged features. This stage always happens, the mark thinking they've come to terms with death. And some have until death is a hairbreadth away. That undiluted terror will roar back the moment I slip this silk around his neck.
A minuscule amount of respect pulses through my veins for the man in front of me. With his death imminent, he continues to protect this mystery woman.
“Just tell me one thing.” Vacant eyes stare back into my own. “Why are you protecting her?”
Something like sadness leaks through his ice blue eyes. Confusion sets in. I purse my lips in pure annoyance. If I wasn’t required to make this look like a suicide, I'd make him talk.
Without another word spoken between us, I slip the tie around his neck, double-checking the slip knot so it’ll tighten with a simple tug. Scanning the side table, my gaze rests on a medium-sized iron sculpture. It’s hideous. Rich people and their shitty art. Blue eyes track each of my movements as I secure the opposite end of the tie to the sculpture. I cradle the sculpture in one hand, pressing the other against the top of the chair beside his head, allowing me to hover over him.
“Any last words?” I never ask that; this fucking night is messing with my mind. A part of me wants to allow him one more opportunity to identify this mystery woman and explain why in the hell he's willing to let the secret die with him.
Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4 Page 1