Power Switch: Power Play Series Book 3

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I need to get out of here,” I say over my shoulder, knowing T is there. “Can someone please let Sam know I have to get out of here? Now.”

  The crowd doesn’t budge as I try to squeeze through. Two familiar faces slide up close.

  “What’s going on?” Trey's signature citrus and spice scent envelops my senses, though it’s a bit duller than usual.

  “Are you okay, Randi?” Jessica asks, her tone light, no genuine concern filtering through.

  “I need to get out of here.” I take another step, trying to break through the crowd, when the room sways. Both hands jut outward, desperate to hold on to anything, anyone to keep me on my feet. “T, I need some air.”

  His heavy arm wraps around my waist, holding me close to his side. The crowd parts for us—mostly T’s wide frame as he barrels through—allowing us to make it across the full room in half the time. Outside, I savor the brush of the cool night air as it soothes the uncomfortable heat building beneath my flushed cheeks.

  Leaning into T, I relax against him, knowing I’m safe with him close.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” I whisper just loud enough for him to hear. “Kyle wanting me and Sam at Camp David? What is he up to?”

  “Not sure, but nothing good, that's for certain.”

  “He’s planning something. Let’s just hope it’s not poisoning the entire turkey to get to me.” I snort at the audacity, but T doesn’t laugh. “It was a joke. He wouldn’t dare risk that kind of exposure.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Just to be on the safe side, I’ll have your cook prepare a few meals, and we’ll bring enough bottled water—”

  “And whiskey. That’s a must.” I nod vigorously.

  “Fine, and whiskey—”

  “Well, while you’re being so accommodating, how about a pack of cigarettes too? I’ve been good. I deserve a reward.”

  “No. Food, water, and whiskey. That’s it.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “When we get back, I’ll let the other teams know of the change of plans. We’ll plan accordingly, knowing we can’t let our guard down even though we’re at one of the most protected locations on Earth.”

  In the distance, the dome of the Capitol Building stands out against the other monuments and buildings. The late-night traffic honks and roars around us as we wait for Sam.

  I sigh. “Hopefully that’ll be enough to prepare for whatever Kyle has planned.”

  13

  Randi

  Outside the tinted window, the nearly naked trees speed past in a blur. Miles and miles of nothing but trees. Complete isolation. Which is why Camp David is where it is, I guess.

  I press my palm to my chest in an attempt to calm my racing heart and building sense of foreboding. Coming out here is a terrible idea. Isolated with only my protection team, and maybe Sam, with their thoughts on my safety. Being out here on his turf is making us all anxious.

  A nagging unease keeps pestering at the back of my mind, urging me to have my team turn the SUV around, to head home and ignore Kyle's demanding invitation to spend Thanksgiving with him. But I can't, can I? Last time I ignored a direct order from him, he put a price on my head, and the alpha team and I were ambushed. Maybe that overreaction on his part was because I defied his direct order, messing with his narcissistic ego, or the fact that it was the OPEC summit and I had the potential to gain insight into his dirty oil dealings.

  Whichever it was, I'm not that crazy to test my luck again.

  Twice I've lived when he wanted me dead.

  I'm not a kitty with nine lives. This is the real world, and at some point, the hazards around me will succeed in removing me from office. Dead or alive. An unsettling thought, sure, but at least I have the men in this SUV and the ones in front of us and behind. Their presence is what helps me sleep at night.

  Well, that and the sleeping pill the doctor prescribed. That shit is legit. Not that it’s helping with the stress while I'm awake, but the much-needed sleep makes everything during the day more manageable. Between the normal sleeping patterns and basically being force-fed several times a day, I'm living a healthier life since the poisoning.

  Go me.

  “How much longer?” I ask, fighting with the thick material of the seat belt tightly secured across my lap. Freaking T. I swear, if he could put me in a five-point harness like a five-year-old he would.

  “Ten minutes,” Champ says from the front seat.

  “Nervous?”

  Elbow on the window’s edge, I rest my head in my hand and turn in the leather seat to face Sam. Today, he's ditched the normal suit attire he's always wearing, instead going for a more casual look with trendy jeans that hug his thick thighs nicely and taper at the cuff. The black sweater is tight along his defined chest, showing off the curves of the pecs I know he's hiding under the thick clothing. The sleeves are shoved up his forearms, allowing a hint of his colorful artwork to peek out near his elbows.

  It's a good look for him.

  When I finally meet his intense gaze, a small knowing smirk is tugging at his lips. Damn, he's handsome. His dark hair, tan skin, and piercing green eyes perfectly encompass the brooding look he's no doubt going for. I'm sure all the women fall at his feet, offering themselves for just a date with him.

  “Why don't you have a girlfriend?” I ask instead of answering his question. This one is more pressing. “How long ago was your divorce?”

  I swear a hint of blush flushes his cheeks before he turns to focus out the windshield.

  “Seven years ago. And as to why I don’t date, work mostly. It's hard to treat a woman right when you're working eighty-plus hours a week.”

  “Did you always know you wanted to go into the justice department?”

  He nods as his Adam’s apple works, sliding up and down his throat. “I always wanted to make a difference.”

  “Oh?” I lean forward, pressing my elbow onto the center console. “Why's that?”

  Sam flicks a quick look my way before leaning back into the leather seat. He slides his hand down the thighs I was just admiring, widening his stance on the floorboard and shifting in the seat.

  “My parents.”

  I wait for more. And wait. And wait.

  “Good story,” I say with an incredulous snort.

  With a shake of his head, he begins to systematically pop the knuckles on his left hand, then right.

  “We were wealthy growing up, but then it was all taken away. Bad investments with a guy running a Ponzi scheme. One day we had it all; the next we were nothing. Our friends turned their backs on us, we lost the house, the staff, everything. I was fine with it, wasn't that big of a deal. I was about to graduate high school, already had college locked up with scholarships.”

  “Academic or sports?” I cut in.

  The corners of his lips twitch up. “Both.”

  “Which sport? You seem like you'd play….” Finger to my lips, I tap against the soft surface as I give him a pointed full-body scan. “Chess.”

  The men in the car chuckle while Sam's lips split in a full smile.

  “Rowing.”

  “Oh. Didn't even know that was a sport.”

  “Really? That's surprising.” He narrows his brows, causing a deep line to form between them.

  “And why's that?”

  He shoots a concerned look up front, his eyes meeting T's in the rearview mirror for half a second.

  “I just assumed… since you and Benson were whatever you were….”

  “What about Trey?”

  “He rows. I didn't know who he was until I met him that first time, but I started to notice him at the club.”

  “The club?” I whisper.

  “The Potomac Boat Blub. We've crossed paths a few times since then.”

  “Oh, right. That club,” I say with a nervous laugh. Embarrassment at not knowing this side of Trey’s life creeps up my neck, heating my cheeks. Sliding along the leather, I adjust in the seat to lean my forehead against th
e cool, dark-tinted window. “We digress. Your family. The Ponzi scheme.”

  “Like I said, I wasn't devastated.” The heaviness in his tone has me rolling my forehead along the glass to see across the SUV. Gaze locked on the headrest in front of him, he slides his palms up and down his dark jeans. “But my dad was. Hated that we lost everything because of him.”

  “Sam, I didn't—”

  “I was the one who found him.” The pain in his voice cuts through my earlier embarrassment. Again he adjusts uncomfortably in his seat. “Nothing was the same after that.” His longing-filled sigh envelops the silent SUV. Even the guys up front stay quiet, their normal banter dropped for the moment. “It was then that I knew I wanted to be in a role to take down people like the man who took my family from me. With the DOJ, I get to uncover the filth of America who think they’re above the law.” The thin muscle along his jaw twitches. “I don't want anyone else to go through what I did.”

  I swallow hard before taking a sip from my water bottle to soothe my dry throat. “Did they ever convict the guy?”

  Sadness settles in the SUV like a heavy blanket. Sam shakes his head, his shoulders rounding slightly. “They had enough, but someone leaked the information before they could arrest him. He's been in the wind ever since. Every now and then, I try to track him down using my connections from work, but every time I get close, he vanishes.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. I reach across the center console and grip his hand with my own. “Truly. I can't imagine any of that. It makes sense why you're so insistent on making sure Kyle pays for his crimes, what he's trying to hide from everyone.”

  “It's an abuse of power on his part,” Sam grits out, the fingers beneath mine tightening into a fist. I hold back a cringe of pain. “That's what we can get him on. He's using his role as president to manipulate laws, to allow federal land access, not doing due diligence in contracting drilling companies. He has to be stopped. No one, and I mean no one, should have that kind of power.”

  I nod in agreement, because I do agree 100 percent, but it won't be easy. Maybe he's too focused on tracking the information to see the other hurdles we'll have to get through. Getting the House and Senate to agree on moving forward with the impeachment trial is the biggest one. It’s one thing to have the evidence, but for them to agree on anything will be a damn miracle.

  Sweat builds beneath my palm where our hands are still connected. Clearing my throat, I slide my hand from his, pulling past the bit of resistance he gives by holding on tight.

  “You realize the evidence is a small portion of what needs to happen for impeachment, right?” Careful to not attract attention, I drag the sweaty hand down my thigh to rid myself of the evidence of the touch. Thank goodness Trey rode in the lead SUV today or he'd have pitched Sam out of the moving vehicle by this point.

  “One step at a time,” Sam mumbles.

  “I don't think that's the smartest plan, Sam. We need to start working on congressmen and senators. Planting the seed of what we're planning and getting them on board now.”

  “And what if they tell Birmingham?”

  “He already knows you're looking into him. If anything, it’ll confirm what he already thinks, that I’m an idiot and can’t see that you’re using me for my connections. We’ll have a better idea of what he suspects after this fun getaway, you know.”

  He shoots a side glance my way. “I suppose.”

  Sighing, I press my fingers against my throbbing temples. The headaches aren't nearly as bad as they were days after the poisoning, but when they do come, it's unexpected and nearly debilitating.

  I feel his stare even with my eyes sealed shut. Damn, this headache came on faster than the others. “Just think about it.” The throbbing in my head intensifies, making each thought more painful than the last. “Let's talk about this later. T?”

  “Two minutes.”

  Leaning back against the seat, I inhale deeply, focusing on the cool air filling my lungs and trying to get my muscles to relax.

  “Have they run any more tests since the incident?” Sam asks, concern in his voice.

  “No,” T practically growls from the front seat. “She's as stubborn as a damn mule.”

  Good to know the guys are comfortable around Sam now, dropping the “ma'am” shit and back to talking to me like they always did when we were alone.

  “But way prettier,” I whisper. “If I have an opinion on the matter.”

  “No doubt, but it doesn't change that you're acting like an ass.”

  Even with the pain, his words make me smile.

  “What if they're still poisoning her?” This time Sam's voice is closer, no doubt encroaching on my personal space once again. I urge my eyelids to open but can't find the energy to fight through the pain. “Ever thought of that, Randi?”

  “We're monitoring everything she's eating, everything she's drinking. There's no way.” The resolve in Champ’s voice fades with each word, making the last one sound more like a question.

  The men continue talking, but I tune them out, trying to keep their loud voices from splitting my sensitive ears. Maybe Sam is right and I should let the doctor run more tests. More because this is becoming a nuisance than anything. But it could also simply be the stress of this job taking its toll in a more physical way. At least that’s what WebMD said. It’s either the stress or I'm dying and should seek immediate medical attention.

  Eh, those websites are always a bit dramatic, probably written by someone like me. It could be the common cold or Ebola.

  Yet I search the stupid site time and time again, thinking their prediction will make more sense or at the very least offer a smaller lethal gap in diagnosis.

  “Death would really suck,” I whisper.

  At some point while I'm preoccupied with simply surviving this migraine, we arrive at our destination. The SUV pulls to a slow stop, the seat belt tugging slightly to keep me from falling forward. Crips fall air brushes my hair across my face as the door swings open. Slowly opening my eyes despite the pain, I focus on the dark mass now blocking out the sun.

  “Another headache?” Trey's familiar deep voice soothes the anxiety of being helpless these headaches invoke.

  T answers for me. “Yeah. This one seemed to come on quicker than the others.”

  “What the hell is going on with you, Mess?” he whispers as he dips into the cab, no doubt readying to scoop me into his arms and carry me into the cabin.

  Nope, not going to happen.

  “Stop. I can walk,” I grit out as another burst of pain flares behind my eyes. “I can’t let you carry me in there. Kyle cannot see me weak or he’ll take full advantage.”

  Grinding my back teeth, I scoot to the edge of the seat and grip the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. Even with the overcast day, the peeking sun’s brightness assaults my eyes. Instinctively I squint to minimize the damage. Trey grumbles something as I step out onto the smooth concrete.

  Hard plastic slides along my temples before settling along the bridge of my nose, casting darkness over my vision. I let out a sigh of relief and adjust the sunglasses to keep the heavy frames from slipping down the bridge of my nose.

  “Thank you.” I tilt my head left and then right, looking at all the different angles through the expensive sunglasses the agents are required to wear as part of their uniform. “Wow. No wonder they seem attached to your face at all times. Can we order me a pair?”

  With a grunt of what seems to be agreement, Trey places a hand against my lower back, guiding me toward the massive set of wooden doors with ornate iron work decorating the front.

  Did I say cabin? I retract the earlier statement and now would like to add to the record that we've arrived at the estate. I should've known the Camp David would be a massive compound.

  Both doors swing open. Welcoming smells and the murmur of happy chatter greet us as we step over the threshold into the gilded cage. At my side, Sam slips his hand into mine, giving m
y cold fingers a slight squeeze for reassurance.

  The murmuring silences as my entourage and I stride into the large living room. A few women openly roll their eyes my way and then turn back to their conversation partners, dismissing me outright.

  Palpable anger attracts my attention to the roaring fireplace. My stomach tightens at the pure hate seeping through Mr. Hindle's hard stare. Beside him, a lovely woman, who I recognize from the research I did last year on his family, holds his bicep, struggling to draw his notice back to her. Of course he’s here.

  Wait a minute.

  If he was a big campaign donor, then maybe….

  I make a mental note to think harder on that when my brain doesn’t feel like an ice pick is piercing through it with every thought.

  A man stands from the overstuffed couch and turns to face me. Todd's smile is strained as he approaches. His weak hand extends between us, slightly shaking. Which is fine because mine is too, considering all my energy is channeled into my knees not buckling under my weight.

  Revulsion slides down my spine, churning my stomach as his moist palm slides into my own and gives it a squeeze that wouldn't even crack an egg.

  Ugh. Weak handshake. Who chose this guy for our secretary of state again?

  Kyle moves into view, pausing beside Todd, whose face is overly tight like his Botox is just now kicking in full force. His lower lip appears slightly poutier too.

  “Good to have you here, Madam VP,” Kyle says. “Pierce, welcome to Camp David.”

  “We didn’t really have a choice, now did we, Mr. President,” I say just as lackluster as his greeting was. We both know this is all for show. There are more hate-filled forced encounters between us than pleasantries at this point. “Todd, good to see you. Haven't seen you since that night at the Benson estate. You know, the one where we celebrated that horrible bill failing in the Senate.”

  “Take those damn glasses off,” Kyle hisses as he reaches out and swipes them off my face. I blanch at the bright overhead lights but hold back from showing any other reaction. “Of course you're hungover.” Sure, we'll go with that, not dying from the inside out. “The apple isn't falling far from the white trash tree, is it?”