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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  I survey the entire area as I approach the steps and begin the short climb to the front door. Professionally sculpted hedges and brilliant flowers line the circular pull through. A high-tech security camera points directly at me with another two or three lining the edge of the brick home.

  I squint, fighting off the late morning sun as it sears my eyes, making me regret forgetting the agency-issued sunglasses at home. “But the rest of that statement was true about him being a tool and flaunting his money if he had it. So then what’s all this?” I wave toward the colonial-style home, immaculate grounds, and… fuck, is that a fountain I hear nearby?

  “No idea, but something feels off about it all,” Tank says over his shoulder as he marches up the steps.

  A red monstrosity looms before us at the top. Well over ten feet tall and just as wide, the double doors feel like a warning of some kind. A hint that if you pass through the doors, you might not come out alive.

  Shaking off the eerie feeling of being watched, probably from the security cameras and the person monitoring the feed, I forgo knocking. The large brass doorknob barely fits into my hand as I give it a twist, hoping to find it unlocked hoping to catch the bastard off guard. Legal ramifications of doing this without a warrant be dammed.

  Of course I’m not that lucky.

  Grumbling under my breath, I pound a fist against the door, the thick wood barely vibrating under my onslaught. The side of my hand burns as I continue to demand entry until it swings open, leaving my hand hovering midair. A man in a black suit stands in the middle of the doorframe, his glare darting from me to over my shoulder where Tank stands.

  “Secret Service,” I state, shoving my credentials an inch from his nose. His scrutinizing gaze rakes over my information. “We need to question Mr. Secretary on his involvement with the incident this morning involving the president’s disappearance.”

  The guard’s eyes widen a fraction, slack jaw erasing the earlier indignation.

  Using his surprise to my advantage, I shove him aside with ease and step into the foyer.

  “Where is he?” I question as I take a quick scan of the opulent foyer, searching for the fucker we’re here to question. A deep ache pulses in the muscles along my jaw from the constant restraint from roaring and releasing all this held-back wrath.

  “In his office,” the guard states, shaking his head. Suspicion creeps in at how quickly he accepted the idea that his boss would be a part of the attack. Either he’s setting us up or has seen enough while on duty to warrant our accusation. “He’s been holed up in there all morning.” He waves a hand up the curved stairwell. “Come with me. I’ll show you the way.”

  Tank slaps a hand to the guard’s chest to stop him from moving. “No need. We’ll take it from here. All we need are directions.”

  The guard’s eyes flick up the stairs and back to Tank. Rubbing a hand along his clean-shaven jaw, he hitches his chin toward the second level. “Take a left at the top of the stairs. It’s the last door on your left.” He slides his hand to the back of his neck and tightens his grip. “I’m not sure about his involvement with what you’re here about, but I’ve been on this rotation for six months, and….”

  “And?” Tank prods when the guard clams up.

  Tension builds in the open entryway, Tank and I both on edge as we wait for him to continue. Hopefully it’ll be something we can use during the interrogation. My tight chest and racing pulse tell me we’re on to something here, but we need to hurry.

  Eyes downcast, finding the black-and-white marble stone floor suddenly riveting, he raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Things don’t add up. But the pay is good, and he offers dental.” He lets out an amused chuckle. “Should’ve known it was too good to be true.” Like he’s found his courage to give us the details, he raises his gaze from the floor and levels it my way. “The people who come and go from here, at all hours of the night, aren’t the type of people you’d expect the secretary of state to be associated with. I’ve seen my share of shady businessmen, and these have it written all over them.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what he’s involved in, but there’s something not right going on. And I suspect the others before me felt the same but were paid to keep quiet or knew if they spoke up about it, they wouldn’t be living very long.”

  Done fucking waiting and hearing even more evidence for why I never liked this fuckstick, I storm to the stairs and take them two at a time. The dark wooden steps take the brunt of my urgency with each heavy pound of my boots. At the landing, I turn toward the hallway, but a tight grip lands on my shoulder and twists me the opposite way I was originally headed.

  “Your other left, you idiot,” Tank huffs with a mix of exasperation and humor. He gives me a shove in the new direction, and I stumble several feet.

  Side by side, we stalk down the hall, guns drawn, ready for anything. After the guard’s confession, we’re not taking any chances at being ambushed. Rosen is mixed up in something, but what and who, only time will tell.

  We clear two pristine bedrooms and one bathroom on our way toward Rosen’s office. The dark oak door at the end of the hall is the only obstacle before I gain some answers that will hopefully bring us one step closer to finding Randi.

  The metal knob bites into my hand under my tight grip.

  Fucking locked.

  Unease surges, clenching my gut. Something feels even more off up here than it did downstairs.

  My breath catches at a hopeful thought. What if it’s her? What if Randi is being held here?

  Hand still gripped around the doorknob, I pitch back, gaining leverage. My shoulder and the door connect with a thump, and a pained grunt escapes me. A faint crack of wood sounds at the second attempt at using my body as a battering ram. Again I shove my body weight against the door, new fissures and cracks spreading with each hit.

  After the fifth or sixth hit, I slump forward, catching my breath and giving my throbbing shoulder a quick break before going back at it.

  “Stand back, you skinny-ass fool.”

  I grimace as I unmold my hand from the knob. Good shoulder against the wall, I wave a hand to the door. “Go right ahead, brute squad, if you think you can do better.”

  Of course he does. One hit. One fucking hit of one of his massive shoulders and the door splinters to pieces. If I didn’t know it was physically impossible, I’d swear on the Bible that the area that took the direct impact disintegrated to sawdust right before my eyes.

  “Show-off. I weakened it for you,” I mumble, knowing full well I didn’t do shit but maybe scratch the dark-stained finish.

  Righting himself from where he’d fallen slightly forward toward the door, Tank turns with a cocky-as-hell smile.

  Broken fragments of wood splinter, the larger intact pieces buckling under my boots as I step through the wreckage into the office that hopefully holds the man who can provide us with answers. Stuffed bookshelves line three of the four walls. A rolling ladder catches my gaze as I survey the office in search of that fucker Todd Rosen.

  I find him sitting behind an industrial metal desk on the far side of the room. The distinct coppery scent of blood wafts up my nose, preparing me for what I’ll find as I dare a few steps closer. The excitement and anticipation at getting answers from this motherfucker fall, sinking in my stomach like a damn lead cannonball. It won’t happen unless we call a medium.

  Because Todd Rosen, Secretary of State, is fucking dead.

  And not just dead.

  Executed.

  Chapter Seven

  Randi

  “Who. Are. You?” Each word scrapes against my raw throat, making them raspy and weak.

  Hard, warm metal pushes against my temple. I freeze, even my breaths cease as it drags sensually down my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, the light reflects off the metal, giving it a shape I recognize all too well.

  A gun.

  “No one of consequence,” he says at my back.

  “Your voice is familiar, and
you’re petting me with a gun. Pretty sure who you are holds some importance here.”

  Damn it, Randi, stop provoking the crazies.

  “My voice? Interesting. How observant of you, Madam President. And here I thought you never saw me among the others. Good to know I had somewhat of a lasting impression.” Leather-encased fingers caress the length of my neck. A shiver of revulsion races down my spine. “Good thing I won’t be around long enough for you to identify me. I’m only the kidnapper in this plan, not the executioner, as much as I want to be.”

  I bite my upper lip, holding back a terrified whimper.

  The leather of the glove, though soft, is like a knife slowly slicing through my skin, leaving damaged flesh in its wake as it moves lower.

  My nostrils flare with each rapid breath. I fight the urge to scream and beg.

  “So you are like your friend,” I snap. The restraints slice through my already damaged skin as I shift to move away from his touch. “Taking advantage of a bound woman. That’s how you get your fucking rocks off, you sick bastard?”

  The scream I fought to hold back erupts up my throat, crackling and breaking as my neck snaps back. His fisted grip on my hair doesn't lessen; in fact, my pleas seem to encourage his hold rather than ease.

  “Far from it, Randi. You want to know what gets my rocks off? What I envision while I fist my cock and explode in the shower night after night? This.” He inhales deeply, the fabric covering his face brushing against my ear and snagging a wisp of hair. “This. The smell of fear, the terror in your wide eyes, all because of me. No, Randi, I won’t touch you the way you’re thinking, but your screams and soft little cries and pleas will fuel my dirty fantasies for weeks to come.”

  “Fear? You fuck your own hand to fear?” I almost laugh. Almost. The terror he loves so much kills the giggle before it can even attempt to escape.

  “That and the memory of the pain I inflicted to cause said delicious fear.” Almost to prove his point, he wraps the earlier caressing fingers around my neck and squeezes. “This, the moment when you realize your life is in my hands and there’s no escape. That your existence is over. The array of emotions that will flash across your face is fucking erotic as hell.” He presses the gun against my temple so hard a stifled cry escapes even with his crushing grip cutting off my air supply. “That is what I’ll fuck my own hand to tonight. That and the fantasies of slicing apart that fucker Benson piece by piece.”

  Just like he hoped, terror rockets through my system. Rational thought vanishes, and I thrash in the chair, trying to escape.

  His masked face hovers beside mine. Even through the blood pounding in my ears, his excited panting is clear.

  “That’s it,” he coos. “Fight me. Fight back like you have a chance.”

  His fingers tighten, cutting off my airway. Red-hot burning engulfs my lungs, and I twist along the seat in a failed attempt to dislodge his hold. Darkness grows in my vision, my muscles loosening and trembling with the need for oxygen. A second before I give in to his strangling hold those tight fingers relax. I gasp for breath, my tears leaking down my cheeks and slipping inside my parted lips.

  “Which you don’t, Randi. No one will find you before it’s too late. I’ve made sure of that.”

  “Please,” I sob, any hope of not showing this monster how much he terrifies me gone. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why did I plan all this, take you knowing his end plans for you?” The torturous fingers tighten again. I scream before it’s cut off to a gurgle. “Because he paid me. Because they paid me. Because it’s fun. But ultimately it comes down to money. A shit ton of money, all for delivering you.” I scream through panic engulfing my every thought, but nothing comes out until his grip relaxes once again. Too busy sucking down air, despite the sharp stabs of pain that radiate from my right side with each breath, I stay silent and let him continue without another plea or comment. “So really you only have yourself to blame for all this. At some point in your life, you made a bad choice. That decision or action put you in unfavorable light with many influential parties. Which brought me to you.” I slump as his fingers slip off my skin. With little force behind it, he slaps at my already bruised cheek. I can’t even muster enough energy to cringe at the pain. “And I have to tell you, Randi, for the first time in my professional career, I had two contracts for the same damn mark. You. So thank you for living, making those poor choices, and ultimately dying, because in doing so, you’ve made me a very rich man.”

  I shut my eyes and pray for a miracle. A realistic miracle like a heart attack or stroke.

  When neither happens, I peel my lids back open, requiring more effort than normal.

  “What are you?” I breathe. I’d like to say the “what” instead of “who” was carefully crafted to be a jab, but it wasn’t. In fact, I’m not sure how my overexerted and dehydrated mind is even forming complete understandable sentences at this point in all this.

  “You can think of me as an entrepreneur of sorts. I saw a niche market that needed… filling and stepped in. The skills beaten into me by a certain agency helped me become the most efficient and successful of people in my line of work.”

  He pauses, a heaviness lingering in the silence like he’s not through with the conversation just lost in thought. “However, with this contract fulfilled, I’ll have to relocate and change up my look a bit.”

  “Because you know they’ll put two and two together. And when they do, they will hunt you down. Every agency will be looking for you. They will find you, and they will kill you for the traitor you are.” The last words slur, my exhaustion overtaking my ability to speak.

  “Doubtful. I’ve just gotten back from tying up loose ends. And you know what? I have to tell you, that felt good. The slimy bastard was always one I had to keep an eye on. Never knew when his loyalties would shift. But no, after this, I’ll disappear for a while, reinvent myself somewhere new.”

  “Sounds lonely.” My shoulders round, the muscles too fatigued to keep me sitting up straight, but the small move tugs my wrists against the restraints. I hiss at the feel of hard plastic digging deep into my skin and force myself to sit up to ease the tightness. “Any chance you can you take these off? You’ve watched me, traveled with me. You know I pose no threat to someone with your skills.”

  Just saying the small praise forces bile up my throat. But if downplaying my abilities by building up his ego helps get these fucking zip ties off, I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll throw him a damn parade if it gets my hands free.

  “Not a chance.”

  Disappointment surges, but I hold back the tears and instead rack my brain for what to say next. Get him talking, or angry, or hell, anything that might disrupt the plan.

  Shawn’s plan.

  If inflating his ego didn’t get him on my side, maybe deflating it will push him to make a mistake of some kind.

  Or get me killed faster.

  It’s worth a shot. Either I die now or later. Neither is ideal, but if dying now means I don’t have to sit in this hotbox any longer, then I’ll take door number one all day every day.

  “Yeah, I get that,” I say on a cough. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times to help my raspy voice. Being nearly choked to death—twice—does a number to your vocal cords apparently. “Especially considering you failed twice before this to get your hands on me. I wouldn’t trust your skills either with an unarmed, bound woman. Too big of a risk of you failing again, am I right?”

  My eyes widen at his fast movement. One second he was across the room, and the next his cloth-covered face is so close his stank breath wafts up my nose even through the black fabric.

  “Watch your motherfucking mouth, cunt.” Damn, I hate that word. My hackles rise with distaste and annoyance. “Those failed attempts were not my fault.”

  “That’s what they all say.” I raise my brows in defiance. Well, I think I do. Can’t really feel my forehead, or my eyebrows, for that matter. Have I ever been able to feel my eyebrows? Can
anyone feel their eyebrows? “Can you feel your eyebrows?”

  “I provided the intel.” Okay, so clearly we’re still stuck on his failures and not the eyebrow thing. Fine. If I live through this, I’ll start a government-funded study on the question. “Those idiots hired the ones to execute the mission based on the accurate”—he cuts a look my way—“intel.”

  “Like your friend.” I’m going on sheer gut instinct at this point. I have no idea what I’m digging for, but keeping him talking keeps his hands away from my throat, which I consider a win. “Go me,” I whisper so silently my lips move with no sound.

  “That night’s failure,” he hisses as he shoves off the chair, going back to pacing the short length of the cinderblock wall. Weightlessness rips out a gasp from me as the chair I’m secured to rocks backward from the force of his move. “That was that motherfucker Benson’s fault. He wasn’t supposed to be in your room. You should’ve been alone.”

  Those words. I’ve heard them before, but more formed as a question. Add in the radiating anger and it tickles a distant memory. He’s said something similar to me before. But who, where? Every time I think I’ve wrapped my mental fingers around the memory it slips away leaving me frustrated.

  “You killed the guards that night, not your friend who came through the balcony. You’re the one who gave him the key.” My voice rises with each accusation. That night… fuck, if Trey hadn’t been there….

  “They were tools anyway. No loss with their deaths.”

  “And you’re the toolbox.” I snort at my words. “I said the same thing to Kyle once.” I narrow my eyes at my captor, who’s clearly not laughing at the joke. “He didn’t find it funny either.”

  “Speaking of the dead. What did you hold over him?” Something like curiosity sparks in his tone instead of being cold and emotionless. “Did you fuck him?”