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

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “Fuck, I knew those bastards get all the good toys.” I reach across Tank to grab it from Smith’s hand only for him to jerk it out of my reach just as my fingers graze the smooth metal. “Can you get me one?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Come on, help your fellow amigo out.”

  At the edge of the clearing, we pause. Tank raises his hand, finger pointed into a thick cluster of trees. I follow his line of sight to a man slumped forward, upper body tied to a tree. Two special forces boys stand guard, their guns pointed at Whit’s head.

  “Amigo?” Smith’s question sounds distant as the anger and fury from the last twenty-four hours come roaring back, demanding an outlet.

  “Three amigos, that’s us. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I shove past Tank only to be yanked to a stop. I glare at his hold on my wrist. “Let go.”

  “We do this back at the house, remember?”

  “Right. The house. I want him to pay, Tank. Pay for every second he had her, for every cut and bruise. Every foul word he said and every damn fear he implanted in her mind. Is there a punishment that will get back the last twenty-four hours?” I rake a shaky hand through my hair. “He took her. Hurt her. He hurt what’s mine.”

  “I have a few ideas,” Smith tosses out. His words hang on the air.

  My tight lips curl in a sinister smile. “I knew I always liked you.” Swiveling back around, I slow my long strides toward the man I’m desperate to kill.

  No, not kill.

  Torture.

  Even that might not be enough for him to pay for what he did to Randi.

  But I’ve never been a quitter.

  One way or another, I’ll extract my pound of flesh from this bastard and savor the knowledge that his last hours of life were terrible. Just like he had planned for Randi and me.

  Fair’s fair, after all.

  The return trek takes longer than the initial hike through the woods due to the dead weight I’m dragging. Already exhausted thigh and calf muscles scream and burn with each grueling step, almost giving out completely as I take the last back porch stair. Pausing, I swipe at the rivers of sweat pouring down my forehead and neck, scanning the now empty and quiet clearing.

  Fuck, even with the sun down it’s hot as Hades. Guess I should get used to it considering I’ll be spending eternity in hell after what I’m about to do. Well, I guess you could say this is my final nail in the coffin, so to speak, on which direction I’ll go when I kick the bucket. I’m no angel by any means, but murdering a man in cold blood because he hurt the one you love… well, I’m pretty sure that’s a big no-no for the holy one upstairs.

  The gagged Whit twists at the end of the rope, trying to break free, the end clutched in my hand swinging back and forth with the movement. A hard flick turns the loose part of the rope into a makeshift whip. It slaps across his scratched and dirty face.

  None of us wanted to carry shit-for-brains here. That left us with the only way to get him back to the small cabin being to drag him. Through the woods. Over every rock, stump, and a few piles of animal shit if the smells wafting off him tell me anything.

  “Need help?” I shake my head at Smith’s question but immediately turn it into a nod. “Thought so. Beating a man to death takes a lot of energy. You need to conserve.”

  “Thanks?” It’s an odd way to show support, but this whole situation is fucked, so I’ll go with it.

  Tugging Whit’s leash from my now raw and rope-burned palm, he hauls Whit through the remains of the splintered back door.

  Both arms stretched high, I tip my head back and take in the star-filled sky.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Tank says behind me.

  I stare at the brightest star I can find and think over his words. Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah I do. I’m just fucking terrified by how much I’m looking forward to it.” Dipping my chin, I level a concerned look at my best friend, who wears the same expression. “Does that make me the same man as him? Or Ponder?”

  “You already know the answer to that, Benson. You know you’re not, just like I’m not. This fucker deserves everything he’s about to get. It’s not just about tonight, or this past year, or the year before that. The torment and constant targeting of Randi makes him dangerous. If he leaves here today, she’s not safe, and neither are you. We do this tonight to protect her. To protect all of us.”

  As the words sink in, I slowly nod. “You’re right.” His wide stance blocks my entry into the house. “But if I get carried away, I want you to stop me. Pull me back.”

  Tank dips his chin in agreement, then turns and marches over the pieces of broken wood and shattered glass. I follow hot on his heels.

  In the living room area, I pause, taking in the lack of bodies littering the floor. Large dark red blood lakes mark the floor but no dead assholes.

  “What did they do with all the dead pricks?” I ask absentmindedly as Smith secures Whit to the decorative column dividing this space from the dining room

  “The basement,” Smith responds. “We get to light this place up and ensure it burns to the ground when we’re done with him.”

  Stepping back, he slams a fist into Whit’s face. Whit’s knees buckle with the force, leaving him hanging limp from the rope around his chest and shins. He hisses and glares at the man who dared hurt him.

  Smith nods at the bindings and steps back. “Sorry, wanted to test the knots and make sure they held.”

  “Maybe I should try too,” Tank offers, stepping forward without waiting for our approval. I cringe away from the sound of crunching bones under Tank’s fist colliding with Whit’s ribs.

  “How does it feel?” I ask. Each step is calm, calculated as I move closer to the now wheezing Whit. “Broken ribs, that is?” When he doesn't respond, I nod toward the gag that keeps his words muffled. Tank yanks it away the cloth tearing from Whit’s teeth. “Randi lived with it for hours. Wonder how long you’d last with the pain.”

  “You’ll never be able to save her,” Whit says, his voice high-pitched, borderline hysterical. “I wasn’t the only one who put a hit out on her. She’ll be dead before the end of the year.”

  “And you’ll be dead before the end of the hour.” My words are confident, but worry churns in my gut. He could be lying, but something tells me he’s not. “What do you know about the other hit?”

  A dark chuckle rattles from his throat before turning to a cough and wheeze. “Like I’d tell you. Trey fucking Benson. You never could cut it in our world, which is why you did this.” A sneer pulls at his lips as he glares at me with the one eye not swollen shut. “You fucking losers deserve each other.”

  “Tell me how you did it all. How you managed to coordinate the abduction of the president of the United States.” My voice is steady, calm. Too calm. It sounds eerie to my own ears.

  Whit only sneers back instead of responding.

  “Fine. Any question that goes unanswered will come with a penalty.” I nod at Tank, who’s massaging his knuckles like he’s warming them up for the next hit. The big guy has to be careful or he’ll kill Whit with one blow.

  Whit smiles. Blood coats his normally perfect white teeth. The various cuts from the forest floor have dried, leaving flaking crimson streaks all along his face. “Fuck you and that cunt you fuck. You both deserved everything you got today. Only thing better could’ve been you watching some of those dirty bastards fuck every single one of her holes before slitting your throat.”

  “Wow,” I mouth as I angle my neck to the right and left in an effort to relieve the knotting tension. “Here’s the thing, Whit.” Shoving off the wall, I pause a foot away from where he’s wheezing and bleeding all over the floor from the split cheek Smith gifted him. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get under my skin so I’ll snap that weak little neck of yours, to make your death faster than what I have planned for you. But here’s the thing.” Blood, sweat, and hell, maybe some tears slick my palm as I grip his face in a single hand. “If you mentio
n raping my fiancée one more time tonight, I’ll cut your tongue out, then continue to kill you slowly. Nothing will rush me. Tonight is a night I’ll savor for years to come as the night I fucking killed Shawn Whit.”

  Stepping back, I grimace at the blood on my hand and wipe it down the stiff material of my pants.

  “Now, tell me everything you know about that fucker we know as Agent Ponder.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Trey

  “Well, that didn’t last long.” Tank sighs.

  “That’s what she said,” I toss over my shoulder as I press two fingers to the blood- and sweat-slick neck. Nothing. “He’s dead.”

  “That’s usually what happens when you snap someone’s neck,” Smith says to Tank.

  Frustrated, Tank starts to run a hand over his head but pauses with a grimace when blood glazes over his scalp. “I didn’t hit him that hard,” he grumbles.

  I hold up a hand to pause their bickering. “It’s fine. We got what we needed out of him.”

  Knuckles split and bleeding, Tank rests his mitt of a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I took that from you.” He squeezes, the strength in his grip lacking the usual power.

  Still crouched by the dead body, I stare into the lifeless eyes, processing the fact that Whit is dead. “If it wasn’t me, then I’m good with it being you.” The crack and pop of my joints fills the quiet room as I stand with a groan. “Besides, I got to have my fun.”

  Fun. Fuck yeah, it was fun. Each hit lifted a sliver of the heavy dark cloud that’s fogged my brain since Tank called saying Randi was missing. After several bone-rattling punches, exhaustion from the day made it nearly impossible to continue with my torture plan. That’s when Tank and Smith stepped in.

  It was clear Smith has experience holding back killing blows. It was like some disturbing form of art as he moved his attacks around Whit’s restrained body to keep from hitting the same spot twice.

  Then there’s Tank. Love him, but the big guy is all brawn and no tact when it comes to pulling punches.

  Hence why Whit is dead, and not by my hand.

  There was honesty in my words. I am good with not being the one who delivered the final blow. Whit is dead, and that’s what matters most. Even though the information he had on who we know as Ponder was little, we still know more about the hired assassin than when we started. This way, if he doesn’t return to his townhome to collect the things he’d clearly set aside for a quick escape, we have a few bread crumbs for Smith’s friends at Homeland to follow. Hopefully it’ll be enough for us to catch the bastard who devised the plan to kidnap my girl.

  “Now what?” The wall rattles under my weight as my back slams against it, supporting me from collapsing to the blood-splattered floor.

  Without a word, Smith moves through the room and disappears down the hall but in the opposite direction of the back door. The creak of hinges has me leaning along the wall to see if it was him leaving or someone else coming inside the cabin via the surprisingly still fully intact front door.

  Two red plastic fuel containers dangle from Smith’s fingers as he shuffles back down the hall and into the living room. Liquid sloshes inside as they thump to the floor.

  “Where the hell were you keeping those?” I sniff the air. “Diesel or gas?”

  “Diesel. I’m not an idiot. One of the special forces guys left them on the porch for cleanup. Plus these.” He holds up a thin matchbook between two fingers. “We’re to make all the evidence of tonight disappear. Everybody, the entire house. This never happened. I’ll pour one canister over the bodies in the basement. You”—he hitches his chin to Tank—“start spilling the other all along this floor. Make sure you leave a trail out the back.”

  Tank nods and reaches for the accelerant-filled canister. Smith grabs the other container and leaves the room. Heavy feet against the wooden stairs followed by a few curses about the stench of death grow distant as he descends to the basement.

  I meet Tank’s worried dark eyes from where I’m still posted up against the wall. There’s a strong possibility that if I move, I’ll fall to the floor and never get back up.

  “You look like shit.”

  “I look better than Whit.”

  Tank’s lips twitch. “Not sure that’s much of a positive, Playboy. You’re comparing yourself to a dead man.”

  “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  He nods. “One for the books, that’s for sure. You worried?”

  “Because that fucker who planned and executed the kidnapping of the president for money is still out there and wants me dead? Yeah, yeah I am.”

  “Me too. But we’ll find him.”

  “And we’ll kill him too.”

  “Bloodthirsty?”

  A cruel smile pulls at my lips, the skin along my cheeks stretching under the dried blood. “Only for those who deserve it.”

  Smith stomps into the room and eyes the still full can. “You two are worse than any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “You should see our pillow fights.” The words are more of a moan as I push off the wall to stand on my own. The room sways, darkness encroaching in the corners of my vision.

  “Come on.” Without invitation, Smith ducks under my arm and lodges himself beneath my shoulder, supporting my weight. Halfway down the hall, I part my lips, readying to thank him, when he shoots me a sharp look. “Don’t make this fucking weird or I’ll drop your ass.”

  Stepping out of the death, blood, and fuel stench in the house, the fresh air smacks my face, revitalizing some of my depleted energy stores. Behind us, the smell of diesel grows stronger, even out in the open. Smith leans my weak ass against a support beam of the small porch before releasing his hold to go help Tank.

  At the threshold, Tank upturns the fuel container, using every last drop before tossing the empty canister back into the house. Both men turn to face me, Smith with the matchbook between his outstretched fingers.

  The edge of the two-by-four beam digs between my shoulder blades as I use it for leverage and shove off. The first step toward Smith brings a hiss of pain from between my clenched teeth. Fucking hell, I need a good fuck and an ice bath. My thigh muscles tremble under my weight. Okay, maybe ice bath first, a nap, and then a fuck. Wouldn’t want to smother Randi because I physically can’t push myself off her.

  I snatch the thin flexible cardboard from Smith’s outstretched fingers and hold it toward the light to read the writing and brand on the front. Even this exhausted, I somehow bark out a laugh. I arch a brow at Smith. “Seriously, Tails and Twats?”

  His eyes roll to the night sky. “Not mine, remember? Sounds classy though.”

  “Randi will never believe you’ve said two jokes in one day.”

  A tiny smile tugs at his lips.

  Turning back to the still open door, I toe the threshold and stare down the hall. An emotion I can’t pinpoint swirls within me, tightening my chest. Once I light this match, it’s over. Today, tonight, all of it done.

  The cardboard flap bends back under my trembling fingers. I rip three matches from the booklet and pinch the flap to the back with the flimsy matches against the flint strip. With a quick tug, sparks flare and a minor bright flame bursts to life.

  I stare into the flickering flame, watching it creep closer to where my fingers pinch the ends. Heat bites at my skin as the flame draws nearer. With a deep inhale, I flick the three nearly spent matches toward the shiny liquid puddled a foot from where I stand.

  Two flicker out before hitting the accelerant, but the final match hits the mark.

  The sudden flash of blistering heat has me stumbling backward square into a solid chest. A rolling roar grows, chasing away the quiet night as flames race down the line of diesel, igniting the rest of the house. Within seconds, the heat from the intense flames forces all of us off the porch.

  “Benson.”

  I don’t turn, mesmerized by the red-and-orange glow lighting up the surrounding area.

  “Benson.” I reluct
antly turn to my friend, who looks just as mesmerized as I am by the destruction we’ve left in our wake. “Randi is at the hospital and asking for you.” I blink, tilting my head to understand what he’s talking about. It’s only now that I notice the heavily armed man standing beside Tank. “They’re concerned about her mental stability.”

  “Apparently she won’t stop rambling about unicorns to anyone who will listen in between demanding they not sedate her until you’re there,” the guy states absentmindedly as he too becomes enraptured by the fire now billowing out the windows and crawling up the exterior walls.

  “The unicorn stuff is normal for her,” I say on a huff. Turning back to the flames now swallowing the entirety of the cabin, I suck in a breath and raise both middle fingers. “She won, motherfucker. See you in hell,” I whisper.

  Turning on my heels, I push through the stiffness in my muscles and stride in the direction of the single black SUV that will take me to the only thing that matters in this world.

  Her.

  My lids feel like they’re glued shut as I attempt to open my eyes. Finally forcing them open, I blink past the haze covering my vision.

  A rhythmic beeping close by reaches my ears first. A sharp antiseptic scent floods my nose, and the white walls and various machines come into view as my vision sharpens. Soft material cushions my cheek. A steady heartbeat beneath my ear soothes the unexpected rush of adrenaline that flashed through my system upon waking up in an unfamiliar room.

  “Go back to sleep, Benson,” a familiar voice whispers from somewhere in the dark room. “You’re both safe.”

  The grogginess of too little sleep tugs at my lids, making them too heavy to keep open.

  I tighten my hold, molding my body even tighter around the soft one in my arms, and give in to sleep once again.

  Lips parted, chest rising and falling in a smooth and steady cadence, Randi sleeps peacefully. Unable to stop myself, I draw closer to her bed, needing a simple touch, skin to skin, to remind me she’s safe—alive.