Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  The shadow in the corner moves. A silent scream lodges in my throat. Forgetting about my white-knuckled grip on the sheet and why I’m holding on to it, I slap both hands over my gaping mouth as Trey lunges form the shadows, hands outstretched for the gun. The explosion of the gun rattles in my eardrums. Terror taking over, I curl into a small ball, the vest poking me in the ribs as I try to make myself as small as possible.

  The corners of my vision darken with the lack of oxygen even though my chest heaves in desperate attempts to fill my lungs.

  Eyes wide, I peer through the strands of hair strewn across my face as Trey struggles with the intruder, attempting to overpower him. The men fight over the gun, holding it high over their heads as both grapple for control. The floor rattles under them as they fight, punching and snarling as they stomp around the room.

  Trey hooks a leg around the other man's, sending them both tumbling to the floor. I watch unmoving as the gun clatters to the floor and slides across the stone tile before pausing just a few feet in front of me. With the weapon forgotten, the two men wrestle along the ground, their bodies flipping and rolling trying to gain the upper hand.

  The suction of my hands against my ears pops as I move them down to my cheeks. Dampness coats my palms as I place one to the floor and then the other, heaving myself up to all fours. Bare ass in the air, I shift forward an inch on trembling arms. Almost there, my right elbow gives out, sending me face-first to the unforgiving ground. Pain radiates from the cheekbone that takes the brunt of the fall.

  Where the hell are the agents stationed outside my door?

  As soon as the thought slides through my mind, dread and fear grip me all over again. Those thumps earlier, the noise I couldn’t identify…. Bile rises up my throat, burning as I swallow to keep from gagging.

  A sharp agony-filled cry rips through the room.

  My head snaps toward the center, searching for the fight. The sight of Trey’s arm wrapped around the man's neck should ease some of my worry, but it doesn’t in the slightest.

  My eyes widen at the man’s face. The white, American-looking face now uncovered from the struggle. Shock settles in, making me almost numb. He was here to kill me. To kill me.

  “Why?” I whisper. “Why?” The second time the word is more of a shriek. “Why would you do this?”

  The man seals his lips tightly together, his features masked, cutting off all emotion.

  “Randi.”

  My gaze locks with the man's cold eyes. A determination lingers there, even as his face reddens from Trey's arm cutting off his much-needed oxygen.

  “Randi.”

  Slowly I trail my gaze to the sound of that voice. A million different emotions seem to swirl behind Trey's eyes. A wince tightens his features as the man he's restraining bucks beneath his hold.

  “Get in the bathroom.” Trey's light eyes flick down, no doubt noticing I'm mostly naked. “Pants first.”

  I know he said words. Important words. Commanding words. Yet I can't get my muscles to respond. I shift my gaze back to my attacker. The long black gun lying innocently on the floor. I've seen enough movies to know it's some kind of handgun with a silencer on the end.

  Movement on the other side of the room catches my eye. I tilt to the left to see around Trey and nearly fall to the floor, catching myself at the last second at the new shadow creeping in, this time from the direction of the hall door. With Trey’s back to the new intruder, he’s completely unaware of the threat.

  Another shadow shifts along the balcony doors.

  Shit. Two more?

  My dry lips part to scream a warning, but no words come out, only a short high-pitched squeak. The gun lying on the floor is my only hope.

  I know what I have to do.

  Acrylic nails dig into the hard floor as I lunge the remaining distance. My teeth rattle as my chest slams onto the floor, my hand fumbling with the gun instead of softening my fall. Not nearly as smooth as in the movies, I flop to my side, the gun unsteady in my sweaty palm, and point the barrel toward the looming figure.

  Shock and understanding wash over Trey's features. Acting faster than any human should, he drops to the floor.

  Sealing my eyes shut, I aim in the direction of the intruder striding from the balcony and tug on the trigger. With one breath, the world stills. Everything is silent, and then there’s chaos. The gun clutched between my trembling hands fires with a simple flick of a finger against the trigger. The force of the kickback is so unexpected and strong it pops from my clammy hands. I can’t track the movement as the gun launches into the air. Somehow midair, another round fires. And another before dropping to the stone floor.

  I gape at the weapon, unable to look away. Muffled male voices followed by shouts drag my unfocused gaze to the middle of the room.

  Trey pushes up from his crouch as fast as a whip, turning to face the other two men now coming closer to where he stands over a body.

  A body with a river of deep red flowing from beneath him, tracing its way through the thin grout lines of the floor.

  Holy fuck.

  I shot a gun. I shot someone.

  And I'm pretty sure he's dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Randi

  A flurry of movement ensues all around the room, but I stay frozen in place on the floor, gaping at the man I murdered. A light and silky cover drapes over my still exposed lap before gravity vanishes and I'm hoisted into the air. Every muscle seems at the verge of snapping, the tension locking them in place making them stiff as boards. I stay rigid in the bridal-style hold, unable to relax into the strong arms carrying me.

  Soft, comforting whispers are muttered into my disheveled hair as we make our way the few feet to the bathroom, the room that was supposed to be my sanctuary all along. The double doors slam closed, and then we're moving again. I barely take notice when I’m lowered and sat on the edge of the large sunken tub. The arm around my waist flexes, holding me in place as a bare chest leans over me. The scent of jasmine and honey wafts through the room as the pounding of water fills the tub behind me.

  With two hands on my hips, he crouches down, meeting my gaze. Concern swirls behind Trey’s light brown eyes as he scans my face.

  “You're all right, Mess.” One hand slides up my bare arm, fingertips skimming along my neck before a palm cradles my cheek. His usual warmth seeps into my skin, his scent filling my lungs, slowly loosening the hold shock has on my body. “I've got you. No one will hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

  “I shot him,” I whisper, terrified to admit those words.

  What does this even mean? Will I go on trial? Would they put the president in jail for murder? It was in self-defense. They were attacking me and Trey in my suite….

  Oh hell. I’m 100 percent fucked. I'm in another damn country, not in the US. I have zero rights here. I could be put in a Saudi prison. Forced into slave labor to pay off my crimes.

  Each scenario is worse than the previous until my heart nearly races out of my chest. My fingers wrap around Trey’s muscular shoulders and tighten, digging my chipped and jagged nails into his perfect skin.

  “I don't want to be a part of a chain gang,” I squeak, my eyes searching his.

  Fine laugh lines crinkle around the corners of his eyes as they alight with humor. His lips fight the smirk desperate to make an appearance.

  “I could be imprisoned, you ass. This isn't funny.” My voice’s high pitch gives away my increasing panic.

  “Mess, baby,” he says on a snicker. A fucking snicker. I’m about to wear orange for ten to twelve years and he fucking snickers. “You didn't shoot anyone.”

  Oh hell. Poor guy. He must have hit his head.

  “Trouble, baby, that man out there is dead because of me.” I scan his forehead as I weave my fingers through his thick, sweaty hair, searching for the laceration or bump. “Did that guy hit you in the head? I think you need a doctor. You’re not remembering things.”

  Now that I really take in his overal
l appearance, he actually might need medical attention for other issues besides the hit to the noggin. A dried trickle of blood lines his chin and continues to seep from a split lip. Splotches of bright red dot his right cheekbone, the surrounding area swelling and puffing around his eye.

  Trey teeters on the balls of his feet to lean in close. I feel his smile as he presses a chaste kiss to my temple.

  “You did shoot something, but not that guy, or the other one, thank the fuck.” While he talks, the tearing of dislodging Velcro assaults my ears. With a quick tug, he pulls the vest over my head, followed by my damp tank top that seems to have adhered to my sweat-slick skin.

  “Trey,” I complain, giving his shoulders a small shake. “You were there. You saw it all happen.”

  He just shakes his head, a few damp locks of hair falling across his forehead and sticking to his temple. Carefully he helps me stand, allowing the sheet that was draped around my naked lower half to puddle to the floor. The corded muscles of his biceps flex, his pecs tensing as he hauls me high into the air like I weigh nothing.

  I latch on to his forearms, my fingers barely able to wrap around the flexing muscles. Hot water engulfs the tips of my toes as he slowly lowers me into the tub filled with steaming water. Submerged up to my neck, I lean back into the milky water, his hand on my back guiding me until I’m comfortable with my head resting on the edge.

  “Why are you so calm?” I ask. The water's warmth and whatever product he added works voodoo magic, relaxing the tension from my shoulders and back. “Someone broke into my suite.” My brows furrow as the gravity of what happened—or what would’ve happened—tonight hits. I sit up straight, water lapping along the edges, some escaping over the rim. Streams of bathwater glide over my shoulders and down my back. “If you wouldn't have been…. If I'd been alone….” I can’t get the next words out; they stay lodged in my throat.

  “Hush, baby.” Sheer agony drips from those two words.

  “They would've killed me.” Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. “Why would they…?”

  With a frustrated growl, he shoves off the tub to stand, stripping out of his still partially undone pants as he does. Even the sight of his naked body as he steps into the tub can’t pull my internal thoughts from the morning’s events. Water laps around me as Trey slides his long lean body into the water, tucking himself behind me.

  Both arms circle my stomach, sealing my back to his front. “Just relax, baby.” His lips and breath brush along the delicate skin of my neck. “I've got you.”

  “But don't you—”

  “They'll take care of it. I'm here to take care of you.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, a pounding knock vibrates the bathroom door. A very angry T bellows from the other side. Trey’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “If you come in, keep your eyes closed,” he shouts.

  An uncomfortable laugh bubbles from my chest as T storms into the room, a hand sealed over his eyes in a childlike way. He turns, slamming the door shut with both hands.

  “Are you okay?” T asks, still facing the door, his voice tight.

  “We both are—” Trey starts, but I cut him off, knowing he won’t admit to his injuries.

  “Trouble is a little banged up. I think he hit his head,” I add.

  The arm around my waist tightens.

  “Do you need a doctor?” Yep, that's worry lacing that deep rumble.

  “No, I’m fine. She's good too. In shock but no injuries.”

  “Why the hell did you bring her in here?” T's shoulders twitch like he's desperate to turn and face us. “There's a dead fucker out there, and they—”

  “She was in shock, Davis.” Oh, pulling out the first name. This is serious. “There are a dozen agents in that room right now, along with the king's security. I had to get her away from it all. Don't fucking judge me on how I'm taking care of my girlfriend.”

  “Not your girlfriend right now, you idiot. The motherfucking president.” I jerk in the water, curling tighter into Trey's arms at the crunch of wood beneath T's fist. A wide fissure opens in the door.

  “Fucking cut it out, Tank. You're scaring her,” Trey hisses. “There is no fucking protocol for any of this,” he yells. “I'm doing the best I can.” Water trickles as he raises a hand from the water and glides it from the crown of my head to the wet tips of my hair. “I'm not doing so great either.”

  “I can’t do this, can’t talk to a damn door. Both of you get the hell out of that damn tub and get a robe on her now,” Tank bellows. “I'm turning around in twenty seconds no matter what. It’s up to you if I see you both butt-ass naked. Your choice.”

  With an annoyed grunt, Trey slips from behind me and exits the tub. After grabbing two towels off the shelf where several others are neatly stacked, he dives both hands beneath the water and scoops me out. My reaching fingers are ignored; instead, he stretches out the towel and wraps it around my chest himself, securing the end between my breasts.

  With a satisfied nod, he flicks a glare to his friend’s back. “She's covered,” Trey snaps.

  Worry eats at me. I've never heard them talk like this to one another.

  Tank whirls around and steps to the middle of the large bathroom. His gaze scans me first, then Trey as he finishes drying off. Only once he’s given us the once-over, several times, do his shoulders relax. He scrubs a hand over his exhausted-looking face.

  “Tell me what happened. Every detail.”

  Trey dives in, recounting the past hour, even down to the detail of what we were doing when he first heard the noise. I feel my skin heat with embarrassment. With my muscles weak as noodles, I perch on the edge of the tub to keep from falling over. That’s just what I need right now, another smack to the face. Remembering the earlier fall, I brush the pads of two fingers over my right cheekbone and wince.

  “She’s hurt,” Tank bites out.

  “I fell on my face,” I say on a hysterical laugh. I cover my mouth as another chuckle bubbles up. “When I was reaching for the gun.” I cackle. “Me, with a gun. Bang, bang.”

  Oh hell, there is something really wrong with me.

  “Why did you give her a gun?” Tank chastises.

  “I didn't. I was getting to that part before Mess here fell over the edge of sanity. I fought that bastard for the gun. It got loose. I'd like to point out, again, that I instructed her to get to the bathroom and seal herself in, but she didn't.”

  All humor dies as T sweeps his angry gaze toward me.

  “I didn't do it on purpose. I fell, my feet tangled in the sheet, and then I couldn't move. Sorry, this was my first assassination attempt. I'll do better next time.”

  Both men growl their discontent.

  “I had him in a choke hold. He was subdued. That's when Barney Fife here grabbed the gun and aimed it toward us.”

  “There was another man coming through the balcony doors,” I cry, jabbing a finger in the direction of the bedroom. “I was protecting you, and I saved your life, you ungrateful ass.”

  Trey holds up both hands palms out. “Baby, you almost shot another agent.”

  Everything silences. The stomping of heavy feet, loud masculine voices, and arguing shouts pour through the cracks in the door.

  “Huh?” It's not the smartest thing to say next, but well, after tonight, I'm truly at a loss for words.

  Trey relaxes a bit, lowering his hands to hook both thumbs on the edge of the towel secured around his hips.

  “Somehow one of the beta agents got around to the balcony. That's who you saw and who you tried to shoot.”

  “There was another—”

  “Another agent came in after hearing the commotion in the suite.” He chews on his lip like he’s debating telling me more.

  “But that first guy, the one who you fought with. I killed—”

  “One of the agents shot him after I’d dropped to the ground. The only thing you shot, Mess, was your bed.”

  Relief and embarrassment wash over me, relaxing some
of the tightness in my chest.

  “The bed was—”

  “Nowhere near either of us, yeah, I know. It's safe to say we need to work on your aim.”

  “The agents outside her door—” T starts.

  Trey launches a folded towel at his friend cutting him off, causing the towel to loosen a bit and slide lower, showing off more of that sexy V of muscles. “Not now.” His gaze searches the tile like it holds all the answers for tonight’s shit show before snapping to T. “Those balcony doors were locked. Smith checked them. That means—”

  “Either he made a mistake or…” T trails off.

  “He had a key,” we all say in unison.

  Don’t get me wrong. Air Force Two was great—way better than flying commercial—but Air Force One is immeasurable to any other experience I've ever had. Everything has a use, yet it's comfortable and classy as hell.

  For some reason, things are more relaxed here. Like now, the office door is wide open, allowing me to watch the agents and other personnel as they walk by. It's nice. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re high above all the issues plaguing our country and threats against me that make everyone seem more relaxed. Whatever the difference is in this small flying city, I wish I had this more casual feel at the White House too.

  Across the small office, my two boys nap side by side on the leather couch. Trey's head rests on T's wide shoulder, and T’s head is tipped all the way back, mouth open slightly, snoring. It’s too adorable of a moment to not capture and maybe use as blackmail at a later date. Snagging my cell from the desk, I swipe open the screen and take several shots. Grinning at the set of pictures, I pull up Sarah's number and forward them all to her with a heart emoji.

  I miss that woman desperately. Yes, the workouts were great, but it was nice having a female friend I could count on, someone I trusted with my secrets and knew she’d go to the grave with them.

  As I type out my “I miss you” text to Sarah, the weight of someone's stare draws my attention from the screen to the doorway now filled with Agent Smith.