Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “You don’t understand. I’m trying to protect everyone. This isn’t me just trying to be the hero. No, what I’m doing is keeping this to those who know what’s going on and protecting my country. The less people who know, the better.”

  “You are wrong.”

  I slam the wineglass to the table. The plates rattle with the force. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “More people will get hurt if you continue to think so narrow-mindedly, my friend. This will escalate, continue to escalate. You cannot handle this situation alone. It proves those who believe you cannot handle the president role correct.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Glass to his lips, Vlad gulps the remaining liquid from his glass and sets it on the table. “I do not mean to insult you, but you are not acting like a president in this matter.”

  “All I need is the names,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You need to learn to lean on other expertise or you will fail.”

  Fail. The word rattles in my head. Failing at this level would be… world altering. I’ve never failed, and I sure as hell don’t plan to start now.

  “I’m tired. If you’ll excuse me.” Shoving from the table, I stand and make to leave. “I’ll do this on my own, Vlad, and you’ll see you were wrong. I can do this.”

  Halfway to the door, he calls my name, pausing my retreat.

  “When depending on only yourself fails, know it is not a reflection on you. You have worked alone for so long that it is nature to think single-mindedly. Before you go, I need to warn you about that man.”

  “Kyle’s dead.”

  “Your secretary of state. He serves the highest bidder, not you or your country.”

  Not surprising. Maybe that’s why the Saudi king hates him so much. Hell, why most of the world doesn’t like him. They see it, and if I’m honest with myself, I see it too. But who would I replace him with? I know no one in DC, no one with the qualifications to take on that role. So instead of agreeing with Vlad and admitting to the weakness in my administration, I simply cross both arms over my chest. “Noted.”

  “You are taking this too personally, friend. I only offer to help.”

  A comforting hand presses to my lower back. I lean into the touch.

  “Maybe, Vlad. Maybe I am, but it is a little personal when you say I’m setting myself up for failure. That’s not really something anyone wants to hear over dessert.”

  “I tell you because no one else will. I tell you because we work together for the better of those we serve. Your success is mine. We are a team, yes?”

  “I’m doing the right thing, Vlad. The more this is contained, the better. I appreciate you trying to help, but I’m respectfully declining your opinion.”

  His chin dips. “That is your choice. Good night, my friend. Rest well knowing you are safe here in my house.”

  I take in my strange friend. Really look at him. There’s an aura of power around him. I’ve seen it before, but it’s magnified here, in his home country. I want that. Want people to see me as a true president, not some worthless pawn or self-serving prick like the assholes before me.

  So what if I want to do this on my own?

  I can.

  I will.

  I will not fail.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Trey

  March

  The seat jostles with my sinking weight, shaking the short row and waking the sleeping giant I've plopped beside. Peeking one eye open, Tank inserts as much annoyance as possible into his side glare.

  “What's on your mind now, Benson?” Tank mumbles, the vibrations from his deep voice making their way to the back of my seat. He shuffles, sinking lower for a more comfortable position to finish his nap. The seats on Air Force One are as comfortable as any I’ve ever sat my rich ass in, but it’s still an airplane seat; real comfort only goes so far.

  “There are holes in the plan.” My foot bobs at a rapid pace, Tank tracking the up-and-down movement. “I don't like it.”

  Glancing across the aisle, I meet Smith’s gaze. With a dip of my chin in acknowledgment, I shift my attention back to Tank, who's now clearly given up on sleep. Stretching both hands high above his head, he practically scrapes the ceiling of the plane even in a sitting position.

  “What exactly don't you like about it?” Joints snap and pop along his spine as he twists one way and then the other.

  “There are holes—”

  “Which is why we have a plan B and a plan C.”

  I shake my head and run a hand through my recently trimmed hair. “Yeah, I know we do, but I still don't like it. There are too many opportunities for an attack. We're too exposed.”

  Tank groans as he pitches forward to rest both elbows on his tree trunk thighs.

  “You're thinking like a boyfriend again,” he admonishes. “We've been over this, Benson. Too many damn times over the past several months. The plan is solid. The security impenetrable. What you really want is her in a damn bubble, a bullet- and bomb-proof bubble.”

  “Or the popemobile,” I mumble. “I knew I should've hijacked that little car while we were in Italy last month.”

  “Didn't you say that about the royal guards too during our visit with the queen of England in December?”

  Ignoring his comment, I adjust in the seat, angling my upper body toward him.

  “You know this trip isn’t comparable to any of those. Egypt is unstable, and I don't need to remind you that the United States isn't on their top ten list of allies right now.” Worry eats at my gut, making me push harder on my best friend than I normally would. I trust his plans, trust his decisions, but something feels off about this trip.

  Sources say the Egyptian president is under the impression that the US is behind all the unrest still plaguing the Middle East. They're not wrong—not that we’ll tell them that—but none of this is Randi's doing. The outbreaks of attacks have spiked since we first visited the area last year, making those of us in the know wonder if whoever's in charge of the entire operation knows we're attempting to keep the peace until we can identify the key players.

  Then there’s the Russian president’s advice, which Randi is still not open to taking. I’ve tried reasoning with her these past few months, but she doesn’t want to involve anyone who doesn’t already know. Which means no military action against those insurgents on the ground causing the small-scale attacks.

  Tank nods, his gaze searching the blue and gold carpet. “Okay, Benson, okay. Tell me where you see the weakest point.”

  The eerie sensation of being watched has me searching the surrounding area. Smith leans forward, completely absorbed in my conversation with Tank. Around us, the other alpha team members and a few beta team agents are either playing on their phones or are asleep like Tank was before I disturbed him.

  “Where it always is,” I say on a sigh. Some days I feel like a broken record, but our weakest point is always the same. The cushioned seat forms around my tender back muscles, sore from yet another intense rowing workout yesterday morning. The soft material of my Armani slacks bunches beneath my massaging fingers, attempting to ease some of the tightness gathered there.

  “To and from the Beast,” Tank replies.

  “Exactly. Once she's in the limo, she’s protected until she gets out again. Those few minutes out in the open, anything can happen.”

  “Agreed, but she has to get out of the limo at some point. We can’t ask for all meetings to be held inside the Beast.” Tank rubs a hand over his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “I can double the snipers at the airport and at the first stop. The embassy there in Cairo has the three dotted along rooflines for the arrival as planned.” He scans the few beta team agents. “I’ll talk to their team lead and ask them to offer double protection from the plane to the Beast.”

  “I like that.” I grimace as I prod at a particular sore spot just above my knee.

  “You pushed it too hard yesterday,” Tank says in an “I told you so” tone.

 
“You're the one who keeps pointing out that this detail is tougher than the previous years with the VPs. I agree and decided to train like it. I'm no good to her fucking weak like I was. Plus”—I grin—“I'm trying to keep up with your fit ass.”

  “Keep dreaming, Playboy. Keep dreaming.”

  Soft footsteps approach and pause to my right, a set of long thin legs nearly brushing my own. “Two hours until we land,” says the tall blonde. “Do you need anything, Trey?”

  “I'm sitting right here,” Tank grumbles. “Along with the rest of the team.”

  I shoot a smirk to Tank. “No, thank you. I'm good.” Hooking a thumb over my left shoulder, I smile at the woman I can’t seem to remember. “But I'm sure Agent Smith could use something?” A faint curse sounds behind me, causing my smile to widen. “I’ll be back in a bit. Going to check on the president.”

  Careful not to make any physical contact, I maneuver around the sweet girl and stride down the hall, Smith's emotionless voice demanding he's good chasing me with every step.

  Outside her office, I lean against the doorframe, taking in the sight of my girl hard at work. Nail between her teeth, she scribbles something on a yellow legal pad, then violently scratches it out. Twice she does this before whispering a string of very creative curses and tossing the pad of paper to the desk.

  “Make sure you don't include that bit about fucking a duck in your speech.”

  Her cheeks round, a wide grin forming even before she shifts her attention to where I hover just outside the door. When she does, those hazel eyes lock with mine. Even the smile she's wearing can't hide the turmoil and stress weighing behind her gaze.

  “But it's a good line,” she retorts. Leaning back, she tosses her tortoiseshell glasses to the desk and massages a temple. “I'm excited to share this new bill with the country, but it has to be just right. This plan will offer the needed support for those lost between the lines of poverty and lower middle class and will change the lives of millions. But only if it passes the House and Senate, and I have zero clue how to make that happen.”

  The soles of my black shoes slide over the well-worn carpet. No doubt many presidents have paced the small office of Air Force One. Wonder what else has been done in here.

  On the opposite side of the desk, I lean forward, knuckles pressed to the hard flat surface, closing the distance between us.

  “You're doing a good job, Mess. You’ll find a way to convince those assholes in DC what’s best for the American people.”

  “Without selling my soul?” she jokes on a huff.

  “One can hope.”

  Long silky brown hair slips over her slender shoulders as she shakes her head. “I want to do so much more with my time in office, be the president who actually accomplished something. Who knew this job would be more like herding donkeys than actually getting shit done.”

  “Isn't the phrase ‘herding cats’?” I push off the desk to retreat to the still open door.

  “Have you met the politicians sitting in the House and Senate? Herding jackasses is the more appropriate description.”

  “I don’t know, herding pussies is also a good metaphor for those spineless shitheads who can’t make a decision without worrying about offending a monetary supporter.”

  Chuckling at her chastising huff for the crass word, I search the empty hallway. Hand wrapped around the knob, I tug the door closed and flick the lock.

  The earlier curiosity at what has and hasn’t been done in this room has bloomed to a full-on fantasy. Fantasies of her on that desk spread-eagle while I lick her dry. Of her face plastered to the polished surface while I fuck her from behind. And my personal favorite of me on the couch, head tossed back in beautiful bliss with her on her knees, taking all of me between her lips and down her swallowing throat.

  The vivid fantasies ramp up the anticipation flowing through my veins, heading straight to my stiffening cock. It eagerly twitches inside my boxer briefs.

  I lean back against the closed doors and take her in. The stress and tension I noticed the moment I walked in are nowhere to be seen as she nibbles her lower lip. Her lids droop, turning heavy with desire as her gaze tracks the hand now gripping my stiff dick over my slacks.

  “You seem stressed.” A shiver of pure joy bolts down my spine at the flush spreading across her cheeks and neck.

  “A little, you could say. Running the country and all leaves a girl tense.”

  “Get on the desk, Mess.” My eyes flare, my cock somehow getting harder at her immediate response to the order. The chair shoves back, almost toppling over in her haste to stand.

  Hell yes. Two hours until touchdown, which means I have a full hour to play dirty with my girl. Plenty of time to help her relax.

  Several times.

  The tension permeating the air is so thick I can almost taste it as the first set of agents disappears through the open plane door. Beside me, Randi fidgets with a loose button on her blazer with a red-tipped fake nail cracking between her front teeth. Tank scans the line of agents waiting to exit again and again, seeming to check off some mental list.

  “You're next, Madam President,” Champ says, standing beside the open door, keeping one eye on her, the other examining the tarmac for hostiles.

  “They're more scared of me than I am of them.” Randi's words are a soft whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the murmuring voices of the agents crowded around her. “A unicorn is exactly what I need. Nothing says power like a horse with a weapon on its head.”

  A minuscule smirk tugs at my lips before I shut it down. Clearing my head, I focus every cell, each breath, on the task at hand.

  We step as one toward the door. As planned, I exit first. The soft morning glow of the sun barely cresting the surrounding buildings greets me. We calculated the timing perfectly; anyone looking to do her harm would be forced to stare straight into the rising sun, whereas we have the perfect vantage point with the sun at our back. The metal stairs shake beneath my weight as I carefully take each step down, scanning the entire area and the group of Egyptian delegates.

  A stilted round of claps rings out in the quiet morning, signaling to me that Randi and Tank have exited the plane. At the bottom of the stairwell, I stop, waiting until my girl is at my side before shifting to the next step of the plan.

  A rhythmic clink grows closer as she descends the stairs one step at a time in her stilettos.

  Movement toward the end of the receiving line snags my attention. A man, one of the Egyptians, shifts anxiously from foot to foot. Even from here, the sweat dotting his brow and his shallow breaths are evident. My unease from earlier spikes. Wrist pressed close to my lips, I order a beta team agent to keep an eye on him. Agent Wright confirms visual, indicating he’ll handle the situation.

  A breeze kicks up, wafting the aroma of sand, spices, and cherry vanilla my way as Randi pauses beside me.

  With some gentle prodding, we help Randi make it through the receiving line within the fifteen-minute window we’d scheduled for her. One hand holding hers, the other cupping the back of her head, I help ease her into the limo and follow immediately after with Tank right behind me.

  We all situate in our various seats. Tank beside Randi, me across but only a few seats away. Thankfully the Beast has been running and the air inside is crisp and cold, unlike the already steamy temperatures outside.

  Desperate for the arctic blast, I angle several vents toward my clammy face and inhale deeply.

  “You with me, Benson?” Tank questions from where he sits, his thumbs bouncing over the phone screen.

  “Yeah, I'm good.”

  “Why wouldn't he be?” Randi asks, not diverting her eyes from the iPad in her hand. An index finger slides up the screen over and over as she reviews the agenda for the day for the thousandth time and reminds herself of the names of the people she’ll be meeting with at the award ceremony at the embassy.

  “It's nothing. Tank is just a hovering mother hen.” I adjust against the leather sea
t to scan the scenery as we zoom toward the embassy. “Think you can convince the Egyptian president all the uproar isn’t the US’s fault?”

  “I have to, don’t I?” Her shoulders round from the weight of the world—literally—resting there. “Kyle left us in a fucking mess. I spoke to the CIA director two days ago. He said the names, locations—hell, any information—has been more evasive than he expected. They’re still working on identifying the men Kyle was in bed with, which means we need to keep this part of the world from warring against each other until they can. Until we have those names, I have to do everything I can to keep the peace.”

  “What about what the Russian said, that you should consider military force? Get your military advisors’ advice.”

  She shakes her head. “No, this is the best course of action. We continue to keep this as a need-to-know, and no military. Vlad meant well, but he doesn’t understand where I’m coming from.”

  “Exactly. He’s used to military force and when to use it. I think—”

  “We’ve been over this too many times, Trouble. I’ve made up my mind, and that’s how we’re going to handle it. We stopped the attempt on my life in Saudi Arabia, so they know I’m well protected. I’m safe.” I steal a worried glance at Tank. “Now stop diverting. Why wouldn't you be good?” With more force than necessary, she presses the power button and tosses the now dark iPad to the seat beside her.

  “It’s nothing, like I said. Sometimes the heat and smells, occasionally tight spaces remind me of a few unpleasant deployments. I’m fine.”

  “Are you okay to be here? Should you go back to the plane—”

  “I'm not fucking weak,” I bite out through a clenched jaw. “I said I'm fine, so I'm fucking fine.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly, shifting her attention to Tank, who shrugs. “I know you're not weak, Trouble. And that's great that you're fine, but I was asking to learn more about this side of you. You keep those years of your life hidden from me. if you haven't noticed.”