Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “Can we talk about something else?” I point out the dark-tinted window. “ETA ten minutes.”

  The pointed once-over she gives me says we’ll finish this discussion later whether I want to or not. A relieved breath brushes past my lips as she breaks our stare-off and reaches for the iPad once again.

  The remaining ten minutes to the embassy are uneventful. Too quiet, in fact. I curl both hands into tight fists as guilt eats at my gut for disregarding her concern.

  The Beast decelerates, slowly coming to a stop directly in front of the embassy’s steps. Several marines stand at attention at the doors and scattered down the stone stairs. An alert scan of the surrounding area locates two of our snipers by the sun’s rays gleaming off their scopes.

  “Let's do this,” Tank says as he tucks his phone away and reaches for the door handle.

  Randi nibbles on a nail, her face scrunched with worry.

  I grip her hand and give it a hard, reassuring squeeze. “We've got you, Mess. Focus on what needs to be done and let us worry about the rest.”

  The buttons down her black blazer pull as she inhales a deep breath. “Will this ever get easier?” she asks.

  “No,” Tank and I say in unison.

  Tank’s deep voice clips through our earpieces, signaling our ready to exit. An acknowledgment is returned, and the door swings open. Randi accepts the offered hand and slides out of the limo into the brightening morning. Tank follows, with me hot on his heels. Hands at the ready, I match her step for step as we ascend the stairs, skimming a searching scan over the crowd. Bright light flashes from the multitude of cameras, holding my focus for half a second before shifting past to assess the countless faces once again.

  We almost make it without incident.

  We’re halfway to the embassy doors and the protection they offer when the false sense of safety shatters.

  A single shot of a high-powered rifle booms through the peaceful morning. Three steps ahead comes a shout of pain, the marine’s face contorting as he stumbles forward before slipping on the edge of the stair and falling. The clatter of metal from his assault rifle hitting the concrete stairs muffles the second shot and following screams.

  “Sniper,” Tank and I bellow in unison, mine as a warning to the marines within hearing distance, Tank’s a command to our guys on the roof through our connected coms.

  The years of training in the army and Secret Service slam into place, washing a calming wave over my panicking thoughts. Wrapping her in a bear hug, I send us into a controlled fall and cover her body with my own. Through the madness, agents bark their visuals as everyone works to identify the location of the shooter.

  I squeeze my lids shut and hug her tighter, preparing for impact of another round of shots. Through the coms, an agent yells to get her inside the building. The concrete at our feet takes the full impact of a round; bits of rock break apart, slicing through the thin material covering my legs and imbedding in my calf and thigh.

  Too close.

  Again a shout comes through the coms, ordering me to get her inside. My protective instincts kick into hyperdrive, and I hesitate moving her out from under me. First, that wasn’t Tank’s deep voice issuing that order to move her inside, it was someone else—someone whose voice I can't identify with all the chaos around me. Second, my gut fights against the idea that we’ll be safer inside.

  I have to make a choice. Lying here on the steps, we’re sitting ducks.

  Follow the sane choice and rush her inside those doors, or listen to my gut that’s kept me alive this long?

  Decision made.

  Scooping her off the ground, I race to take cover between two large supporting columns. Their wide circumference offers protection from the direction of the gunfire.

  “What the fuck?” Randi’s voice is quivering as badly as her shaking body.

  I palm the gun in my hand, adjusting the grip. With a slow exhale, I shift to look around the massive column and take in the full scene. A half-second glance is all I get before a round nicks the stone inches above my head. I whip back around to safety, panting at the close call.

  “Why didn't they take you out first?” I mumble into her ear, though it’s more to myself, attempting to make sense of it all. Voices shout and snap through the earpiece. I sort through them all, piecing together what’s going on out in the open. The cuff of my sleeve scrapes across my lower lip as I shout into the mouthpiece. “Tank, where are our fucking snipers?”

  The returning silence has dread sinking in my gut.

  “Tank?” I say again, louder this time.

  “Little fucking busy here,” his deep voice says over noises in my ear. “The three original fucking snipers are unresponsive.”

  I curse. Whoever this is knew the original plan right down to the placement of our snipers. Hell, they knew when we were fucking arriving.

  “What? What's going on?” Randi begs beneath me. “Is T okay? Please tell me T is okay. This is my fault. This is all my fault.” The words are barely over a whisper. I wonder if she even knows she’s saying them out loud.

  “He responded. Tank’s okay,” I say into her hair. For now, I leave off the end. Who the hell knows where he is in all this. It’s not like I can peek back around to make sure he’s somewhere safe. “We have to get you out of this shit.” But the not knowing who leaked the day’s security plan, whether it was someone on our team or those who knew from the embassy, makes me hesitant to seek shelter inside.

  “Our sniper is on the move,” Tank says. My heart races at the lack of chatter in the background. Tank must have switched to our one-on-one channel. He knows something is off just like I do.

  The cool, smooth stone meets my forehead as I lean forward. “If we go inside, then we're trapped, forced on the defensive.”

  “Where else is safer than the embassy?” Randi questions. “Should we call the president?”

  I shake my head. “What if they're the ones behind this? No, we can't trust anyone but our team.” And maybe not even that. But I leave that part off for her sake. “Tank,” I say into my mic, using our private channel, “we need to get her out of here, back to Air Force One. Cover me while I get her to The Beast.”

  I switch back to the main channel. Hysteria floods through, with that same unidentified voice hollering above it all, demanding we get her inside the embassy.

  “Covered,” Tank clips.

  “Baby, on the count of three, we’re moving. Just follow me, and I’ll get you out of this. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “One.” I thread my free hand in her hair and yank her head back. My lips slam against hers in a demanding kiss. “Two.” Releasing her hair, I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her slightly off the ground.

  “Three.”

  Forcing my feet into motion, I slip around the column, placing us right back into the line of fire.

  Fuck, I hope I know what I'm doing.

  Chapter Twenty

  Randi

  Stomach acid rises up my throat, threatening to spill from my parted lips. Marines, agents, and streams of crimson scatter the once pristine embassy steps—the same steps I ascended moments earlier, unaware of the life-altering attack about to commence. Pain-laced moans and desperate calls for anyone’s help filter through other screams and shouts.

  Guilt cuts my heart like a dull rusted spoon.

  A stiletto snags an edge of the concrete. Lurching forward, I free-fall for half a second before Trey’s strong arm wraps around my waist and tucks me close to his side once again. The pointed toes of my pumps scrape as I'm dragged down the remaining steps. A few agents stay hunkered down behind the limo while Tank stands tall, a gun in each hand, the barrels pointed toward the chaos ensuing in the streets.

  A scream rips from my throat as I'm pushed from behind, forcing me to stumble the last step. Hands outstretched, I prepare for impact when an agent catches me before I hit the ground. A familiar face peers down at mine.

  “I've got you
,” Champ says, his face pale and pinched in pain. Without another word, he shoves me into the now open door. A dark-suited body barrels over me, diving deep into the limo, followed by two others. A screech of rubber against asphalt assaults my ears, the smell burning my nostrils. The limo lurches forward, tossing me back, my head nailing the headrest.

  Tank shouts commands and directions into his coms. Trey's deceptively calm voice doesn’t fool me, and probably not the person he’s on the phone with, detailing instructions to the crew on Air Force One. While Champ….

  Fuck. Champ.

  He slouches, an elbow pressed against the leather seat, cursing like a sailor as he peels his jacket off. Red, and lots of it, stains his previously pristine white dress shirt.

  My arms shake, nearly as useless as overcooked noodles, as I ease my ass to the floorboard and crawl toward my injured agent.

  Buttons ricochet around the limo, the tiny bits of plastic hitting the windows and leather seats. Carefully, I help him strip out of the soggy shirt. The ripping of Velcro sounds around us as I remove his vest straps and tug it over his head. A hole at the curve of his waist weeps blood, trickling little streams to the seat beneath him.

  Staring at the wound, I shrug out of my blazer and press it tentatively against Champ's side.

  “Harder,” Trey's voice rumbles behind me. Checking over my shoulder to make sure he’s talking to me, I see he has the mouthpiece pulled away from his lips. Hitching his chin toward Champ, he sends a pointed expression to the jacket bunched beneath my hands. “More pressure, Mess.”

  I wince and dare a peek at Champ, scared of what I’ll find. Skin a bit paler, sweat dots his forehead and upper lip, but he doesn’t pay me any attention as he types one-thumbed on his cell phone. “It’s just a graze,” he says on a hiss as I press the jacket against his side once again. “Still hurts like a dirty motherfucker.”

  “Air Force One is ready for departure. We can take off as soon as we arrive. Any remaining agents and personnel can catch a flight with one of the cargo planes.” The coarse carpet of the floorboard digs into my palms and knees as I twist to face Trey, waiting for more information.

  In unison, the three agents bark unique curses. I stumble back, my heart racing as the limo takes a hard right.

  Phone forgotten, Trey stretches toward me, hauls me off the floor, and manhandles me into a bucket seat before strapping me in tight. My shallow breaths are more like wheezes with the near suffocating constriction of the seat belt and lung-seizing fear creeping its way back into my veins. I observe in awe as the three secure their lap belts while keeping their guns and intense focus trained out the window.

  “What—” I start when a sudden lurch of the limo cuts me off. Like a rag doll in a dryer, my arms and legs sail through the air while my core remains safely strapped into the seat. The seat belt digs through my dress shirt as I'm shifted right, then left. Tears threaten at the overwhelming terror for not only my safety but those in the limo with me. I swallow hard, shoving them down, and concentrate on stabilizing my neck to prevent my head from snapping off with every sharp turn.

  The nerve-racking strain and chase last several minutes before Tank relaxes and gives an all clear. Out the window, the city of Cairo fades and the airport we flew into just hours ago comes into view. Just like in the movies, the limo speeds down the runway, skidding to a halt directly in front of the stairs. US mixed with Egyptian military surround the jet, their massive guns pointed every direction.

  With a resounding click, Trey unsnaps my seatbelt and urges me out of the limo into T's awaiting hands. Right before we ascend the stairs, my heel slips, twisting my ankle in an unnatural way. Agonizing pain screams from the tendons and ligaments from below the knee down to my toes.

  I lean heavily on T, his hand nearly swallowing my slim waist. Supporting most of my weight, he assists me up the stairs at a rapid pace until we're safely inside my second home.

  Doctors charge toward me, ripping me from T's hold and hauling me toward the back of the plane. Questions about injuries are tossed one after another, so fast I can’t respond quickly enough. Stumbling, I strain to see over my shoulder, desperate to make sure Trey makes it onto the plane all right.

  Our eyes meet the moment he steps through the open door. My lips part, ready to call out to him. I need him, his arms, his whispers of comfort. I can’t breathe… and I can’t do any of this without him.

  No doubt seeing the panic in my eyes, Trey advances toward me but is stopped by T, who shakes his head and points toward a section of seats where other ragged and torn agents sit.

  For the first time since the whole ordeal began, I allow a single tear to slip free.

  Men died today keeping me safe. Others are injured and bleeding, all for a fight we didn’t start.

  And one… one of those men, I can’t fathom losing.

  Once again, I was too close to losing Trey. Today I almost lost my future.

  That single thought transforms the panic and uncertainty dictating my every breath and emotion to anger so hot I’m tempted to burn the world to the ground to punish those responsible.

  Someone almost took away my forever today.

  That someone better be fucking petrified.

  Because I'm done playing their games. Those fuckers just messed with the wrong woman.

  Up to this point, I've held back the full force of what’s at my disposal.

  Now?

  Now they’ll feel the wrath of a pissed-off Texas woman.

  May God have mercy on their damned souls.

  “It's fine,” I grumble under my breath. What is it about personal physicians and being so damn hovering? I never had a doctor so observant until I moved into politics. “I’ve been through worse and just shook it off. Slap a Band-Aid on it and I'll be perfectly fine.”

  The two male doctors share a confused look before directing their overly attentive focus back on me.

  These two remind me of someone—but who?

  “It's a sprain, Madam President. A Band-Aid wouldn’t fix the issue at hand.”

  I roll my eyes and shift, allowing my legs to dangle off the table that’s worked as my doctors’ makeshift workstation for the past hour. “Yeah, I know. I’m not that ignorant. It was a joke. Listen.” I huff and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “You've wrapped the ankle all nice and tight. I have my little baggie of ice.” Grasping the massive ice pack from beside me, I shake the goo-filled bag for emphasis. “And now I need to get back to work. Because I'm pretty certain someone tried to assassinate me—again—and they hurt several Americans in the process. I'd really like to discuss the details with my intelligence team and agents to find out who the hell that was so I can punish them severely.”

  The two blink in unison. Turn in unison. Part their lips in unison.

  I got it! Bert and Ernie! That’s who these two morons remind me of.

  Hell if I know why though, since neither actually has a similar appearance to the loveable Sesame Street puppets. Maybe it’s how they do everything in unison and act like they both have a hand shoved up their ass.

  “I appreciate you fixing my ankle, but I've got shit to do.” I ready myself to stand when the set of crutches they've demanded I use to keep weight off the sprained ankle is shoved against my chest. “Fine,” I nearly growl. “I'll take your crutches, but we don't need no stinking crutches.” My loud and a bit obnoxious snort vibrates the tip of my nose. The two doctors blink, not finding my joke nearly has humorous as I do. “Seriously, it's a quote from a movie, but I switched out the word badges for crutches.” Raising both brows, I consider one doctor, then the other. “It's supposed to be funny.”

  “What movie, ma'am?” Bert says.

  I lift both shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “No clue, but I know I've heard it somewhere. Or maybe it was a poster?” Eager to check on my agents, I plant the pads atop the crutches under my armpits and pitch forward, making for the exit. “Ask Alexa. She'll know.”

  Managing the door with t
he crutches and distracting throbbing pain radiating from my ankle proves to be as difficult as getting the House and Senate to agree on anything, but I manage to tug it open. I shuffle down the narrow paths, making my way toward the front of the plane where I last saw T and Trey. The sharp scent of gunpowder, blood, and stale sweat guides me toward my friends and agents.

  I round a corner to a small conference room, the door wide open, allowing me to see the devastation inside. My knees buckle at the sight, the crutches I was against the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the floor.

  “We're okay, Mess.” Trey's words filter through one ear and out the other as I take in the agents coated with sweat and dirt; a few have crimson staining their clothes. “Only a few fatalities. Those in here are wounded but nothing fatal.”

  My observing gaze pauses on Champ. I saw that wound. There’s no way it didn’t need to be treated the minute he stepped on the plane.

  “Where is the doctor?” I don’t recognize my own voice. Cold, focused… determined. The sinking feeling in my gut fans the guilt already flaming inside me.

  Not a single agent responds. A few share worried expressions. They must see the edge I’m teetering on.

  The crutches creak beneath my weight as I pivot to face Trey.

  “Nothing was life-threatening. We’ve patched up what we can, cleaned the wounds. We'll get detailed medical attention once we land.” I try to shove down the ire rising in my chest at hearing they have to wait when medical attention was so readily available to me for a fucking sprained ankle, but it still pours into my narrow-eyed glare. Wisely, Trey retreats a step, his hands raised in surrender. “Don’t kill the messenger, Madam President. It wasn’t my decision.”

  “Bert! Ernie!” I bark over my shoulder, directing my voice back the way I’d just come. When the sound of hurried footfalls doesn’t immediately come, I mumble a string of curses and hobble out of the room, heading for the small medical office where I last saw the two puppets.