Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “That's utter bullshit and you know it,” he retorts. The earlier pink tainting his cheeks is now a fiery red.

  “Bullshit or not, it was need-to-know at the time, and you weren't one of them.” Standing from the desk, I tilt forward, pressing my knuckles to the polished surface in an effort to keep weight off my injured ankle. Sure, the insistent throbbing is annoying as hell, but what other choice do I have? It’s not like I can meet with this group of badass men with my foot up on my desk, or even worse, lying on the couch in order to keep it elevated. “The CIA is working on obtaining information on the men who run the group, but I’ve decided we will move now on military force, taking out the insurgents who’ve attempted to kill me and continue to spread chaos and uncertainty in the Middle East. However, I’m aware this is your area of expertise, which is why you’re here today. I need to know our best course of action, one that will require the fewest troops and little to no casualties.” I motion for them to begin.

  For over an hour, they debate the best plan, me adding my two cents or asking questions every so often. Two believe a full-on deployment of several thousands of troops is needed to end what we've started. The other one, the quiet one who has the full attention of the room when he speaks, suggests a small special operations team to take those responsible out quietly.

  While they resume the arguing, I swivel in the chair, placing my back to the center of the room. A quick peek finds my ankle twice the size it was earlier this morning. The radiating pain is now so intense that sweat collects along my palms and my hairline.

  With a grimace, I gradually turn back to the men, my stoic mask back in place before I make the full turn.

  “I like the special forces plan,” I say. I need to wrap this up and get my ankle elevated before Trey comes by. He'll be pissed seeing it on the floor instead of on the desk. “SEALs?”

  The general shakes his head. “Delta Force. They're already on the ground in that area of the world, which means little to no adjustment period. We get a team the intelligence they need to locate the insurgents and it’ll be handled. Simple as that.”

  I swallow. Beneath the desk, my hands begin to tremble. Shit just got real. Our Delta Force is the most elusive subset of our military—hell, any military. Most people don't even believe they exist. But they are still men, men with lives outside the military. What I’ll ask them to do will put their lives in danger. Yes, they’re in danger all the time, being in the military, but this is different. They need to know what they’re fighting for, what they’ll be stopping.

  And they need to hear it from me. Their president. I need to show some fucking backbone while holding on to some semblance of empathy.

  “One caveat to your plan.” The general tilts his head in question. “Before they head out on the mission, I will meet with them to discuss the importance of what I’m asking them to do.” The room falls silent. If they were to listen closely, I swear all three could hear the throbbing of my ankle.

  “No,” one of the other advisors says.

  “Incorrect answer,” I snap. A single drop of sweat trickles between my breast as more forms along the back of my neck. “Get the intelligence you need to put a plan in place for Delta Force, but I will talk to them before they go out on the mission, is that clear?” No one responds. “I said, is that clear, gentlemen,” I nearly growl.

  One after another, they all slowly dip their chins in acknowledgment.

  “Great, this meeting is over. Keep me updated.”

  Two grumbling men file out. Glancing up from the iPad I can't even focus on, I find the general hovering in front of the desk. There's something about his presence that offers a comforting, protective feel that drains a bit of the tension that's been at a constant high since we landed yesterday afternoon.

  “It's dangerous.”

  “I understand. But I have to do this.”

  “Why?” Chewing on my lip, I hold back from gasping as I shift in the seat, the bit of movement jarring enough to shoot a bolt of pain straight up my leg. “You should elevate that, you know.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. His answering smirk produces a light chuckle in my chest.

  “Who told you?” I laugh as I carefully lift the injured ankle to the desk and gently rest it on the edge so it hangs over the other side.

  “Everyone. Why do you want to meet with the men?”

  Sighing, I rub the bridge of my nose. “Because this is different than me asking them to do the job they signed up for.”

  “Which is?”

  “Serving our country, protecting us against the bad guys. In this case, we are the bad guys. We're the ones who allowed this to happen, maybe not directly but indirectly for sure. We aren't the ones pulling the trigger, but we fucking gave the insurgents the guns. I just want our men to know what they're stopping, what they're risking their lives for. I owe that to them.”

  Comfortable silence settles between us as he stares me down.

  “I'll make sure it happens, but know it will have to be in and out, and only a few can know. A small team of agents and you. You can't fly Air Force One onto the base. You'd get every man on the entire base killed.”

  I nod as he speaks. “I only need two agents if we're going in undercover. Maybe I should get a wig, go incognito.”

  A deep rumbling laugh fills the office. I smile at the rare one now adorning the general’s face.

  “I didn't know how it would be advising you, Madam President, but I must say it's an honor. What you're doing for our country with the various programs for those trapped in the lower class is exactly what this country needs. No one like you, with your understanding, has sat in the chair you occupy now. Those people have been left alone with no voice for far too long.”

  I arch a brow. “You sound like you know their plight all too well.”

  A soft smile causes deep lines to crease his leathery cheeks. “Our ranks are filled with kids with similar backgrounds to your own. Poverty, no way out, terrible home life. I served with many and have trained many more. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve listened, and now I’m honored to be advising someone who is focused on a group that most want to forget. Recent intelligence withholding aside.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “Thank you for your service.”

  “Likewise, Madam President.”

  He strides out of the office at the same moment Trey and a very pregnant Taeler shuffle around him to enter.

  “How's my grandbaby doing today?” I smile at her rounded belly. We kept the secret as long as we could, but once she started showing, we had to announce it to the media. At first, everyone was disappointed it wasn't me; guess there aren’t as many ratings in the first daughter being pregnant as there would've been if I were. The announcement held the public’s attention for less than a week before they moved on to something else.

  We kept the details of the first assassination attempt in Saudi Arabia out of the media, but with all the cell phones at the Cairo incident, there was no way my media team could keep it under wraps. Now the media sharks are back camped outside; they haven’t left since Air Force One landed on American soil. Each reporter and news station wants an interview, details on what happened and how I plan to respond. Most of the news anchors want us to react with the full force of the American military. Not sure if they feel that angry at the thought of me being hurt or if it's sheer bloodlust for higher ratings. Nothing says more viewers like the threat of war.

  “The baby is kicking my fucking spleen like it’s a plush soccer ball,” Taeler says, easing herself onto the couch with Trey’s help.

  A love-saturated sigh fills my chest. Swoon. Can he get any cuter?

  “Language,” I grumble at my foulmouthed daughter. I should kick her father’s ass for teaching her such fucking language.

  “I'm okay, by the way. Thanks for asking how your only daughter is doing.”

  Rolling my eyes, I shoot a pleading look at Trey, who raises his hands in surrender and backs away until his back seals
to the far wall. The building smile on his lips falters when he notices my swollen ankle. His narrowed glare burns through me.

  “How's your father doing?” I rush out to avoid the verbal lashing I know is sure to come from Trey. “He should be here in the next couple of weeks, right?”

  “Dad's fine. Still pouting about how you made him leave.”

  We both roll our eyes, making us giggle.

  “It was your decision too, remember?” I say with a pointed look. “I told him he couldn’t move in, but you’re the one who sent him packing the next day.”

  “Yeah, just because—” She cuts herself short and busies herself with tucking a rogue lock of hair behind her ear over and over again. “Anyways. It was best for everyone.”

  “What do you mean?” Trey asks.

  Groaning, she reclines her head, resting it on the back of the couch. “Mom, Dad is great, but… you know.”

  I frown at her. “No, not at all. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Listen, he's great—”

  “You said that already, even though I highly disagree.”

  “Can you let me—”

  “From a partner standpoint, at least. And the sex? Meh.”

  “Mom,” she screeches as she suctions her palms over her ears. I shoot Trey a sly smile before swinging my attention back to Taeler. “I don't want to hear about that. Now, can I fucking finish?”

  “Even though you're carrying my grandbaby, I will ground you, Taeler Lynn. Watch your damn language and act like a fucking lady.”

  “Pot, meet kettle,” Trey pipes up, then shrinks back when both Tae and I shift our irritation to him. Fist to his lips, he clears his throat. “Right, sorry. You were saying, Taeler?”

  “All he did was talk about you and compare himself to Trouble!”

  My mouth gapes. A glance at Trey shows him beaming with pride.

  Men.

  “He knew something was going on between you two, and I think he was a little insecure about it. That's the only thing I can think of, at least. Why else would he care what was going on?”

  “Why else indeed?” I mutter. “Why didn't you tell me when he was here?”

  She shrugs. “I liked having him here. You're gone a lot, Mom, which I get considering you're running the country and all, but it gets lonely when you're not around. When he was here, I had someone to talk to, someone who wanted to be around me instead of being paid to babysit me.”

  A pounding on the door draws all our attention. Trey stretches toward the door and pulls it open.

  “We have a problem,” Blake states before he's fully over the threshold, with Todd hot on his heels.

  “Now I think you just don't know how to start off a conversation without your opening line.” Sighing, I direct my attention to Taeler. “Thanks for stopping by, but my five-minute break is officially over.” With a sad smile, I watch her waddle out. Trey shuts the door behind her, remaining inside the office.

  Blake shoots him a reproachful glance.

  “The president is injured. I'm not leaving her alone with you two.” His tone leaves zero room for negotiating.

  “You first, Todd,” I say with a small flick of my wrist.

  “The Egyptian president is demanding more answers from you after yesterday’s mishap—”

  “Mishap,” Trey cuts in, the word as sharp as a machete. “It was an assassination attempt on his soil.”

  “He claims to have no prior knowledge of the attack, and with their casualties, it looks bad. I think we need a show of force—”

  “For the final time, no, Todd. I am not sending in our military to retaliate,” I seethe. No way will I reveal the plans about Delta Force. The fewer people who know about those plans, the better. It’s the best way to ensure the mission goes as planned and the insurgents are caught unaware. “I told the president every detail of the attack once we landed. We were there to visit them, to calm their fears and answer questions. Which we would have, except we were attacked at the first damn stop. Our own embassy at that. Us planning it—” I stop short. Todd’s words replay in my mind, snagging on one bit of information. “What do you mean, their casualties?”

  “Three bodies were found amongst the crowd after we were already in the air.” I flick a quick look at Trey in an attempt to confirm or deny Todd's statement. “They were all shot once in the head execution style.”

  Clenching my fists, I fight the nausea rolling in my gut. “And they think it was us.”

  “We know it was us,” Trey says. Gone is my lovable, mischievous Trey; now standing at full attention is Agent Benson. Which I have to admit is fucking hot as hell. “Smith took the rogue Egyptians out. He states they were part of the attack, firing into the crowd and assisting in creating chaos, yet the Egyptians report there were no guns found on their bodies.”

  I mull over his words as I point to Blake. “Your turn.”

  “The media is demanding a press conference. They want to know exactly what happened in Egypt and how we’ll retaliate.” A calculating gleam sparks his gaze when it lands on my oversized ankle. “The fact that you were injured will make our responding attack justifiable in others’ eyes.”

  The chair groans as it tips back, and I rest my head on the stiff cushion. Eyes closed, I weigh my options while processing the information Todd revealed. “Set up another call for the Egyptian president and me. I will do a press conference, but from behind this desk, not standing behind the podium in the briefing room. There will be zero mention of my injury, and I will highlight that three of the insurgents are already dead and no further military actions will be taken at this time.”

  “At this time” is my loophole. Hey, I am an attorney by trade, after all. What can I say? Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.

  The two men bicker between themselves as they file out of the office, Todd visibly upset at my lack of military action. Once they're both gone and the door is sealed shut once again, I roll my head along the chair until I meet Trey's concerned gaze from across the room.

  “Tell me your thoughts on what Smith did,” I whisper, though I’m not sure why. It's almost like my voice knows my body is running low on energy and needs to conserve.

  “I don't know what to think. The surveillance footage we can find doesn’t show anything conclusive. In Smith’s initial statement, he said the men had ARs and were firing them at random into the air, increasing the confusion and fear around the embassy. But now… now he's clammed up, won't say another word to me, Tank, or those on the review board.”

  “Maybe I should try. We have a rapport of sorts, I think.”

  Trey's features turn contemplative. “Couldn't hurt for you try. There is something off about all this that I can't figure out. Maybe if you get him talking, pieces of this damn puzzle will fall into place.” Sleeve to his lips, he whispers something about Smith before lowering the arm to his side once again. “We'll figure out a time for you to meet with Smith before the end of the shift. Now, what the fuck did you do to your ankle? Run a marathon since this morning?” With a few quick, determined steps, he's at the desk, fingers carefully prodding the bandage nearly cutting off the circulation to my toes. “What am I going to do with you, Mess?”

  “I can think of a lot of things, Trouble.”

  His lips twitch. “How did the meeting with the military advisors go earlier?”

  “Good. The general suggested Delta Force.” Rubbing a jagged nail along the edge of the iPad, I avoid looking up as I continue. “I agreed, and then I told them I want to talk with them before the mission. In person.”

  The gentle swipe of his fingertips along my shin pauses. After a few moments, I relent on the avoidance and turn to gauge his reaction.

  Face flushed, brows furrowed, lips pursed.

  Not good.

  “No,” he barks.

  “Yes?” I say, tilting my head. “Pretty sure it's my call.”

  “Damn sure it's not, Randi. I told you no more making life-threatening decisions with
out discussing it with me, with your protection team, first, and you go and do this shit?”

  “I have to talk to them,” I hiss. Shifting my foot off the desk, I carefully lower it to the floor. “They need to know what they’re fighting for.”

  “Call them! Hell, send them a secure text or email. But you are not going where those men are stationed.”

  “And why the hell not?” I yell.

  “Because I know where they station those men. You are not putting yourself in that kind of unnecessary danger. The answer is no.”

  “The answer is yes.”

  “Randi.” Stepping back, he runs a hand through his hair. “Stop fighting me on this. Let me do my job. Let me protect you. I've told you I can't keep seeing you in harm’s way. Do you not give a damn about that?”

  “I have to do this,” I say, a bit of the venom from earlier gone from my tone.

  “No you don't, and it makes me fucking miserable knowing that you don't even give a damn about anyone else but yourself. You know I'm not trying to control you, yet that's how you're taking it. Stop being so damn selfish, Randi, and see what your actions do to me, to Tank. Hell, the whole team. This country. It's not just you anymore. If something were to happen to you, the world would be impacted.”

  “Anything could happen to me at any moment,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

  “Exactly, so why increase the odds by going into an area known as a terrorist hotbed? To a base camp where attacks happen daily and survival is only for those who can take the pressure of being under constant threat? Listen to me, please, Randi. I'm begging you. Do this for me. Don't push this. Don't go.”

  The urgency in his forceful words, the plea behind his searching eyes, catches me off guard like a punch to the chest. To the heart, to be exact.

  Could he be right? Am I being selfish not considering the impact of my every move and decision? Am I really willing to put the agents and the men and women at the base in harm’s way just so I can slough some of this guilt at what’s been done off my shoulders? This, and a million other reasons, is why I'm the shittiest president ever to occupy the White House. And the exact reason someone more deserving, tenured, should be in this role. Someone like Trey. He sees the big picture, the thousand-foot view. Whereas mine is the two-foot leap from the trailer park door to the cinder block makeshift stair below.