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

  Power Term

  Power Play Book 5

  Kennedy L. Mitchell

  © 2020 Kennedy L. Mitchell

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Design: Bookin It Designs

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading: All Encompassing Books

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  To my amazing readers.

  Thank you for loving Trey and Randi.

  May the unicorn gods be ever in your favor.

  “Defeat? I do not recognize the meaning of the word.”

  - Margret Thatcher

  Prologue

  Randi

  A sharp, high-pitched screeching in my ears threatens to rupture my eardrums and liquefy my brain. Combine that with the pounding in my skull that’s nearly as brutal as the ringing, and my thoughts scatter as I try to decipher what the hell is going on and why I can’t move.

  Something happened to me.

  What happened to me?

  Fucking focus, Randi. Get your shit together.

  But I can’t. Nothing makes sense through the all-consuming pain keeping me from processing what the hell is going on. A memory flashes through my mind like lightning, there and gone quickly but enough for me to remember one thing.

  A car wreck. I was in a car wreck, and now… now I can’t move.

  Panic races through my veins, skyrocketing my pulse to race faster than humanly possible as heat swells beneath my skin. Anxiety festers, generating fears of paralysis and dangling severed limbs to be the only logical reason for my immobility. Willing all my focus to one simple move, I slowly lift my chin from where it rests along my collarbone.

  The simple movement rips a gasp from me as agonizing pain blazes down my neck to my lower spine, like hundreds of tiny knives stabbing those sensitive nerves repeatedly. Every movement is worse than the last, but a nagging sense of foreboding urges me to keep going.

  Finally my head meets the back of the seat. I gasp a full breath as hot tears drip down my cheeks. Teeth clamped hard, I swallow a cry of agony and seal my lips to keep from calling out. Chest heaving from the exertion of that simple movement, I take a moment to let the pain ease to a manageable level.

  The ringing in my ears and throbbing in my head continue, but it’s a fraction less with the new position. I could easily give up in this moment, stop refusing the intense need to drift asleep. Abandon this mad idea of consciousness. But I won’t.

  I don’t know how, but I know one thing is for certain.

  I’m in danger, and I need to stay awake to fight.

  Digging my teeth into my lower lip, I fight my lids to open. Slow at first, my lashes flutter as I blink past the haze clouding my vision. A sticky glaze makes each slow blink more difficult than usual to peel my lids apart once again.

  As my vision sharpens, I observe my surroundings without moving. The back of a black leather seat is unmistakable directly in front of me, and just beyond that is a shattered, splintered windshield with something sticking through it from the outside.

  Yells and gunshots sound in the distance while long shadows flutter outside the smashed tinted window on my right. Sucking in a breath for courage to take stock of the damage to my lower half, I slide my gaze lower. Yellowed light filters through the fissures of the town car’s various broken windows, offering enough illumination from the streetlamps above to highlight the awkward angle of my legs and torso. But it’s what I don’t see that causes a swift wash of relief. No dismembered legs or arms, no gaping holes in my torso, no rushing blood. Besides my throbbing head, which probably caused the spiderweb-looking crack in the window, I’m unharmed.

  The ringing in my ear seems to swell, cutting off what minimal outside noise I could hear before. Pressure builds in my skull, causing my stomach to roll with nausea. Surrendering to the demanding fight to close my eyes, I rest my lids, dousing myself in darkness once again.

  Focus, Randi. I’m a sitting duck wherever we are. I have to move, have to fight to find Trey.

  A renewed sense of urgency blooms at the thought of Trey. I have to get to him, or get somewhere safe so he can find me.

  But to do that, I have to move.

  Fuck, this is going to hurt.

  A pitiful whimper breezes past my dry lips as my fingers shift along the seat. The smooth baby-soft leather brushes beneath the tips, the texture a complete contrast to everything else in this moment.

  With every move, pain infiltrates each cell and nerve, but I push through the agony. The leather sticks to my slick palm as I seal it to the seat and slowly rotate my upper body to align with my lower half. I sink my teeth into my upper lip to stifle the cry of pain that wants to escape.

  I slowly peel my skin away from the leather, each square inch sticking from blood or sweat—I’m too chicken to glance down and find out which. The muscles of my right arm burn in protest as I reach out to grope along the door, fingers desperate in their search for the handle. The tremble in my arm turns into a quake before my muscles give out, slapping my hand back to the seat.

  A low groan fills the air.

  A groan that was not my own.

  Forcing my eyes back open, I scan the inside of the town car once more, slower this time to pick up any movements. Nothing. I didn’t imagine that sound, did I? Or maybe it was my own and the hit on my head has caused temporary hallucinations.

  My nostrils flare as I inhale deeply; the heated air burns down my windpipe and scrapes through my raw lungs. I release it slowly through pursed lips as I rotate to face the window. Bones creak, tendons along my neck and upper back tightening and stinging with the movement. Tears well, making the cracked window swim before I can blink them away.

  All of a sudden, the entire car shifts. I slide to the left with the movement, almost as if someone’s rocking the wreckage.

  Movement in the front snaps my attention from the window. The previously unconscious agent in the passenger seat rolls his head along the headrest with a guttural curse. Over and over the mangled car rocks, shifting me one direction and then the other. My eyes widen, a squeak of surprise lodged in my throat when his door wrenches open with a squeal
of metal against metal. I blink past the sudden flood of light that only lasts a moment before a tall shadow shifts into the rays, offering a momentary reprieve from the blinding light on my overly sensitive eyes.

  The relief is short-lived.

  A long gun barrel points into the front seat. Brightness flares, and a splatter of warm liquid covering my face and neck is the only indication a shot was fired. In slow motion, the once barely alive agent slumps forward, his body position matching the one behind the steering wheel digging into his chest.

  A scream works its way up my throat, and my lips part, readying to release a plea for help, only nothing happens. I work my jaw, move my lips, but still my cries and screams stay locked in my tight throat. Even my whimper is silent as I mentally rail on myself for allowing the shock to freeze my basic functions and inhibit me from calling out.

  The shadow dousing the front seat and dead agent moves, allowing light to pour back into the car. Half a second later, the strange rocking movement from earlier shakes the car again, this time more pronounced.

  Metal crunches and squeals as the door opens an inch and then another before it swings all the way out with a resistant groan. I blink past the assaulting overhead light. The snug seat belt digging into my shoulder and chest keeps me in place even as I struggle to shift away from the swallowing shadow that engulfs the back seat.

  A man stands between the seat and hanging mangled door. With his face shadowed, I take in what I can see.

  No tie or jacket. A simple oversized black T-shirt covers his chest and slightly protruding belly.

  Realization hits me like a physical slap to the face. I attempt to shift away from the open door and the man blocking the only exit who is clearly not one of my agents.

  I blink, unable to move with the seat belt still tight against my chest as he leans into the back seat. The leather dips beneath his weight beside my shoulder as he uses the seat as leverage to bend around me. A sharp yank tightens the seat belt, hampering my breathing only for it to release almost immediately, the restricting hold now gone from my hips and upper body. When his hands slip under my legs and around my back, I have no option but to allow him to move me like a limp doll. It takes little effort for the man to slide me along the seat toward the open door and then haul me out into the open early morning air.

  I try. I really fucking try to move, to fight his hold, but nothing will work. Maybe it’s from shock, or who knows, maybe my spinal cord is now severed, but whatever the cause, I can’t fucking move at all, leaving me fully exposed and vulnerable. The world spins, what once was up now down and back again. His hard shoulder slams into my gut, shoving bile and air up my throat. I bob up and down as he jogs along the black asphalt and leaps to the sidewalk.

  Regaining some mobility, I press both hands to his waist, my arm muscles trembling with the exertion, to lift my head.

  Even with the constant movement, there’s no mistaking the utter destruction that was once my security convoy. My heart stutters. For several seconds, even the need to breathe vanishes as I visually piece the mangled mess together. The lead SUV is a crumpled pile of metal, the front end gone, almost like it was blown off by a blast of some kind. It’s back end isn’t much better, securely lodged into the windshield of what must have been my town car. The two other SUVs have minimal damage, but all the doors are swung open, a few limp-suited bodies slumped half in, half out.

  An ambush. We were ambushed. This was a smash and grab—for me.

  With the pressure digging into my stomach and the gore surrounding me, mixed with the overload of fear pulsing through me, I can’t stop my stomach from clenching, my abs flexing and sending anything I’ve eaten in the last few hours up and out. My arms give out, dislodging the needed support to keep my head up, as liquid splatters to the sidewalk. Strings of saliva, bile, and probably blood drip from my trembling lower lip as I’m carried farther from the wreckage.

  Surprised shouts break through the ringing in my ears. Pops of rapid gunfire sound close—too close.

  The man abducting me slows as another set of shoes enters my line of sight along the dark asphalt. Muffled words are exchanged between the two. The chest of the man who holds me vibrates against the front of my thighs where they’re clamped tight with an arm around them, securing me to his body.

  Then we’re running again, faster this time, as if someone is now chasing us. Hope blooms in my numb chest at the thought.

  Someone is coming… for me.

  Trash and debris litter the grimy-looking ground as he dashes through one alley before darting toward another in a random pattern. Every step causes excruciating pain to blast down my curved spine. Every attempt to support myself, to help ease the jarring movements, is unsuccessful due to my weak arms and his quick pace.

  The thought-scattering confusion that immediately followed the attack has lifted enough for one truth to solidify: I have to fight back, or I’m as good as dead.

  Gathering what little strength I have—and a hell of a lot of courage—I wait for my moment. It only takes a few seconds for my opportunity. We take a tight right around a brick building, putting me close enough to grab the corner if I reached out.

  This is going to hurt.

  Without a second thought to the pain or what the hell I’ll do next, I reach for the building. I cry out as the rough edges of the brick scrape down the length of my forearm. Curling my fingers, I grapple to hold on to the building’s edge. The man carrying me loses his grip with my sudden jerk of a stop against his forward momentum.

  I free-fall for a second, releasing my grip on the building and leaving bits of my skin, blood, and nails imbedded into the shallow rough grooves. The asphalt slams into my knees, bits of rock slicing through my bare skin and embedding themselves, adding to my laundry list of injuries.

  A low curse sounds behind me, but it’s the shouting from the direction we came that I focus on. Muscles quivering, knees and palms bleeding, I push to all fours to crawl toward those searching for me.

  Hopefulness burns in my chest as my shaking arms support my weight and I make a single forward movement. Then a handful of my hair is gripped tight behind me. Knowing what’s coming, I dig my nails into the sticky asphalt, desperate to hold my ground. A screech rips from my lungs as I’m yanked backward, my scalp burning where several strands have ripped free. Once again my own body is manipulated against my will as I’m thrown over someone’s shoulder.

  Whoever this is doesn’t waste any time racing away from my would-be saviors.

  With my head dangling, my forehead sliding along a sweat-damp T-shirt, my tears of frustration and desperation leak from my eyes, slipping through my dark eyebrows and gliding along my forehead to disappear into my hairline.

  The shouts grow distant before vanishing altogether as we slip through a rusted metal door into an abandoned concrete structure. The man’s boots echo around us, spraying a few droplets of water along my dangling arms and hands as he tromps uncaring through the various puddles of rainwater. At least I hope it’s rainwater and not rat pee.

  I eye the puddle we’ve just passed through. It would have to be a big rat to make that size puddle.

  Another door opens and closes behind us. The structure is more of a cement maze than a parking garage. Fresh air breezes over my damp cheeks for only a moment before we slip into another building.

  At the third or fourth building, the man’s steps slow, as do the other set that’s been keeping pace since we ran from the wreckage.

  “Fucking finally,” the man holding me grumbles as his long strides take us across the dusty floor.

  “Toss her in,” another voice says from somewhere behind me.

  Before I can register his words, the one who’s been hauling me around DC like a sack of potatoes grips my waist and lifts me off his shoulder. Dangling me in midair, his grip loosens before releasing completely. A silent cry burns in my raw throat as I plummet to the ground. My ass hits first, sending a shooting burst of pain along my tailb
one up my lower spine as it takes the brunt of the fall, but the side of my head still collides with the ground with a… hollow thud?

  Not the ground.

  I furiously flick my gaze around, absorbing what I can of my surroundings.

  No, not the ground. Worse.

  A fucking trunk. I’m in the trunk of a car to be taken only the unicorn gods know where. I part my lips, inhaling deeply and readying to scream for help while praying this time my voice actually cooperates, only for a hot, sweaty palm to slap over my nose and mouth, stifling my attempt to call out.

  I thrash my head left and right to dislodge the meaty hand only for it to tighten. A ski mask-covered face looms over my own. The malice in the beady eyes zeroed in on me kicks my unconscious fight-or-flight drive awake. With desperation and terror as my fuel, I kick against the carpeted trunk, my bare feet sliding along the coarse material, trying to gain traction. Skin rips beneath my nails as I claw at the arm holding me down.

  Another shadow appears, the person looming just outside my field of vision. One of the two mutters something about holding me still. A prick, almost like a gnat bite, pierces the delicate skin of my upper neck.

  I don’t even have time to register what happened before my muscles tingle, their revived strength vanishing. I slump against the trunk’s interior, the cheap mat fibers tickling my palms and cheek. My erratic breaths slow to a calm cadence as a warm rush washes over me, relaxing me deeper and deeper as the drugs move through my veins.