Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4 Page 2

  This curiosity, it's a new, uncomfortable emotion.

  “This ends with me. I hold the evidence. I'm the proof.”

  The weight slips from my fingers, the knot tightening as the sculpture lowers to the floor. Soft gasps fill the room as I watch the light leave his eyes, making memories of each second, each ragged breath for later.

  It's not until I'm on the balcony ready to shimmy back down the wall that his last words resonate. Turning back to the glass doors, I track the iron sculpture swaying back and forth along the back of the chair. From this vantage point, I’m unable to see where the body of a once powerful man lies still and nonbreathing, but I know it's there.

  “I hold the evidence. I'm the proof.”

  To anyone else, it would sound like a confession, a last testimonial. But I know better.

  It's a diversion.

  Quietly closing the back door, I don't bother to flick the dead bolt. I’m the scariest thing on this block; only an idiot would try to break in here. The dark hardwood floors creak under each footstep as I stalk through the townhouse. The soft glow of light from the streetlamps slices through the slats of the plantation shutters covering each of the windows in the formal living room. The stairs pop and crack under my weight with each step toward the master bedroom. At the landing, I tug the black long-sleeve T-shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor as I continue on my route to the shower. With my pants hanging open, my cock resting against the teeth of the zipper, I pull my phone free from the back pocket and dial the number directed in the initial instructions for tonight’s contract.

  “Is it done?” says the weak voice on the other end of the line. I've never seen a single client face-to-face, but this person's voice is unforgettable, one I've heard a few times before. Gotta love returning customers.

  “Yes.” I eye the shower and gently stroke my cock, readying it for the fun we're about to have.

  “And the answers to the questions.”

  “He said the lawyers don’t know anything yet and that she didn't know.” I pinch the head of my dick, focusing on the pain to keep me from asking who the fuck “she” is and why everyone's so interested in this cunt.

  “Did you believe him?”

  I sigh as I release my hold, the earlier bite of pain morphing into delicious pleasure.

  “Yes to the lawyer portion. His answer was quick. No to the part about the woman.” I stroke myself, impatience rising as the silence stretches. “Unless you want to create another contract for this mystery woman, we're done here. Wire me the final amount tonight as promised. I've got shit to do.”

  “It's not just some woman. She's untouchable.”

  My interest piques. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing using those words. It’s a challenge, something I never back away from.

  “You’re aware I'm the best,” I grit out. Not sure why I'm fighting to take on this contract—jobs come to me, not the other way around. Not to mention I have another contract in the wing, one that will take months of recon to ensure its success and me not being hung as a traitor. But there's something about this mystery and the fucking curiosity that hasn’t waned since I left that corpse in his fancy-ass estate.

  “They cannot allow loose ends.” The long pause on the other end of the line signals he's debating his next steps. “We will get you close. Close enough to funnel information on her whereabouts and vulnerabilities. But you would not be the one hired to take her out. It would be too obvious and lead every agency back to us as the responsible party.”

  I huff and shove my cargo pants the rest of the way down my legs before stepping out, leaving them in a puddle of thick fabric in the middle of the room.

  “Don't doubt my restraint. You only want information, I'll only gather information.”

  A quiet curse comes from the other end of the line. “This has to happen even with the risks. She has to know more about the group and their goal than he let on or he wouldn’t have stepped down.” A long quiet pause in the conversation eats at my nerves. “We will get you close and form a plan from there with others to eliminate her as a threat.”

  More silence, this time from my end as I deliberate if this contract is even worth the hassle. Intelligence gathering then allowing someone else to take the hit isn’t something I’ve done before. Sounds like I’d do all the leg work and get cut out of the fun part.

  “We will pay triple your normal rate.”

  My hand hovers over the chrome shower handle. Fuck, that's a shit ton of money.

  “Who the fuck is this woman?” I say, allowing some of the intrigue to flow through my gritty voice.

  “Randi Sawyer, the president of the United States.”

  “Interesting.” My thoughts swirl. “Agreed with one exception. I know someone who will take the final hit. I won’t trust anyone else with the kill other than him.”

  I smile as I twist the handle all the way to the right and maneuver around the initial cold spray. Tossing the phone onto the tower of towels, I brace an arm against the shower door.

  This is a first.

  Two contracts, shit ton of money, same mark.

  Randi Sawyer is a dead woman.

  Chapter One

  Randi

  July

  The adorned black casket drops an inch at a time into the grave. It disappears until merely the deep crimson petals of the few single stem roses atop, one of which I placed, are visible. Within seconds they too fade beneath the saturated ground.

  All that’s left to take in are the trails of rain and mud sliding down the earth walls, yet still I don't move or alter my focus from the grave just a few feet in front of me. The heavy weight of the empty space threatens to cut off my already shallow breaths. The other mourners, friends and family, left long ago. T and the team left with Sam after the service held at the church just down the road, and Trey disappeared through the crowd at some point here at the gravesite.

  If I’m honest, it’s the shame that weighs so heavily. The shame of not really knowing this man, yet he gave his life to protect my daughter.

  The jagged edges of Taeler's bitten-down nails cut through my lightweight black suit jacket, no doubt leaving half-moon indentions in my bicep. The heavy rain that began late last night pounds against the umbrella, muting the outside world with its thundering. Streams of rainwater run off the black dome hovering over my head, cutting through my line of vision and puddling beneath my black pumps. Goosebumps sprout along my stocking-covered legs as a cool breeze whips through the graveyard. My hold on Taeler tightens as I fight to suppress a shiver.

  I can't appear the slightest bit weak or frail. Not here—not anywhere since I was sworn into the presidential role. Even something as simple as a shiver could trigger a negative media swarm, one I certainly do not want or need. Three weeks have passed since the day I gave a portion of my life to serve my country as president, and the media vultures swarmed in moments after the official announcement and haven't retreated in the slightest. I'm told this is to be my new normal. Those previous incidents when I was VP which were carefully covered up by my PR and media relations team are now a thing of the past. According to the American people, my life is to be on full display at all times no matter if it's personal or business. Business being running this amazing country.

  Through the pounding of the rain above us, Taeler's muffled cries somehow reach my ears. Turning to my only daughter, I wrap a hand around her thin shoulder and pull her closer to my side. Trembling arms wrap around my waist, clenching tight. Her chest heaves with each sob as she grieves for the only man she’s ever loved. Strands of her loose hair, damp from the rain’s spray, adhere to my jaw following a strong burst of wind.

  No one informed us he was one of the fatalities that night in Paris. It wasn't until days after the kidnapping, when Taeler was safe by my side, that the director of the Secret Service stepped into the Oval Office and informed me of Grem's death.

  It was a shock, but more so to Taeler since they’d been avoiding g
iving any real answers on his whereabouts since the incident. Those first few days she was angry, in denial about his death. Of course, I understood the protocol they were forced to follow. Identifying the body and informing his family came first; me being president and his girlfriend the president’s daughter didn't change anything. I admire the respect shown to his family by allowing his mother and father to be the first to know of his death.

  My gaze shifts from the mud to Chad's parents, who, like Taeler and me, still linger with their focus on the sole grave. Thankfully there was little awkwardness between us at the service when we met face-to-face for the first time just hours ago. Grief does that to strangers, connects individuals on a deep, soul-felt level. If their grief is equal, deep, and heartrending, an almost familial bond snaps into place.

  With a white handkerchief pressed to her red lips, Chad's mother weeps while desperately clinging to her husband. His father, dressed in his naval uniform, silently cries while holding tight to his wife, offering her the strength she needs to not fall face-first into the saturated ground.

  Sad, red-rimmed eyes meet mine from across the massive hole in the ground now containing their only son. The utter agony behind his eyes causes a breath to catch in my chest. I wait for the accusing glare I expect at any moment, but it doesn't come, even as the time ticks on with our stare never faltering.

  Finally he breaks eye contact to lean close to his wife, pressing his lips near her ear. The wife’s head bobs, agreeing to whatever he whispered. Moving like two stone statues, they start around the open grave toward where Taeler, the swarm of Secret Service men, and I stand. When they near, an agent steps into the couple’s path, cutting off their access to me. Outrage bubbles in my chest as I clench both fists at my sides at the audacity of the fool.

  The agent supporting the umbrella over my head steps with me as I stride through the multiple puddles. After maneuvering around the idiot standing between me and the parents of the man in the grave, I pause, waiting for whatever they need to say.

  “We don't blame you or your daughter,” Chad's father shouts over the hammering rain. “Our son—” His voice catches. “Our son knew what could happen in the line of work he chose.”

  Taeler doesn't reply, just simply presses her forehead against my shoulder, the rattling sobs starting once again. I gaze at the crown of her blonde head. If I’m honest with myself, I envy her ability to show emotion. Standing here, stone faced without a single tear shed, I must look like a fucking bitch. Inside I'm suffocating on guilt and grief. A young, vibrant kid is no longer here because of me. I take full responsibility for Grem's death, even if his parents don't place the blame on my head.

  Grem's mother directs her attention to us, her gaze flicking from me and my entourage before settling on Taeler. A sad, watery smile ticks up the corners of her smeared red lips.

  “He talked about you to us, often. Did you know that?” Taeler stifles a cry beside me at the mother’s confession. I rub a hand up and down Taeler’s bare bicep, offering what little comfort I can out in public. “I know he did what he had to do to protect the woman he loved.”

  The crack in my already wounded heart deepens at her words.

  Tense silence passes between us as we wait for Taeler’s response. The rainfall continues to pound against the umbrella as the wind whips through the graveyard, dusting my face with a fine mist.

  A low mumble comes from my side, the words lost due to the loud background noise surrounding us. The three of us lean closer together, our attention on Taeler as we strain to hear whatever she’s trying to say.

  With her beautiful face directed toward the soggy ground, she whispers once again.

  “Taeler, we can't hear you over this rain.” The urge to shake her permeates every cell in an effort to pull her out of the zombie-like daze she's been in since this morning.

  “I'm pregnant,” Taeler says loud enough for us to hear.

  My eyes widen to the size of saucers. Those two words out of her mouth are like a punch to the face.

  “Come again?” My voice is tense as I hold on to a sliver of my composure.

  “I'm pregnant,” she says again, this time looking up from the mud. Her blue eyes, her father's blue eyes, lift to meet Grem’s mother’s searching ones. “I loved him. I still love him, and he’ll never—” Her words are cut off by a gulping breath as a renewed set of sobs commences.

  Breath stagnant in my chest, I glance between Grem's parents, who seem as shocked as I am based on their wide eyes and slack jaws. Hand to my stomach, I fist the pristine shirt beneath my jacket, right above my belly button. Shutting my eyes, I inhale deep, forcing control over my storming emotions.

  Not here. Not in public.

  No, I have to get somewhere private. The desperate need for Trey’s arms around me nearly breaks what’s left of my composure.

  I blink, hating what I have to do next, only to find Grem’s parents now smiling with happy tears glistening in their eyes.

  Well, fuck. I'm an evil witch for what has to happen now.

  “You can’t mention a word of this to anyone,” I state, my voice cold and emotionless, a complete contradiction to what’s eating at my insides. “You’ll both need to sign a nondisclosure agreement regarding this news to protect Taeler, the baby—” I swallow hard at that word passing my lips. “—and me. This cannot get out to the media.”

  Horror-stricken faces turn to me. Yep, I sound like a bitch. No, actually I sound like the fucking president of the United States who just found out her daughter is pregnant with zero warning. I have to contain this for her safety, both from my enemies and the harassing media storm that will commence if this gets out before we’re ready.

  Tugging on Taeler's arm, I angle us toward the waiting motorcade.

  “Someone will be in touch with developments,” I say over my shoulder.

  Not waiting for a response, I hurry us across the graveyard.

  “Mom, stop. I—”

  “Not here.” I offer a stiff nod to the unfamiliar agents as we pass. My heart pounds against my ribs, threatening to crack them wide open. Stars dance in my vision as we march through the grass with the implications those two words have on her, on me.

  My feet slow as a familiar woman waiting beside a town car comes into view.

  Celia Benson smiles when our gazes meet. Without an indication from me, she starts toward us. Standing beside the limo, I forget any sense of decorum and shove Taeler into the dry passenger compartment, then slam the door shut, sealing her away from the approaching evil.

  Dread sinks into my gut at even the sight of her. I’d hoped that day in their sunroom when I punched her husband and effectively ruined their lives was the last time I’d ever see her. Guess I’m not that lucky.

  What the hell is she even doing here?

  A few paces behind me, Grem's parents’ squelching footsteps grow closer.

  “Let her through,” I shout to the agent blocking Celia's path. Immediately I regret those words. I loathe this woman. Loathe as in I wish I could punch her in the boob and tell everyone about her kinky ass. But I can't. Why? Because I'm the president of the United States, and apparently there is no boob punching in this role.

  Or so says my chief of staff. It might have come up in a conversation or two recently.

  “What are you doing here, Celia?” I demand, keeping my voice bored.

  “Here supporting my friends,” she says while waving a hand toward Grem's parents. “What a tragedy losing such a promising young man for something so fleeting.”

  I grit my teeth, my back molars nearly cracking under the pressure. “How do you know them?” I grit out.

  “We met Celia and her husband at a fundraiser years ago,” Grem's father, now standing at my side, says. “When we found out her son worked in the Secret Service here in DC, we asked her to keep an eye on Chad while we were stationed in California for a few years.”

  Oh. Fucking. Hell.

  Bile rises up my throat. Reaching u
p, I wrap my fingers around my throat and squeeze to keep from puking.

  Great. Just fucking great. It seems my daughter’s dead lover—and baby daddy—was my current lover's mother's spy.

  Someone should call Jerry Springer.

  The massive amount of varying emotions this day has conjured barrels into me, suddenly becoming too much to bare in front of others.

  Flicking my gaze between the two grieving parents, I purse my lips. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Three fingers graze the wet door handle of the idling limo just as it's pulled open for me.

  “Madam President,” the agent mutters. “Please, allow me.”

  I use my last scrap of energy to not roll my eyes at the man. Every day since shifting into this role, I've missed my old alpha team, but today it’s almost painful. With a parting smile to Grem’s parents, I duck inside the limo. The dry, warm air of the interior brushes against my damp arms, and goosebumps cover my legs and the back of my neck. I rub my arms despite the July heat as I settle back into the black leather seat.

  Taeler's pleading expression urges me to talk this through now, to comfort her somehow, but I don’t.

  “When did you find out?” We both know what I'm referring to; no need to mention the P-word again.

  “This morning,” she rasps, tucking her damp blonde hair behind her ear. She repeats the move over and over as she stares at the floorboard. “Are you mad?”

  I sink my lower teeth into my upper lip to keep the string of profanities from slipping out. She needs my support, but all I can do is focus on not falling apart right here in this damn limo.

  “You're staying with me, at the White House. How in the hell did you get a damn pregnancy test, Taeler?”

  She wraps her arms around her chest, a wounded expression passes her face. “One of my agents ran out and grabbed it for me.” Her breath catches. “Mom—”

  “Great, another NDA we need to have signed. Fuck.” The smooth material of my black skirt slides against my palms as I rub them up and down my thighs. “Fuck,” I shout again, letting my rising frustration echo in the word.