Power Term: A Secret Service Romantic Suspense Series (Power Play Book 5) Page 4

  “Why am I here?” My voice shakes, giving away the utter terror engulfing my every thought and cell.

  A shadow creeps closer and looms over my face. I blink at the change in light to refocus my vision. The image clears, but all I can make out is the end of a blue tie, a white dress shirt, and barely a hint of a smoothly shaven chin.

  “You were my toughest challenge to date, you know that? Twice, you avoided what the other client had planned for you. That was their fault though, not involving me in the execution of the plan and only using me for information.” Shifting against the table, I try for a new angle to see the man’s face. It’s someone I’ve met before—the voice is too familiar—but the drugs or maybe the concussion keep his identity deep in the recesses of my mind. “Not that it matters now. They failed and I still got paid by them, and now I’ll collect the remaining funds of this second contract as soon as you’re… handled.”

  “Second,” I rush out. What is he saying? “Two people wanted me?”

  Okay, yeah, not sure why that should surprise me, but it does. I mean, do people hate me that much for what I’m trying to accomplish? I’m more than just the president. I’m fucking fun, and happy, and witty. Why in the hell would people want me dead when I can bring all that to the table?

  “Ah, you are listening. Good.” The shadow shifts as he raises an arm, a hand dangling midair above my face. I flinch, sealing my eyes shut, preparing for the hit I know will come next.

  Only the blow never comes.

  A soft tsk has me peeking one eye open. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t touch you, at least not until he arrives. That’s when you should be afraid.” The inkling in my stomach tells me I know exactly who he’s referring to. “As much fun as this is,” he continues, though his exasperated tone says he’s having the opposite of fun, “there are a few loose ends I need to remove before the client arrives and starts your final party.” He sighs. “And now I have to clean up this mess. Fucking hate burying bodies. Such a time suck.” A palm smacks against the table, and I jolt against the restraints in surprise, expecting the next hit to be directed at me.

  Light blares down on me once again, the looming presence gone.

  “Wait.” I arch my neck, desperate to catch a glimpse of my captor before he leaves me alone again. “Just let me go, please.”

  “Not a chance, Madam President.”

  “What do you want? Why are you doing this?” My words come out stronger with my growing frustration and disdain for his man and my situation.

  “You. It was always about you. I’m not sure how you managed to piss off so many, but you did, and now I’m here. Don’t take it personal. It’s business.”

  “This isn’t business. Kidnapping the president is a fucking felony, you traitor,” I snap. “I’m a good fucking person and don’t deserve any of this.” My voice echoes through the large space.

  After a moment with no response, I catch an exasperated sigh and a mumbled “I don’t care.”

  The annoyance in his tone stops me from uttering another word.

  “I’ll be back soon, and then the fun will start. Oh, I almost forgot.” The outline of a black rectangular shape hovers over my face. A click and flash of a picture being taken, and then he’s gone again. Eyes wide I stare at the ceiling as grunted curses and the brush of something heavy being dragged fill the area.

  “Oh, and, Randi, don’t bother hoping that motherfucker Benson will find you. I’m the best at what I do. There’s no way for him to track you. No one will find you. No one is coming to save you.”

  The dragging sound grows distant. A squeak of metal against metal cuts through the air, making me wince. With a few more distant curses, all noise is cut off with a bang, the vibrations from the force reverberating along my spine.

  It’s the following quiet that terrifies me. Now I wait. Wait for whatever he and his demented client have planned. Darkness encroaches on my vision as I struggle to suck in enough gulps of air to keep me conscious.

  Inhaling deep through my nose until my ribs protest, I let the breath out slow through pursed lips.

  I use deep breathing to relax my racing pulse. I have to calm down. I’ll be useless passed out. That fucker said no one would find me, but what if someone hears me?

  A spark of hope bursts in my chest, making my heart race all over again, this time with excitement instead of dread. Drawing in a lungful of air, I scream for help at the top of my lungs, my voice straining into silence at the end. Over and over again I yell. Some of my screams are calls for help, others attempting to shatter the remaining intact windowpanes with my shrill.

  I call out for what feels like hours, attempting to draw attention to my location. I’d take any help that comes my way. Hell, maybe my screams will attract a wild animal and they’ll come nibble through the restraints setting me free. Oh, or a bird. No, not just any bird—a pigeon, one that delivers messages. Shit, that won’t work. I don’t have a pen to write an SOS note to Trey.

  For far longer than would be considered “sane thoughts,” I debate which of the many wild animals I’d choose to come rescue me.

  In the end of the too long mental debate, the masked bandit raccoon wins out. Their opposable thumbs would come in handy with the restraints. Plus, they’re curious little guys and have sharp teeth in case they can’t figure out how to unsnap a zip tie.

  Wait. Do I even know how to unsnap a zip tie?

  “What is wrong with me?” I whisper. A wobbly smile tugs at my dry, cracked lips, and a delirious giggle bubbles in my chest, coming out as a rasp. Once it starts, I can’t stop. Harsh chuckles fill the room, cutting through the silence as I laugh like a hyena.

  “I’m going crazy,” I state between laughs. “Come save me, raccoon,” I croon with my crackly voice. “Come save me with your cute tiny thumbs.”

  “How in the hell you became VP instead me is fucking insulting on too many levels.”

  Immediately my laughter shrivels and dies at the voice I know all too well.

  I swallow hard to clear my desert-dry throat.

  An even crazier thought than the raccoons saving me pops up. Maybe if I stay still, he won’t notice me lying here, in the middle of the room, tied to a table.

  Clearly I’m cracking under the pressure.

  “But,” he continues, his voice drawing closer, “now you’ll pay for that infraction, along with many others.”

  Sweat slicks my forehead and dampens the back of my neck. Unlike the other two men, Shawn doesn't hide from me. He strolls the length of the table, stopping at the end by my feet. I strain to look down my body and immediately wish I hadn’t. A sinister smile splits his cheeks as he surveys my restrained ankles.

  “Ready for payback, Trailer?”

  My heart skips, pausing entirely before thundering against my chest once again. “Not really, but thank you for asking.” I grimace.

  His smile falters slightly before returning to its Joker-esqe expression. “That was a rhetorical question, you fucking idiot.”

  “Then you should’ve said that,” I snap. “And seriously, you want to do all this, to kill me, because Kyle chose me over you? Be pissed at him, not me. I’m innocent against that charge.”

  “Ah, see, you were until you lied to me. That’s why you’re here today, what tipped my hand to this extreme.”

  “You poisoned me before that,” I retort.

  “What can I say? Birmingham was a bore, and games are my weakness,” he says, brushing off some lint from the sleeve of his dark blue jacket. “And you’re too tempting to play with. That and toying with your rent-a-cop of a boyfriend. But then you went and played me, convinced me not to put the understanding of me being selected as your VP when you became president in writing. That is why you’ll pay with your life. However,” he says, tilting his chin up in a haughty move, “I can be persuaded to let you live if you do what I want.”

  Indignation boils inside my gut. “I won’t get anywhere near your pencil dick, dick.” Fuck, I
need some caffeine. That insult was lame. Or water. Could be dehydration playing at my loss of unique name-calling.

  A sneer curls the corner of his upper lip. “You won’t get anywhere near me. I’m not willing to catch whatever shit you caught while growing up in fucking poverty to get my fat dick sucked.”

  I snort. “Embellish much? You’ve always been right about one thing, you would make a better politician than me with those kind of exaggeration skills.”

  Between blinks, he shifts along the table, pausing at my side. Fury burns behind those near black eyes that are intently focused on my neck. Then a steady manicured hand lashes out and wraps around my throat.

  The constricting grip unleashes a floodgate of hysteria into my veins. I arch my back off the table, thrash my head, doing anything I can while restrained to dislodge his hold. Shawn laughs as he applies more pressure, slowly strangling the life from my already exhausted and bruised body.

  A rasp of a cry pushes past my lips. Stars twinkle before my eyes as darkness seeps from the corners of my vision. My struggles weaken, my body going limp.

  This is it. This is the end.

  Unable to grasp even a single puff of needed oxygen to stay conscious, I give in to the peaceful oblivion that waits for me on the other side.

  I’m sorry, Trey. I’m so, so sorry.

  Chapter Three

  Trey

  The shouts of agents and the murmuring of the crowd fall away as I continue to scour the alley for any sign this was the route they used to extract Randi. They didn’t just up and disappear; they had to escape undetected and quickly before the backup arrived. These assholes had two, maybe three minutes tops before half of the American army reserves and another half-dozen agents were swarming the area.

  It took a hell of a lot of planning to pull this off. And experience. This wasn’t their first time handling a high-profile job like this.

  But even professionals make mistakes. And I’ll find it. The one rogue hair, one tear of clothing or footprint. I’ll find it, and then I’ll find her.

  Fuck, if it were only that simple.

  Tiny fur-covered bodies scurry along the alley to my right, their thin nails scratching the slime-crusted asphalt as they weave between dumpsters. Unbothered by the rats, I continue a slow prowl, going farther away from the crash.

  At the cross of another back alley intersecting with the one I’ve been following, I pause. Going right would’ve been their wisest choice in order to avoid those pursuing from seeing them. Staying straight would leave them vulnerable to those following.

  Right it is, then.

  At two more intersections, I do the same, analyzing which way would provide the least amount of exposure before changing routes. After one turn, I pause and retreat a step, backtracking to whatever snagged my attention.

  The urgency in my gut tells me there’s something here… there.

  Balancing on the balls of my feet, I squat and inspect the object. Not bothering to secure the glove over my sweaty hand, I use it to pick up what looks to be a fire-engine red piece of something.

  Not just something—a nail.

  Randi’s fake nail.

  It’s a long shot, sure, but at this point, even a long shot is better than nothing.

  Encasing the evidence in the glove, I shove it deep within a front pocket. Even with the sun rising there’s not enough light to check for additional signs of a struggle. Phone out, I use the flashlight function to help me scour every nook and crevice within a ten-foot radius from where I found the nail.

  On my hands and knees checking under a rank dumpster is how Tank and Champ find me.

  “I think I found a bit of her nail on the ground just there,” I say, gesturing behind me. Satisfied I haven’t missed anything obscured under the green metal bin, I push myself up. Staying on my knees, I dig both clenched fists against the top of my thighs in frustration. “But nothing else.”

  “Let’s keep moving,” Tank says, offering a hand to help me off the ground. A clap pulses down the alley as our hands connect. With his inhuman strength, he yanks me to a standing position with ease. “Now that we know this is the way they came, we can get more agents down this way to help look.” A few sharp commands into his radio and it’s done, a team of various agency agents en route to our location. With an incline of his head in the direction I was headed before I stopped, Tank says, “Let’s find where they loaded her. There could be evidence there as well.”

  On reflex, I nod at the issued command from my team lead.

  With renewed adrenaline flowing at finding the minuscule piece of evidence that proves there was a struggle, it’s better that I let him do all the thinking. Murder and annihilation are the most prevalent thoughts at the moment. Partly because of the uncontrollable rage pumping through my system, but also if I concentrate on the unknown person’s death, then images of her scared, alone, and hurt can’t consume me.

  I can’t function with those debilitating images. Murder and causing excruciating pain are a much better option for a fully functioning Agent Trey Benson.

  Using the hem of my T-shirt, I swipe away the beading sweat from my brow and follow Tank and Champ. Their heads move on a swivel, scouring around each dumpster, every nearly disintegrated cardboard box, piles of discarded trash, and a random pile of ratty blankets.

  Again something in my gut draws me up short. I skid to a halt, bits of rock shifting beneath my boots. Tank and Champ pause several steps ahead and turn to where I stand staring at the pile of blankets.

  Tanks brows furrow. “What is it?”

  Not wanting to spook the man or woman, I press a single finger to my lips and point at the lump on the ground.

  Please don’t be dead.

  On quiet steps, I inch closer. A foul cloud of body odor, fluids, and who the hell knows what else engulfs me. I gag on reflex before switching to breathing through my mouth to keep from smelling the growing stench. If this guy helps us locate Randi, I’ll not only offer him a shower and clean clothes but buy him a damn house with as many showers as he wants.

  I still when the mountain of shredded blankets and old newspapers shifts.

  “I’m not here to hurt you or make you leave,” I say as calmly and sincerely as I can muster with my emotions raging like a damn hurricane inside. “I just wanted to ask if you saw something earlier. A man, and maybe a woman, come down this way.”

  Nothing. In fact, the person beneath the mound of debris seems to shrink further in on themselves. I hold back my growl of frustration. We don’t fucking have time for this shit.

  Time to step up my game. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey with your name on it if you help me,” I state.

  A full head of slick, greasy gray hair pops from under the blanket mountain. His cloudy eyes level my way, a scowl forming beneath a white wiry beard. “I’m a vodka man.”

  “A handle of vodka it is, then.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally something we might be able to use. “If you’d just answer a few questions for—”

  “I’m homeless, not deaf, boy,” he chastises while leveraging off the ground to sit upright. Back against the brick wall, he drapes a blanket over his crossed legs. “I heard ya the first time. Yeah, I saw people.”

  “People?”

  “Two fellas, one hellcat.” I choke on a half laugh, half sob. He points down the alley where we just came from. “Her tumblin’ out that one’s hold is what woke me. Fought like hell to get away.”

  “What happened next?” I somehow get out over the growing lump of dread lodged in my throat.

  “He hauled ’er up and ran, followin’ the other one in a suit.”

  “A suit?” all three of us question in unison. I watch Tank out of the corner of my eye. His attention is now torn between the old guy and whatever he’s furiously typing on his phone.

  “That’s what I said. A suit and intense as anything I ever seen. I know those types and stay the hell away. I don’t think he saw me. Didn’t want to get on his radar, that�
�s for damn sure.”

  “Those types?” I ask.

  “The ones who enjoy it. Saw enough in the service.” His eyes seem to grow distant, like he’s chasing a memory. “The ones you were glad were on your side after you saw what they did to the enemy.”

  “And he was one of those guys?” I ask, trying like hell to understand what the old man is referring to.

  “Where is my vodka?” he demands, crossing thin, bare arms across his chest.

  “At my place. I’ll give you the address and call someone to let you in.”

  “You one of them freaks who collect body parts?”

  I almost snort, but the seriousness of the situation keeps it reined in. “No, just someone who can help and wants to.” I bite at my lower lip as I decide what else to divulge. “She’s my girlfriend, the woman. The hellcat.”

  “And thems?” He casts a suspicious glare at Champ and Tank. “What’s with the light show down there anyhow? To damn hot to be time for Christmas lights, ain’t it?”

  “They’re with me, helping me find her. So are all the cops, which are the lights you see.” I rattle off my address while shooting a quick text to Gerard, letting him know a smelly visitor will be stopping by. “Someone will meet you at the front door. A hot shower, some vodka, and the best damn cookies you’ll ever eat are waiting.”

  Not sure why I’m tempting him to leave now, but a feeling in my gut tells me whoever took Randi might double back after we’re all gone and dispatch this old man just for camping along his escape route. If one of the men who took Randi is as unstable as the old man believes him to be, I sure as hell don’t want my new informant waiting here like a sitting fucking duck.

  I help him off the pavement, keeping a firm grasp on his hand until he’s steady on his feet. The three of us watch as he hobbles down the alley before disappearing around a corner.

  “Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?” Champ questions as he steps to my side, his shoulder brushing mine. “A suit. Why in the hell would someone wear a suit to an extraction?”