Page 57 of Power Twist

Too soon the limo slows before pulling to a complete stop. Angling my head, I look out the window, trying to see into the darkness. Three quick pounds on the roof startle me, causing me to jump out of the seat. T purses his lips but doesn’t say a word. The door handle clicks. Not a single streetlight brightens my path as I'm led through the darkened alley toward a nondescript door. My palms turn clammy as we near the point of no return.

What's crazy—okay, maybe not for me—is I'm really not scared. I have faith that these men will keep me safe. It's the unknown, the anticipation of why this important man wants to meet with me in private, that's causing my frayed nerves and spiking anxiety. I need a plan, always, and I hate being underprepared, so this meeting is everything I hate. But what was I supposed to do, call up the Russian president and ask him for a meeting agenda? Pretty sure he'd nuke me just for calling.

Shit, do they have nukes?

As the door swings open, I flip through everything I studied on the plane about Russia, our tense relations, and the various countries they’re allied with—which, crazy enough, is a lot. Ever since their new president took office two years ago, various countries have pledged their support of the underdeveloped Russia, which makes me assume I'm not the first secret meeting that’s been conducted. That could be good or bad. Good that he probably just wants to win me over to mend our strained relationship, but bad that he's done this before, putting his protection detail at an advantage, whereas my agents are going in blind.

Shouting voices, the clang of pots and pans, and rich smells of cooking meats barrel into the alley as the door swings open with a groan of metal against metal. I hesitate, flicking my eyes up to search Trey's stone face.

“We're good,” he barely whispers over the noise. “We knew.”

A sliver of worry eases from my shoulders. Okay, so this part is a shock for me but not them. Good. Well, not great, because it sucks walking in blind, but at least I'm safe.

With T leading the way and Trey at my back, we snake down the various kitchen lines toward a side door. T's wide fist pounds on the door, practically shaking the wall. Glancing over my shoulder, I scan the kitchen. Not a single worker looks up from their station, their eyes trained only on their work. The one other time we've done this, snuck through the kitchen, you would've thought I was a celebrity or something the way people stared, but not here. Interesting yet concerning.

The squeal of metal draws my attention forward. On the other side of the now-open door stands the physical perfection one imagines when you mention Russians. I crane my neck to look up at the strangely tall man and smile. His gray eyes seem to stare blankly at me, his features completely void of emotion. He takes a step back, allowing us to move past him deeper into the well-lit dining room.

Careful to keep my movements small, I slowly swipe my sweaty palms down my leather leggings, which are already suctioned to my legs with the humidity and heat. I better be careful going to the bathroom or I might never get these things back up again.

Igor the Giant motions us toward the center of the room where a single table sits. The top is adorned with several silver dome lids, candelabras of various heights with tall glowing candles flicking at the wicks, and matching place settings—without the fourteen rows of forks and spoons I'm now accustomed to seeing in formal settings.

And of course, two chairs accompany the table.

One empty.

One not.

Chapter Fifteen

Randi

The guys stick to my side as I cautiously approach the table. Under the bright chandeliers, the man already sitting appears young and exactly who I expected. The pictures of the Russian president haven't done him justice or maybe the warm Chilean sun has helped add some color to his normally stark-white complexion.

Staying seated, he motions for me to sit in the unoccupied chair across from him.

“Sit, please.”

Another surprise—no accent.

With a nod, I reach to pull the chair out, but Igor the Giant is there in a flash, pulling it out for me like a proper gentleman. Careful not to flop, I ease into the plush high-back but keep my back ramrod straight instead of relaxing back. “Thank you,” I say, tilting my face way up to smile at the not-so-jolly giant. Again those gray eyes stare blankly back. Geez, Russians are uptight. Trey mentioned they were a little stiff, but this is more like rigor mortis.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Madam Vice President.” Not trusting my voice, I dip my chin in acknowledgment. “I'm sure you and your men are wondering why you're here, why I was… vigilant in gaining an audience with you.”

“If you mean slightly stalkerish, yeah, we can go with vigilant,” I say with a huff and then immediately cringe. “Sorry,” I mutter.Shit, Randi, not the time for your smartass mouth.Digging my ragged nails into my thighs, I take a deep breath. “What is this all about?”

“Ah,” he says, his dark eyes lighting up with excitement. “That will come later. First we chat, become friends, eat.”

“Become… friends?” Surely I didn't hear him right.

He scrapes a palm along his thick dark beard. “Yes, you and I have a lot in common, no?”

“No? Yes? I don't know much about you.” Breaking our stare, I scan the table, looking for something to nibble on in hopes it will quell my queasy stomach. A plate with a large loaf of thick white bread and several dollops of butter calls my name. Without thinking of repercussions, or anything to do with politics for that matter, I stretch across the table toward him, eager to get a slice of bread in my belly as quickly as possible.

Shouts ring out and a hand grips my shoulder, yanking me hard against the back of the chair. My head snaps with the force and I gasp. A pain-laced groan pushes past my lips.

“Stop,” the Russian president bellows as he slams his palms on the table, making the dome lids and glasses rattle. “She reach for bread not knife,” he shouts again, but this time a bit of a Russian accent slips through. “She is friend, not prey.”

“Not sure if that makes me feel better,” I mutter under my breath, but the hand at my shoulder tightens to the point of pain. I hiss, glancing from the hand up to Trey's face. My eyes widen at the anger and hate written across his scowling features as he scans the room.

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