Page 1 of Power Surge

Prologue

Unknown

The arrogant bastard strides from one end of the opulent living room to the other, his face wrinkled and bunched as badly as his expensive suit. The cell phone pressed hard against his right ear has stayed suctioned there for hours now. Bits and pieces of the one-sided discussion are negotiating terms, but most of the high-pitched words passing his lips are him begging and pleading with whoever is on the other end.

An honorable man would slide from the shadows, reveal himself now to relieve this man of his insistent begging. Too bad for him, I’m nowhere near honorable. Maybe I once was, ages ago, but now there’s no hope for me ever returning to a redeemable man. It’s the thrill, the power I hold watching my prey and knowing their life is in my hands to take whenever I damn well feel like it that hooked me. Watching and waiting for the right moment is my favorite part of the job.

Does that make me a bit of a voyeur? Maybe. It would be a lie if I said I wasn't semi-hard right now from the anticipation coursing through my icy veins as I watch this man’s final few minutes of life. The growing erection has nothing to do with his gender, but the power I currently hold with him none the wiser. Tonight, when I'm done with the job and home in my multimillion-dollar brownstone in the heart of DC, washing away any evidence of this evening’s hit, I won't be whacking off in the shower because he's a man but because of the fear that emanates in his last breath.

That’s my second favorite part about my livelihood. The pure, soul-shaking fear that rolls off them in waves as I extinguish their miserable lives.

Women tend to beg for their lives and, more times than not, offer their bodies for me to do anything with in hopes of me sparing them. Once or twice, a woman was tempting enough to consider the offer, but I’m not a damn rookie stupid enough to leave DNA evidence behind—and disposing of a whole body is a pain in the ass and not worth the quick lay no matter how attractive the mark.

Men are the worst of the two genders when it comes to death staring them in the face. They melt into blubbering messes, pissing themselves and crying because they know. The men know the moment they see me emerge from the dark their life is over, and the fear turns to mourning for the future they’ve lost. They're scared of the pain too, which, coincidently, has never been voiced as a concern by a woman. Guess that makes them the stronger gender, even though the women are foolish enough to hold on to a glimmer of hope until the last second.

I feed off the tantalizing, invigorating, desperate fear they all produce during our…encounter. But the most delicious and erotic fear comes in that very last moment. Those few fleeting seconds before their life is snuffed out forever. I've tried to recreate it. Kill them, resuscitate them, then kill them again. But the second, third, and fourth time the light leaves their eyes and their soul dies, it loses something. So now, unless requested by whoever hires me, I stop at the first final breath, savoring that memory for when I get home and can wrap a fist around my thick dick, then stroke myself until I splatter cum all over the shower wall again and again as I replay the scene like a short horror trailer.

And sometimes, like tonight, I record those last seconds. It’s reckless, of course, and the agency who trained me would be highly disappointed by me keeping a kill memento, but since I can't stand the touch of another human being except in violence, a man has to do what he has to do to take care of his needs.

Tonight’s recording isn't only for my sick pleasures, however.

I don't ask for details on why a client wants a certain person dead. It’s a simple call, all clients vetted through a referral system, relaying the who and any specifics they’d like to add on to the hit. Each specific detail, anything veering off the normal hit menu, costs extra. Which is fine by me. I don’t do this just for the fear high alone. Leaving government work and freelancing has made me a very wealthy man. The way I see it, I’m one of the lucky ones. I do what I love and get paid a shit ton of money for it. I relish the lavish lifestyle I live with zero desire to go back to the basic life I had before.

A noise draws my wandering focus back to the room just beyond the balcony door hiding me from view. The ex-president halts his pacing, launching his phone against the stone fireplace a few feet from where he stands panting. The small device shatters into a million pieces against the stone hearth, the breaking glass piercing the otherwise quiet room. Two suit-covered men bust through the doors, guns at the ready, scanning the room for the cause of the noise.

Careful to keep each movement smooth, I slip deeper around the balcony’s edge, allowing the dark shadows to conceal me from sight.

A shiver runs down my spine despite the humid July heat. This is a new challenge. One I’m fucking greedy for after a few months of simple kill jobs. Never have there been so many erratic complications to work around to complete the job. The two federal agents—secret service or FBI is my guess based off their cheap-ass suits—will present a challenge, but I’ll take it on like no one else can. That's why the men hired me specifically. I'm the best. No one will ever suspect I was here tonight. Not even when I leave a dead body in my wake.

Sure, people will question why the recently dethroned president of the United States would kill himself, but that's not my problem. Once I walk out of here, the job is done, and those bastards who hired me will deal with the media storm that will come after the body is discovered.

Clearing my thoughts, I close my eyes and focus every cell on listening to the quiet conversation inside.

“Are you okay, sir?” says one of the agents, annoyance in his clipped words.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Sir, we’re tasked to—”

“I said get out. And unless my damn lawyers show up with my deal in hand,do notopen these doors again.”

The quiet click of the doors is faint but sends excitement pulsing through my chest. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I should thank him for clearing the room for the rest of the evening.

Peeking through the glass pane, I move until a crack in the thick curtains crowded at the edges of the door allows me a visual inside the room once again. My mark slumps his shoulders, rounding in what looks like exhaustion or defeat, using a few fingers to massage tiny circles along both temples. Based on images from his time in office, he looks like a completely different person.

The man elected president two and a half years ago was polished, smooth skinned, and had a confident aura about him that somehow slithered through the television screen. The defeated man in the room appears to be a shell of that man. Not a single drop of sympathy tightens my gut at the sight, however. He mixed himself up in whatever shit placed him in this position, putting him in my crosshairs. He should've known the type of men he was entangled with, and since he didn't, he’ll die a fool.

I’m not aware of the full extent of the why and frankly don't care. A job is a job. No emotions, no judgment. Stalk, kill, leave. This is the job. It'salwaysbeen the job.

My calculating gaze flicks from the room to the moon slipping in and out of the clouds overhead. Rain is rolling in at some point tonight, at least that's what the weather man predicted. It's the reason I chose tonight for the kill despite it being a full moon. As long as it doesn't—

Before I can finish the thought, the clouds to the west illuminate with flickers of lightning.

I mouth a curse as I shift back to my target. Thanks to the weather, tonight’s hit now has to be hastier than I originally planned, which fucking sucks hairy balls. My anger grows as another violent display of lightning flashes in the building thunderheads. The need to off those inaccurate motherfuckers on the Weather Channel builds. How did they fucking miss the fact that tonight’s simple rainstorm would include a freaking lightning show?

Calming my raging pulse, I start to move, edging along the brick wall quieter than a slithering snake. My entire focus is on the man just beyond the balcony doors, Kyle Birmingham. Former president, current target, soon-to-be dead body.

I open the glass-paned door with ease, having picked and adjusted the locking system two days ago. Careful to not make a single sound, I step into the massive home before slipping behind the curtains. At my side, my fingers twitch as excited energy zips and zings through my veins, making my breaths short.

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