Page 2 of Power Surge

The idiot doesn't turn from the flameless fireplace as I creep up behind him, each step soft and calculated. Holding a tight breath, I slip a gloved hand over his mouth and yank, sending him careening backward. The moment his back slams against my chest, he struggles, fighting my hold with the blind panic of being caught unaware. Like I’ve done so many times before, I pop the lid off the plastic syringe with my thumb before stabbing the needle into his thick neck and shoving the plunger down, shooting the drugs into his veins.

The effects of the tranquilizer happen within seconds. His tight muscles, flexing as he fights me, immediately relax, his hands falling limp by his side. Ten seconds after I administer the drugs, his knees give out. I grunt at the large man’s full dead weight in my bear hold. Careful to keep quiet, I drag him to a single leather chair and fold the body down into the soft cushions.

Wonder if he knows this is the exact spot where he’ll die.

Grabbing several ugly-ass throw pillows, I cram one on either side of his legs to keep him from slipping around on the leather. Squatting, I push against his chest, sealing his back to the chair, and hold him there. I smile at his blank face. It will only take a moment before the initial effects wear off, allowing him the ability to blink and eventually speak. With the lightning storm outside threatening the darkness I need for an invisible escape, I'm eager to get this show on the road, but unfortunately for me I can't. A special—and costly—request of tonight’s job is to ask Mr. Birmingham a few questions before I take his life.

Which means instead of wrapping the tie I brought around his neck and getting this over with now, I’m forced to wait.

A corner of his lips twitches, followed by a sluggish blink.

Perfect. Both are the signs I need to get this show started, but not without some reassurances that he’ll stay quiet with some of his faculties returning. I shift to slip the 9mm from the leg holster around my left thigh and withdraw the silencer from a compartment of my cargo pants. With practiced ease, I screw the silencer to the barrel of the gun, my gaze never leaving his.

His hazy blue eyes widen, attention fully on my actions. The faint scratch of metal against metal is the only sound in the gloomily silent room. I pause, twisting on the balls of my feet at the muffled male voices carrying from beneath the door, reminding me of the high risk of being caught red-handed. I smile as a shiver of thrill zips down my spine.

“I'll make this quick,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.

His lips part, his chest puffing out with a deep inhale. The twitch of his right eye tells me exactly what he plans to do next. With a bored expression, I thrust the end of the silencer into his slacks, right against his ball sack, and pull the hammer back. Arching a single brow, I give a shake of my head in disappointment.

“The only sound you'll make is when whispering the answers to my questions. If you comply, then I won't blow off your balls one by one. Understand?”

A single tear streaks down his pallid cheek. Scanning his face, I don’t hold back my sneer of disgust. Sweat dots his brow, more tears build in those lower lids and if I’m not mistaken, the faint scent of piss wafts up from where my silencer is still lodged deep in his balls.

Fuck, now I have to scrub the silencer with bleach.

He’s fucking pathetic. Women really are the stronger gender.

I situate the tiny video camera onto the front pocket of my long-sleeve shirt and hit the Record button on the app. Bone popping against bone sounds as I crack my neck, bringing my thoughts to focus on the next several minutes. “First question, what do your lawyers know?”

His gaze drops. “Nothing.” The word is garbled and wet as saliva builds in his mouth, unable to swallow it down. “Yet.”

“Second. What does she know?”

I have zero idea what they're wondering she knows, or who “she” even is, but it's critical enough to tack on an additional quarter million to the contract to gain the truth to these two questions.

The man blinks once, twice before sealing his lips shut and shaking his head as much as he can with the drugs still coursing through his veins.

“I don't believe you,” I murmur, my words barely audible.

Sweat glides down from his forehead to his temples before combining with the stream of tears streaking his cheeks.

“Doesn't know,” he finally rasps. He tries to swallow a few times before he’s successful. “Idiot.”

I let out an inaudible huff. Adjusting my slight weight from the ball of one foot to the other, I debate his response while taking in his nonverbals. He's lying, but why? Is it the nature of what this woman knows, which would potentially put her in my crosshairs down the road, or is he only protecting this mysterious female?

“You will die tonight.” A stifled wail rattles from his throat. “Might as well tell me the truth.”

The blood seeps from his already pale lips as he seals them firmer together.

“Who is she?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

His head ticks to the side. Internally I curse at myself for letting the question slip.

“Why are you protecting her?” Fuck, what’s wrong with me tonight?

His eyes flick to the closed door. “I did this,” he rasps, his voice like sandpaper against course wood. “Me. Don't let them drag her into this.”

“I'd love to help if I gave a flying fuck.”

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