Page 4 of Power Surge

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 giving 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.

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