Page 2 of Power Term

Movement in the front snaps my attention from the window. The previously unconscious agent in the passenger seat rolls his head along the headrest with a guttural curse. Over and over the mangled car rocks, shifting me one direction and then the other. My eyes widen, a squeak of surprise lodged in my throat when his door wrenches open with a squeal of metal against metal. I blink past the sudden flood of light that only lasts a moment before a tall shadow shifts into the rays, offering a momentary reprieve from the blinding light on my overly sensitive eyes.

The relief is short-lived.

A long gun barrel points into the front seat. Brightness flares, and a splatter of warm liquid covering my face and neck is the only indication a shot was fired. In slow motion, the once barely alive agent slumps forward, his body position matching the one behind the steering wheel digging into his chest.

A scream works its way up my throat, and my lips part, readying to release a plea for help, only nothing happens. I work my jaw, move my lips, but still my cries and screams stay locked in my tight throat. Even my whimper is silent as I mentally rail on myself for allowing the shock to freeze my basic functions and inhibit me from calling out.

The shadow dousing the front seat and dead agent moves, allowing light to pour back into the car. Half a second later, the strange rocking movement from earlier shakes the car again, this time more pronounced.

Metal crunches and squeals as the door opens an inch and then another before it swings all the way out with a resistant groan. I blink past the assaulting overhead light. The snug seat belt digging into my shoulder and chest keeps me in place even as I struggle to shift away from the swallowing shadow that engulfs the back seat.

A man stands between the seat and hanging mangled door. With his face shadowed, I take in what I can see.

No tie or jacket. A simple oversized black T-shirt covers his chest and slightly protruding belly.

Realization hits me like a physical slap to the face. I attempt to shift away from the open door and the man blocking the only exit who is clearlynotone of my agents.

I blink, unable to move with the seat belt still tight against my chest as he leans into the back seat. The leather dips beneath his weight beside my shoulder as he uses the seat as leverage to bend around me. A sharp yank tightens the seat belt, hampering my breathing only for it to release almost immediately, the restricting hold now gone from my hips and upper body. When his hands slip under my legs and around my back, I have no option but to allow him to move me like a limp doll. It takes little effort for the man to slide me along the seat toward the open door and then haul me out into the open early morning air.

I try. I really fucking try to move, to fight his hold, but nothing will work. Maybe it’s from shock, or who knows, maybe my spinal cord is now severed, but whatever the cause, I can’t fucking move at all, leaving me fully exposed and vulnerable. The world spins, what once was up now down and back again. His hard shoulder slams into my gut, shoving bile and air up my throat. I bob up and down as he jogs along the black asphalt and leaps to the sidewalk.

Regaining some mobility, I press both hands to his waist, my arm muscles trembling with the exertion, to lift my head.

Even with the constant movement, there’s no mistaking the utter destruction that was once my security convoy. My heart stutters. For several seconds, even the need to breathe vanishes as I visually piece the mangled mess together. The lead SUV is a crumpled pile of metal, the front end gone, almost like it was blown off by a blast of some kind. It’s back end isn’t much better, securely lodged into the windshield of what must have been my town car. The two other SUVs have minimal damage, but all the doors are swung open, a few limp-suited bodies slumped half in, half out.

An ambush. We were ambushed. This was a smash and grab—for me.

With the pressure digging into my stomach and the gore surrounding me, mixed with the overload of fear pulsing through me, I can’t stop my stomach from clenching, my abs flexing and sending anything I’ve eaten in the last few hours up and out. My arms give out, dislodging the needed support to keep my head up, as liquid splatters to the sidewalk. Strings of saliva, bile, and probably blood drip from my trembling lower lip as I’m carried farther from the wreckage.

Surprised shouts break through the ringing in my ears. Pops of rapid gunfire sound close—too close.

The man abducting me slows as another set of shoes enters my line of sight along the dark asphalt. Muffled words are exchanged between the two. The chest of the man who holds me vibrates against the front of my thighs where they’re clamped tight with an arm around them, securing me to his body.

Then we’re running again, faster this time, as if someone is now chasing us. Hope blooms in my numb chest at the thought.

Someone is coming… for me.

Trash and debris litter the grimy-looking ground as he dashes through one alley before darting toward another in a random pattern. Every step causes excruciating pain to blast down my curved spine. Every attempt to support myself, to help ease the jarring movements, is unsuccessful due to my weak arms and his quick pace.

The thought-scattering confusion that immediately followed the attack has lifted enough for one truth to solidify: I have to fight back, or I’m as good as dead.

Gathering what little strength I have—and a hell of a lot of courage—I wait for my moment. It only takes a few seconds for my opportunity. We take a tight right around a brick building, putting me close enough to grab the corner if I reached out.

This is going to hurt.

Without a second thought to the pain or what the hell I’ll do next, I reach for the building. I cry out as the rough edges of the brick scrape down the length of my forearm. Curling my fingers, I grapple to hold on to the building’s edge. The man carrying me loses his grip with my sudden jerk of a stop against his forward momentum.

I free-fall for a second, releasing my grip on the building and leaving bits of my skin, blood, and nails imbedded into the shallow rough grooves. The asphalt slams into my knees, bits of rock slicing through my bare skin and embedding themselves, adding to my laundry list of injuries.

A low curse sounds behind me, but it’s the shouting from the direction we came that I focus on. Muscles quivering, knees and palms bleeding, I push to all fours to crawl toward those searching for me.

Hopefulness burns in my chest as my shaking arms support my weight and I make a single forward movement. Then a handful of my hair is gripped tight behind me. Knowing what’s coming, I dig my nails into the sticky asphalt, desperate to hold my ground. A screech rips from my lungs as I’m yanked backward, my scalp burning where several strands have ripped free. Once again my own body is manipulated against my will as I’m thrown over someone’s shoulder.

Whoever this is doesn’t waste any time racing away from my would-be saviors.

With my head dangling, my forehead sliding along a sweat-damp T-shirt, my tears of frustration and desperation leak from my eyes, slipping through my dark eyebrows and gliding along my forehead to disappear into my hairline.

The shouts grow distant before vanishing altogether as we slip through a rusted metal door into an abandoned concrete structure. The man’s boots echo around us, spraying a few droplets of water along my dangling arms and hands as he tromps uncaring through the various puddles of rainwater. At least I hope it’s rainwater and not rat pee.

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