Page 25 of Power Term

Broken fragments of wood splinter, the larger intact pieces buckling under my boots as I step through the wreckage into the office that hopefully holds the man who can provide us with answers. Stuffed bookshelves line three of the four walls. A rolling ladder catches my gaze as I survey the office in search of that fucker Todd Rosen.

I find him sitting behind an industrial metal desk on the far side of the room. The distinct coppery scent of blood wafts up my nose, preparing me for what I’ll find as I dare a few steps closer. The excitement and anticipation at getting answers from this motherfucker fall, sinking in my stomach like a damn lead cannonball. It won’t happen unless we call a medium.

Because Todd Rosen, Secretary of State, is fucking dead.

And not just dead.

Executed.

Chapter Seven

Randi

“Who. Are. You?” Each word scrapes against my raw throat, making them raspy and weak.

Hard, warm metal pushes against my temple. I freeze, even my breaths cease as it drags sensually down my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, the light reflects off the metal, giving it a shape I recognize all too well.

A gun.

“No one of consequence,” he says at my back.

“Your voice is familiar, and you’re petting me with a gun. Pretty sure who you are holds some importance here.”

Damn it, Randi, stop provoking the crazies.

“My voice? Interesting. How observant of you, Madam President. And here I thought you never saw me among the others. Good to know I had somewhat of a lasting impression.” Leather-encased fingers caress the length of my neck. A shiver of revulsion races down my spine. “Good thing I won’t be around long enough for you to identify me. I’m only the kidnapper in this plan, not the executioner, as much as I want to be.”

I bite my upper lip, holding back a terrified whimper.

The leather of the glove, though soft, is like a knife slowly slicing through my skin, leaving damaged flesh in its wake as it moves lower.

My nostrils flare with each rapid breath. I fight the urge to scream and beg.

“So youarelike your friend,” I snap. The restraints slice through my already damaged skin as I shift to move away from his touch. “Taking advantage of a bound woman. That’s how you get your fucking rocks off, you sick bastard?”

The scream I fought to hold back erupts up my throat, crackling and breaking as my neck snaps back. His fisted grip on my hair doesn't lessen; in fact, my pleas seem to encourage his hold rather than ease.

“Far from it, Randi. You want to know what gets my rocks off? What I envision while I fist my cock and explode in the shower night after night? This.” He inhales deeply, the fabric covering his face brushing against my ear and snagging a wisp of hair. “This. The smell of fear, the terror in your wide eyes, all because of me. No, Randi, I won’t touch you the way you’re thinking, but your screams and soft little cries and pleas will fuel my dirty fantasies for weeks to come.”

“Fear? You fuck your own hand to fear?” I almost laugh. Almost. The terror he loves so much kills the giggle before it can even attempt to escape.

“That and the memory of the pain I inflicted to cause said delicious fear.” Almost to prove his point, he wraps the earlier caressing fingers around my neck and squeezes. “This, the moment when you realize your life is in my hands and there’s no escape. That your existence is over. The array of emotions that will flash across your face is fucking erotic as hell.” He presses the gun against my temple so hard a stifled cry escapes even with his crushing grip cutting off my air supply. “That is what I’ll fuck my own hand to tonight. That and the fantasies of slicing apart that fucker Benson piece by piece.”

Just like he hoped, terror rockets through my system. Rational thought vanishes, and I thrash in the chair, trying to escape.

His masked face hovers beside mine. Even through the blood pounding in my ears, his excited panting is clear.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Fight me. Fight back like you have a chance.”

His fingers tighten, cutting off my airway. Red-hot burning engulfs my lungs, and I twist along the seat in a failed attempt to dislodge his hold. Darkness grows in my vision, my muscles loosening and trembling with the need for oxygen. A second before I give in to his strangling hold those tight fingers relax. I gasp for breath, my tears leaking down my cheeks and slipping inside my parted lips.

“Which you don’t, Randi. No one will find you before it’s too late. I’ve made sure of that.”

“Please,” I sob, any hope of not showing this monster how much he terrifies me gone. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why did I plan all this, take you knowing his end plans for you?” The torturous fingers tighten again. I scream before it’s cut off to a gurgle. “Because he paid me. Because they paid me. Because it’s fun. But ultimately it comes down to money. A shit ton of money, all for delivering you.” I scream through panic engulfing my every thought, but nothing comes out until his grip relaxes once again. Too busy sucking down air, despite the sharp stabs of pain that radiate from my right side with each breath, I stay silent and let him continue without another plea or comment. “So really you only have yourself to blame for all this. At some point in your life, you made a bad choice. That decision or action put you in unfavorable light with many influential parties. Which brought me to you.” I slump as his fingers slip off my skin. With little force behind it, he slaps at my already bruised cheek. I can’t even muster enough energy to cringe at the pain. “And I have to tell you, Randi, for the first time in my professional career, I had two contracts for the same damn mark. You. So thank you for living, making those poor choices, and ultimately dying, because in doing so, you’ve made me a very rich man.”

I shut my eyes and pray for a miracle. A realistic miracle like a heart attack or stroke.

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