Page 26 of Power Term

When neither happens, I peel my lids back open, requiring more effort than normal.

“What are you?” I breathe. I’d like to say the “what” instead of “who” was carefully crafted to be a jab, but it wasn’t. In fact, I’m not sure how my overexerted and dehydrated mind is even forming complete understandable sentences at this point in all this.

“You can think of me as an entrepreneur of sorts. I saw a niche market that needed… filling and stepped in. The skills beaten into me by a certain agency helped me become the most efficient and successful of people in my line of work.”

He pauses, a heaviness lingering in the silence like he’s not through with the conversation just lost in thought. “However, with this contract fulfilled, I’ll have to relocate and change up my look a bit.”

“Because you know they’ll put two and two together. And when they do, they will hunt you down. Every agency will be looking for you. They will find you, and they will kill you for the traitor you are.” The last words slur, my exhaustion overtaking my ability to speak.

“Doubtful. I’ve just gotten back from tying up loose ends. And you know what? I have to tell you, that felt good. The slimy bastard was always one I had to keep an eye on. Never knew when his loyalties would shift. But no, after this, I’ll disappear for a while, reinvent myself somewhere new.”

“Sounds lonely.” My shoulders round, the muscles too fatigued to keep me sitting up straight, but the small move tugs my wrists against the restraints. I hiss at the feel of hard plastic digging deep into my skin and force myself to sit up to ease the tightness. “Any chance you can you take these off? You’ve watched me, traveled with me. You know I pose no threat to someone with your skills.”

Just saying the small praise forces bile up my throat. But if downplaying my abilities by building up his ego helps get these fucking zip ties off, I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll throw him a damn parade if it gets my hands free.

“Not a chance.”

Disappointment surges, but I hold back the tears and instead rack my brain for what to say next. Get him talking, or angry, or hell, anything that might disrupt the plan.

Shawn’splan.

If inflating his ego didn’t get him on my side, maybe deflating it will push him to make a mistake of some kind.

Or get me killed faster.

It’s worth a shot. Either I die now or later. Neither is ideal, but if dying now means I don’t have to sit in this hotbox any longer, then I’ll take door number one all day every day.

“Yeah, I get that,” I say on a cough. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times to help my raspy voice. Being nearly choked to death—twice—does a number to your vocal cords apparently. “Especially considering you failed twice before this to get your hands on me. I wouldn’t trust your skills either with an unarmed, bound woman. Too big of a risk of you failing again, am I right?”

My eyes widen at his fast movement. One second he was across the room, and the next his cloth-covered face is so close his stank breath wafts up my nose even through the black fabric.

“Watch your motherfucking mouth, cunt.” Damn, I hate that word. My hackles rise with distaste and annoyance. “Those failed attempts were not my fault.”

“That’s what they all say.” I raise my brows in defiance. Well, I think I do. Can’t really feel my forehead, or my eyebrows, for that matter. Have I ever been able to feel my eyebrows? Can anyone feel their eyebrows? “Can you feel your eyebrows?”

“I provided the intel.” Okay, so clearly we’re still stuck on his failures and not the eyebrow thing. Fine. If I live through this, I’ll start a government-funded study on the question. “Those idiots hired the ones to execute the mission based on the accurate”—he cuts a look my way—“intel.”

“Like your friend.” I’m going on sheer gut instinct at this point. I have no idea what I’m digging for, but keeping him talking keeps his hands away from my throat, which I consider a win. “Go me,” I whisper so silently my lips move with no sound.

“That night’s failure,” he hisses as he shoves off the chair, going back to pacing the short length of the cinderblock wall. Weightlessness rips out a gasp from me as the chair I’m secured to rocks backward from the force of his move. “That was that motherfucker Benson’s fault. He wasn’t supposed to be in your room. You should’ve been alone.”

Those words. I’ve heard them before, but more formed as a question. Add in the radiating anger and it tickles a distant memory. He’s said something similar to me before. But who, where? Every time I think I’ve wrapped my mental fingers around the memory it slips away leaving me frustrated.

“You killed the guards that night, not your friend who came through the balcony. You’re the one who gave him the key.” My voice rises with each accusation. That night… fuck, if Trey hadn’t been there….

“They were tools anyway. No loss with their deaths.”

“And you’re the toolbox.” I snort at my words. “I said the same thing to Kyle once.” I narrow my eyes at my captor, who’s clearly not laughing at the joke. “He didn’t find it funny either.”

“Speaking of the dead. What did you hold over him?” Something like curiosity sparks in his tone instead of being cold and emotionless. “Did you fuck him?”

“Ew, no. I’d rather die first.” I wince. “Wrong choice of words considering my current situation.”

A low chuckle rumbles from where he stands now leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his black T-shirt. It’s the same man as earlier; guess he switched his suit out for this mercenary look. All black, even down to the turban-type covering wrapped around his face and head. “Believe me, that fucker Birmingham felt the same way, even at the end.”

“How…?” Realization sucks the words right out of my throat. A cold chill races through my body, freezing me to the bone. Tears pool before escaping out of the corners of both eyes. I was right, Kyle didn’t commit suicide. This asshole killed him. “Why?” I choke out.

“Money. Money is always the answer to the ‘why’ question. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

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