Page 27 of Power Term

“You. It was you. All of this was you.”

“Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. All of this wasyou. I’m simply the man hired to execute what was already put in motion. All those people, all the death that’s happened in the last year, was all because of you. Those agents dead or injured—your fault. The death of that pompous ass Birmingham—your fault. And today, your death—your fault.”

“Unless I agree to his demands.”

Silence. I swear it’s so silent I can hear the sweat dripping between my breasts.

“What?” he asks calmly, but the change in his stance from relaxed to defensive with my simple statement tells me otherwise. I watch in fascination as he begins to pace again.

“What the what?” I respond innocently, even though I know exactly what I’ve just uncovered. Shawn is a sociopath and willing to lie, steal, and kill whoever to get what he wants. Apparently this idiot in front of me took Shawn at his word that I’d be dead by morning.

A hysterical laugh tickles in my lungs, wiggling its way up until it bursts from my dry lips.

“You actually trusted him?” Another fit of giggles shakes my shoulders. “Oh, you are so fucked.”

A bone-crunching backhand lands squarely on my right cheek. I scream at the impact, the force like razors up my throat.

“No one plays me,” he snaps. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s playing you.” Swiping my thick tongue back and forth, I gather the sticky liquid filling my mouth and spit the blood to the floor. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“Wrong, Randi. Fucking wrong.”

“Right, and unicorns aren’t real.”

“Stop it with the fucking unicorn shit,” he bellows. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he paces from one end of the room to the other. “You’ll be dead by the end of the night, and I’ll get to rip apart your boyfriend in the very near future. I deliver you, keep you compliant until the next stage of his plan, and then I leave and kill Benson. This is the plan.”

My heart lodges in my throat at the idea of Trey being in danger—because of me. “Don’t hold it against me that I hope you’re wrong about the me being dead bit. Don’t take it personally, but I like this thing called living and want to keep doing it.”

“Fuck, you’re strange.”

“Thanks?” The rhythmic clip of his boot heels against the hard floor fills the quiet as I debate my next move. It’s like chess. No, screw that. I don’t know how to play chess. Checkers. This is like checkers. “The big-set ones like they sell at Cracker Barrel.”

“If you don’t stop talking to yourself, I will kill you now despite the amount of money it’ll cost me if I do.”

“Or you could kill Shawn,” I suggest. “He told me he’d let me go if I willingly stepped down and he moves into the VP role when Sam moves up to president. Which means I’ll have to step down publicly. Which means I’ll have to be breathing, as in alive.”

“I know the difference between dead and alive, you idiot.”

“Just wanted to make sure I was clear.” I roll my eyes. “What about Egypt? Was that your fuckup too?” Totally on a roll. I can’t feel my fingers or toes, but damn, I’m on top of it with my psychological game.

Who knew, right?

“I. Don’t. Fuck. Up.” The pause between each word emphasizes his disagreement to my accusation. “They did. Not me. Those motherfucking idiots wanted me hands off, said anything else would be too obvious it was me, which would lead the FBI straight to their door. But you took care of that anyway, didn’t you? Which, I must say, helped me in the long run. Got those fuckers out of my hair so I didn’t have to keep playing their information game, allowing me to do what I do best.”

“Monologuing?”

I flinch at his menacing step in my direction.

“Kill. Slowly.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” I ask. This I’m truly curious about. “Trey, that is? Why hold such a grudge when all he was doing was his job? And me, I guess.” I wiggle in the chair to ease the numbness in my ass and immediately regret it. The shift puts pressure on my at-max-capacity bladder. “Oh shit. I’ve got to pee. Can I get a hall pass?”

“Then pee.” He nods to the chair I’m sitting in.

“Ew. Surely there’s a spare bucket or cup or tin can lying around this place that I can use? Come on, do you really want to torture me wet and stinky with my own piss?”

That makes him debate the pros and cons of allowing me this one small freedom. With an exasperated huff, he reaches an arm back, withdrawing a menacing-looking blade. With two steps, he crouches in front of me. I wince as the ties holding my ankles to the chair tighten before releasing altogether. Relief floods through me at the little bit of mobility as I flex and straighten my feet.

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