Page 3 of Power Term

I eye the puddle we’ve just passed through. It would have to be a big rat to make that size puddle.

Another door opens and closes behind us. The structure is more of a cement maze than a parking garage. Fresh air breezes over my damp cheeks for only a moment before we slip into another building.

At the third or fourth building, the man’s steps slow, as do the other set that’s been keeping pace since we ran from the wreckage.

“Fucking finally,” the man holding me grumbles as his long strides take us across the dusty floor.

“Toss her in,” another voice says from somewhere behind me.

Before I can register his words, the one who’s been hauling me around DC like a sack of potatoes grips my waist and lifts me off his shoulder. Dangling me in midair, his grip loosens before releasing completely. A silent cry burns in my raw throat as I plummet to the ground. My ass hits first, sending a shooting burst of pain along my tailbone up my lower spine as it takes the brunt of the fall, but the side of my head still collides with the ground with a… hollow thud?

Not the ground.

I furiously flick my gaze around, absorbing what I can of my surroundings.

No, not the ground. Worse.

A fucking trunk. I’m in the trunk of a car to be taken only the unicorn gods know where. I part my lips, inhaling deeply and readying to scream for help while praying this time my voice actually cooperates, only for a hot, sweaty palm to slap over my nose and mouth, stifling my attempt to call out.

I thrash my head left and right to dislodge the meaty hand only for it to tighten. A ski mask-covered face looms over my own. The malice in the beady eyes zeroed in on me kicks my unconscious fight-or-flight drive awake. With desperation and terror as my fuel, I kick against the carpeted trunk, my bare feet sliding along the coarse material, trying to gain traction. Skin rips beneath my nails as I claw at the arm holding me down.

Another shadow appears, the person looming just outside my field of vision. One of the two mutters something about holding me still. A prick, almost like a gnat bite, pierces the delicate skin of my upper neck.

I don’t even have time to register what happened before my muscles tingle, their revived strength vanishing. I slump against the trunk’s interior, the cheap mat fibers tickling my palms and cheek. My erratic breaths slow to a calm cadence as a warm rush washes over me, relaxing me deeper and deeper as the drugs move through my veins.

“No.” The word is more of a slur with my numb lips.

A dark laugh rumbles through the trunk. Revulsion churns my already sour stomach as hot breath brushes against my ear.

“He doesn’t like to play with his toys, but don’t worry, Madam President. I do.”

I scream and scream, but the trunk remains silent; I’m only able to call out for help in my mind.

“Stop fucking with the mark. We leave now to stick with the timeline.” Even with the distance and hollowness of the trunk, I hear the annoyance in the clipped tone.

The tip of a slick tongue slides down the exposed column of my neck. “Soon.”

A hand presses over my eyes and slips down, closing my lids with the movement.

For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, my body is moved against my will. First my legs are bent and maneuvered, something tight bites into my skin securing them together, and then the same with my hands before the trunk shuts with a deafening bang above me. The coarse floorboard rattles at the roar of an engine starting. With every bump I’m bounced and jostled, and at the turns I roll to and fro, unable to steady myself.

Panic sends my pulse racing. The roar of the engine and honking of other horns are all I can hear, leaving me alone with my darkening thoughts. Tied, drugged, and suffocating in the intense heat and no air, claustrophobia grips me, stifling my already short, raspy breaths.

Before I succumb to the panic attack, a pleading prayer blasts through my thoughts and images of the death that awaits me.

Find me, Trey. Find me.

Chapter One

Trey

The unmistakable stench of death fills my nose as I run along the sidewalk, my boots pounding the pavement, untied laces flying in my wake. There’s a heaviness weighing in the early morning air, thickening as I grow closer to the chaotic scene. I could find my way by the scents filling the air alone—scorched rubber, burning fuel, and the sharp coppery tang of spilled blood—but there’s no need. No, I only need to follow the bright search lights of the low-circling military helicopters, flashing red and blue of local police units, and, of course, the growing crowd.

I pause at the edge of the onlookers, men and women alike who’ve poured out onto the streets in their nightclothes and robes from the neighboring apartment and condo buildings. I inhale more to steady my nerves than being out of breath from the quick sprint from the dark alley behind my own building to here.

Forgoing pleasantries and gentle prodding, I shove a shoulder through the outer layer of people and make my way to the center of the crowd, where I’m needed and my answers await.

Almost to ground zero, the crash site, I slam into an immobile human wall. A wall wearing fatigues, a massive assault rifle held between two hands secured across his chest, and a clear “don’t fuck with me” expression on his serious face.

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