Page 47 of Power Term

“Keep yer mouth shut, pig.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. At least these fuckers will be easier to dispatch than trained men. With the sounds, smells, and looks of these stragglers, Whit picked them up at the local Bad-Guys-R-Us store and went for the cheapest option available.

A grunt rumbles in my chest as I’m shoved and stretched every which direction with their search for my many weapons. Four guns, two knives, and my cell phone clatter to the ground as they pat and dig down my body. When the last of the guns is tossed to the floor, both wrists are secured behind my back. Thin bindings dig into my wrists.

“Clean,” one shouts before shoving a boot heel to my shoulder, sending me toppling forward. Concrete approaching fast, I twist to keep my face from slamming into the unforgiving floor.

“We leave now. The whole fucking army will be here soon.”

Fragments of rock and other debris dig and scrape along my arm as I search for Randi and Whit. Hauled upright by hands beneath both armpits, I attempt to throw their loose hold. Something hard slams against my back. Grunting, I stumble forward, barely keeping myself upright.

“Move.”

I barely hear the command over my harsh inhales and exhales as I breathe through the pain.

One hand firmly grips my elbow and another shoves my back, forcing me forward. I shoot an annoyed glare to Methhead Fucksticks One and Two as they drag me toward a small alcove Whit and Randi slipped into disappearing from sight.

I take the opportunity to scan for any sign of Smith. He has to be in here witnessing all this. A shift in a shadow, so minute I almost miss it myself, makes me pause. Examining the dark corner, I crane my neck to see any additional signs of our only hope.

Gray eyes reflect the light, the rest of his face remaining concealed. “Wait.” My lips move without sound, a silent plea to Smith before I’m dragged between two walls. The stench intensifies a thousand percent as we cram into the tight space. Sweat slicks every inch of skin sandwiched between these two assholes.

At an opening in the floor, I’m forced to descend the wooden steps. At the bottom, loose dirt shifts beneath my boots, and a musty, stale air engulfs me. It’s pitch black except for the few flashlights up ahead.

The prick at my back slams against me for the hundredth time since we squeezed down this tight tunnel. “Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” I snap over my shoulder.

“Nah, pig. Just thinking about how that cunt up there will feel once we get where we’re goin’.”

Nope.

With a feral growl, I dip my chin before knocking back right into Fuckstick One’s face. Bone cracks beneath my skull, the impact sending a vibration through my brain all the way to the tip of my nose. A howl of pain pulses down the gouged-out dirt walls. Thick tacky liquid snakes along the back of my neck, mixing with the rivers of sweat before gliding beneath the crew neck of my shirt.

Shouts erupt ahead of us, asking what’s going on in the back.

“Motherfucker.” A damp, coarse hair-covered arm wraps around my neck, the crook of his elbow tightening around my windpipe, cutting off my air supply. “Just for that, I’ll make you watch.” Spit sprinkles my ear and neck with his rage-filled words.

Stars spark in my vision as his choke hold tightens.

With both wrists secured, I’m at his mercy. Digging my heels into the shifting dirt, I lean back and twist to dislodge his hold. Pins and needles explode along my legs and fingertips.

“Enough,” someone up ahead shouts. Dirt rains down from above, sprinkling my face. His sweaty-as-fuck arm loosens, sneaking in an elbow to the jaw before slipping away entirely. Not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me struggle, I inhale short gulps through my nose and release through tight lips.

A heavy hand slams between my shoulder blades, forcing me forward. A few inches separate me from the man ahead, the same with the motherfucker behind me. Blinking away the blur near asphyxiation causes, I try to focus on anything that could help us if we manage to escape these bastards.

Dirt. Below me, along the walls, above me.

We’re underground.

A tunnel of some kind. A tunnel leading us far from the military force surrounding the warehouse, waiting to swoop in and save us and the president at Tank’s command.

A command that will never come.

Oh hell, this is bad. Really, really fucking bad. We barely found Randi in time before they moved her to the new location. What are the odds the director and Smith can find us if Whit smuggles us out from under their noses?

At the thought of Smith, optimism flares within me, cutting through my thoughts.

There is some hope. Smith is still out there and probably saw us leave. He could be following us now, or better yet radioing to tell the others we’re on the move so they can follow. It won’t take them long to find the escape hatch and—

An eardrum-shattering boom blasts down the tunnel. My knees buckle at the ground trembling beneath my feet. With a curse, I lean to the right, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as I fall to my knees. The men in front of me all stumble and fall, some leaning against the shaking walls, others flat on their asses in the dirt. Chunks of dirt fall from the ceiling.

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