Page 58 of Power Term

A thrill rushes through my veins, both loving and hating the violence. I hate doing this, taking a life, but it’s either mine and Randi’s or theirs, and that’s not even a choice.

Eyes puffy and swollen shut, nose gushing blood and cheeks split, he slumps to the floor, landing in the puddle of his own blood.

A deep groan has me turning to the last man breathing. My one boot stomps against the floor as I approach the bleeding idiot who’s attempting to crawl away using one arm, the other limp by his side. With zero hesitation, I jerk the small knife from his upper back. His scream of pain is cut short on a gurgle as I slide the sharp blade across his neck.

Shoving his face to the floor, I slowly stand, wiping the blood from the knife onto my black cargo pants before flicking it back into the casing. The silence sits heavy on my conscience as the weight of taking three lives in less than five minutes settles. I press both hands to my knees, bending forward to catch my breath.

“Forgot how exhausting fighting for your life can be,” I mutter, hoping it will relieve some the guilt. There was no choice but to kill them, but it doesn’t make the aftermath any easier to process. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“I like that plan,” says a soft voice at my side. Turning just my face toward Randi, I search her hazel eyes, looking for signs of disgust or accusations, but I only find understanding. “Come on, Trouble. Take me home.”

Sliding her fingers through mine, I study our entwined hands, allowing the connection to center me. Bring me back to what’s important and what I’m fighting for. And that’s what will get me through the next step of escape.

Her.

Us.

Forever.

Chapter Eighteen

Randi

Whoa. That was… intense? Not sure if that’s the right word or not. A little scary, attractive in a badass way, and awesome. So is that intense? I’ll have to look up the actual definition when we get back to the White House.

“Wonder if the library has a Webster’s dictionary on hand.”

At his hard tug, I stumble against Trey’s rapidly rising and falling solid chest. From exertion or the thrill of it all, I’m not sure, but my quick pulse is definitely from the latter. Dry lips seal to my forehead, the arm around my hips holding our lower halves snuggly together.

“I love you, Randi. Even the crazy-ass shit you think.”

With a smile, I steal a chaste kiss and then step back, putting some space between us before I give in to the need urging me to rip off his pants and straddle his waist.

“Come on, let’s go.” I nod to the door that remained closed during the fight. “Surprised no one came down to investigate the yelling.”

“Those idiots were sent to rough me up before Whit does whatever he has planned. I bet they were expecting to hear some screams and yells.”

“Good point.” Hands on my hips, I slowly turn 360 degrees, my bare heels swiveling easily on the concrete floor. “That door is the only way out, and our fire isn’t anything to write home about. So what’re our options now?”

At his silence, I check over my shoulder and find him considering the mattress.

“Ifthis is an older mattress, then it will be extremely flammable. We could use it to help with the smoke cover.”

One hand in the air, I offer it up for a high five. When he simply laughs instead of returning it, I slap my other hand against the raised palm, high-fiving myself.

“You know that’s seven years bad luck to leave someone hanging like that.”

“I think that’s breaking a mirror,” he replies on a chuckle as he tugs on and laces up his black boot.

How in the hell we can have this conversation in this moment is beyond me, but it’s distracting. And I desperately need it before I implode from the pain and stress. I know the odds of us making it out of here alive, and they aren’t good. There are more of them than there are of us, and right now it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

“Let’s do this, MacGyver.” I barely have a chance to grip the other side of the thin mattress when his hand connects with mine, batting me away. With a grunt, Trey hauls it over his shoulder, carrying it on his own. I gnaw on a chipped nail, the sharp edges poking into my tongue and gums as I watch his fine ass flex with each step he takes. “You should wear cargo more often.”

“Focus, Mess.”

“I am focused.” I offer a smile when he glances over his shoulder. “On your cute ass.”

The mattress thumps against the wall, covering the area that’s still slightly smoking. Ignoring my comment, he crouches between the wall and mattress.

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