Page 60 of Power Term

At his chuckle, I rip my stare from his crotch to find a wide smile splitting his face. “Not that, Mess. The part about you running and not looking back.”

“Oh, right. Take cover, run, don’t look back. Got it.”

I open my mouth to tell him not to damage anything important only to have a billow of smoke fill my nose. I inhale on instinct, and the poisonous smoke burns through my nostrils and down my throat. Immediately my lungs revolt, sending me into a full-fledged coughing fit. Each flex of my abs attempting to force the smoke from my lungs sends stabbing pain blasting through every muscle.

Eyes watering, I blindly follow where Trey directs me with a firm hand pressed to my lower back. Soft material wraps around my face twice, covering my nose, mouth, and neck. Using the edge of the clean material, I wipe at my eyes and blink to clear my vision.

The sight of Trey with the white sheet wrapped around his face, only exposing his eyes, startles me. I know it’s not Ponder, I know that, but my subconscious apparently now freaks out at any face covering.

I step back, and my calves slam against something hard, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms through the air as I tilt backward. In a flash, Trey is there. An arm locks behind my back, steadying me on my feet. Something like concern flashes in his narrowed eyes as he moves back, giving me space.

“I’m sorry—”

The words disappear as a rain of gunfire and male voices sounds upstairs. The distinct crack of rapid-fire shots booms through the empty room as a war seems to have broken out in the upper part of the house. A ground-trembling blast rattles my bones and has me seeking out Trey for answers. Without a word, he grips my hand and gently tugs me toward the base of the stairs.

“Sounds like our friends are here.” The words are distant, muffled through the layers of sheet around his mouth. “Thank fuck. Keep your back to the wall.”

The wooden studs dig into my back every few feet as I follow Trey up the stairs. He pauses at the landing. At his concerned glance over his shoulder, I shoot him a thumbs-up with my free hand. Fine lines crinkle at the edges of his eyes as he shakes his head.

“I’m going through first. You stay back until the firefight dies down, and then you make a break for it. We didn’t go through all this for you to get shot.”

“Good talk,” I mutter.

“I love you.”

Those long finger slip from my grip as he positions himself in front of the door, hand white-knuckling the metal knob. After several deep inhales, Trey yanks the door open.

The ear-rattling noise amps to a deafening level. Without glancing back, Trey slips through. A second later, a body sails through the doorframe, his back slamming to the wooden railing with a thud. The entire staircase shudders with the impact. Blood gushes from his nose, and thin rivers cover his arms and neck, but still he struggles to stand, a gun dangling from a limp hand.

Time freezes as his gaze lands on me. The earlier fear vanishes, turning calculating. With more strength than just a few moments ago, he grips the railing and hauls himself to a somewhat standing position.

A fury-filled roar snaps both our heads to whatever’s happening outside the door.

My hero in black storms through, boots stomping toward the man. Without hesitating, Trey slams the heel of his palm against the other man’s chest, sending him toppling over the railing into the puffs of dark smoke still rising from below. His bellow of protest cuts short with a hollow-sounding thump. I don’t dare look over the railing to see if he’s dead.

“Come on.” Trey extends a crimson-covered hand, the other now gripping a black handgun. “Time to bust out of this joint.”

My knees tremble, leg muscles feeling more like noodles than something that can actually support my weight. I cringe as another round of shots sounds behind my back, where the firefight is still going strong.

“I can’t,” I whisper. The words are nearly silent with the covering over my mouth, so I shake my head so he knows. I’m weak—mentally and physically. The strain from the last twenty-four hours is finally coming to a head. I’ve held on as long as I can, but all my fight is gone.

Tugging off the sheet from around his face, he nods. “Okay, baby. I’ll help you.”

Careful to keep his movements slow, Trey steps closer. Blood-coated fingers pull at the sheet, causing it to lower and then pool around my neck. Mindful of my injuries, he scoops me in his arms and holds me tight to his chest. “I’ve got you, Mess.”

I slide my forearms over his sweaty neck, interlacing my fingers at his nape to help me hold on. Not wanting to see the chaos we’re walking into, I press my nose to his chest and seal both eyes shut.

Then we’re moving. Each of his heavy steps jostles me in his arms, but I stay silent despite the agony it causes. The shouted commands, cries of pain, and blasts of large guns assault my ears. I press one ear to Trey’s collarbone and attempt to cover the other with a raised shoulder.

A muffled curse has me peeling my eyes open to see what’s happening.

Bleeding bodies litter the floor. The heavy scent of gunpowder and blood fills my nose. My stomach rolls, but I swallow back the nausea. We’re in what looks to be an unfurnished dining room when Trey turns, taking us into another section of the house.

One of Shawn’s douchebag guys tucks into the room at the same time, his focus out the window. He catches our movement, doing a double take.

I watch in horror as the gun between his extended hands swings our way. It only makes it halfway before an ear-shattering boom rings out. He folds to the floor, the gun clattering beside him. Eyes wide, ears ringing, I search the room and beyond for the shooter who saved us when I find the hand beside my shoulder gripping a smoking gun.

“Wow,” I say. Or I think I say. Hard to tell when one of your eardrums is busted.

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