Page 67 of Power Term

“How does it feel?” I ask. Each step is calm, calculated as I move closer to the now wheezing Whit. “Broken ribs, that is?” When he doesn't respond, I nod toward the gag that keeps his words muffled. Tank yanks it away the cloth tearing from Whit’s teeth. “Randi lived with it for hours. Wonder how long you’d last with the pain.”

“You’ll never be able to save her,” Whit says, his voice high-pitched, borderline hysterical. “I wasn’t the only one who put a hit out on her. She’ll be dead before the end of the year.”

“And you’ll be dead before the end of the hour.” My words are confident, but worry churns in my gut. He could be lying, but something tells me he’s not. “What do you know about the other hit?”

A dark chuckle rattles from his throat before turning to a cough and wheeze. “Like I’d tell you. Trey fucking Benson. You never could cut it in our world, which is why you did this.” A sneer pulls at his lips as he glares at me with the one eye not swollen shut. “You fucking losers deserve each other.”

“Tell me how you did it all. How you managed to coordinate the abduction of the president of the United States.” My voice is steady, calm. Too calm. It sounds eerie to my own ears.

Whit only sneers back instead of responding.

“Fine. Any question that goes unanswered will come with a penalty.” I nod at Tank, who’s massaging his knuckles like he’s warming them up for the next hit. The big guy has to be careful or he’ll kill Whit with one blow.

Whit smiles. Blood coats his normally perfect white teeth. The various cuts from the forest floor have dried, leaving flaking crimson streaks all along his face. “Fuck you and that cunt you fuck. You both deserved everything you got today. Only thing better could’ve been you watching some of those dirty bastards fuck every single one of her holes before slitting your throat.”

“Wow,” I mouth as I angle my neck to the right and left in an effort to relieve the knotting tension. “Here’s the thing, Whit.” Shoving off the wall, I pause a foot away from where he’s wheezing and bleeding all over the floor from the split cheek Smith gifted him. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get under my skin so I’ll snap that weak little neck of yours, to make your death faster than what I have planned for you. But here’s the thing.” Blood, sweat, and hell, maybe some tears slick my palm as I grip his face in a single hand. “If you mention raping my fiancée one more time tonight, I’ll cut your tongue out, then continue to kill you slowly. Nothing will rush me. Tonight is a night I’ll savor for years to come as the night I fucking killed Shawn Whit.”

Stepping back, I grimace at the blood on my hand and wipe it down the stiff material of my pants.

“Now, tell me everything you know about that fucker we know as Agent Ponder.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Trey

“Well, that didn’t last long.” Tank sighs.

“That’s what she said,” I toss over my shoulder as I press two fingers to the blood- and sweat-slick neck. Nothing. “He’s dead.”

“That’s usually what happens when you snap someone’s neck,” Smith says to Tank.

Frustrated, Tank starts to run a hand over his head but pauses with a grimace when blood glazes over his scalp. “I didn’t hit him that hard,” he grumbles.

I hold up a hand to pause their bickering. “It’s fine. We got what we needed out of him.”

Knuckles split and bleeding, Tank rests his mitt of a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I took that from you.” He squeezes, the strength in his grip lacking the usual power.

Still crouched by the dead body, I stare into the lifeless eyes, processing the fact that Whit is dead. “If it wasn’t me, then I’m good with it being you.” The crack and pop of my joints fills the quiet room as I stand with a groan. “Besides, I got to have my fun.”

Fun. Fuck yeah, it was fun. Each hit lifted a sliver of the heavy dark cloud that’s fogged my brain since Tank called saying Randi was missing. After several bone-rattling punches, exhaustion from the day made it nearly impossible to continue with my torture plan. That’s when Tank and Smith stepped in.

It was clear Smith has experience holding back killing blows. It was like some disturbing form of art as he moved his attacks around Whit’s restrained body to keep from hitting the same spot twice.

Then there’s Tank. Love him, but the big guy is all brawn and no tact when it comes to pulling punches.

Hence why Whit is dead, and not by my hand.

There was honesty in my words. I am good with not being the one who delivered the final blow. Whit is dead, and that’s what matters most. Even though the information he had on who we know as Ponder was little, we still know more about the hired assassin than when we started. This way, if he doesn’t return to his townhome to collect the things he’d clearly set aside for a quick escape, we have a few bread crumbs for Smith’s friends at Homeland to follow. Hopefully it’ll be enough for us to catch the bastard who devised the plan to kidnap my girl.

“Now what?” The wall rattles under my weight as my back slams against it, supporting me from collapsing to the blood-splattered floor.

Without a word, Smith moves through the room and disappears down the hall but in the opposite direction of the back door. The creak of hinges has me leaning along the wall to see if it was him leaving or someone else coming inside the cabin via the surprisingly still fully intact front door.

Two red plastic fuel containers dangle from Smith’s fingers as he shuffles back down the hall and into the living room. Liquid sloshes inside as they thump to the floor.

“Where the hell were you keeping those?” I sniff the air. “Diesel or gas?”

“Diesel. I’m not an idiot. One of the special forces guys left them on the porch for cleanup. Plus these.” He holds up a thin matchbook between two fingers. “We’re to make all the evidence of tonight disappear. Everybody, the entire house. This never happened. I’ll pour one canister over the bodies in the basement. You”—he hitches his chin to Tank—“start spilling the other all along this floor. Make sure you leave a trail out the back.”

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