Page 7 of Power Term

Hold on, Randi. I’ll find you. Hold on for me.

Chapter Two

Randi

Achest-rattling bang from somewhere close by jolts me awake. My brain batters against my skull with its own thundering pulse, making me loathe this day before I’ve even opened my eyes. The intensity of the headache feels like a migraine, but I haven’t had one of those in years.

Fuck, I wish I could stay in bed, or even have the luxury of hitting Snooze. But the country’s problems won’t wait. There’s no lazy morning for the woman running the United States.

I toss my head to shift the hair that’s fallen across my nose, the small movement sending a stabbing pain along my neck all the way down to my toes.

Another noise, something I’ve never heard while snuggly tucked in bed within the safety of the White House, drags my attention from the new odd pain.

What the hell is going on out in the hall?

I shift to sit up and find out what the racket is about, but I can’t. I try again but fail to move even an inch. Confusion clouds my already slow thoughts as I jerk at my hands to move the infuriating tickling hairs strewn across my face. More strange pain radiates from my wrists.

My heart races, slamming against my chest. Blinking through the stickiness coating my lashes and dry, scratchy eyes, I will my lids to stay open. My blurry vision clears, revealing an unfamiliar exposed industrial-looking ceiling above me.

Instead of smooth white plaster, rusted metal beams crisscross with bundles of exposed thick black wires and silver-coated ventilation ducts of some kind. Struggling through the sheer agony of the simple movement, I twist to look toward the only natural light shining in the run-down warehouse. It takes a moment of zero movement and deep inhales and exhales through my nose for the discomfort to diminish to a non-excruciating level and my vision to focus. Across the expansive abandoned room, along the far wall, a row of filthy cracked and broken windows allows slivers of warm sunlight to filter through. The soft rays that make it through the grime and gaps highlight the dust floating in the stagnant air.

The oblivious bliss that my confusion offers only lasts a few seconds before the swarm of images and memories assaults my already struggling brain. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m so fucked.

Dread settles in my gut like lead weighing me down from the inside at the last thing I remember before the trunk shut over my unresponsive, drugged body. Of what that one dick for brains whispered about playing with his toys. A shiver of revulsion shakes my shoulders.

I need to get out of here. Now. No matter what I have to do or endure.

Whatever they have me tied up with digs into the bare flesh of my wrists and ankles, but I fight through the slicing of my skin and protesting muscles. Panting, I give up after a minute of attempting to escape with brute force, which is obviously getting me nowhere. Resting back on the hard surface, I grit my teeth as the adrenaline fades and the damage I caused shifts into a fire-hot burn along my wrists and ankles.

“Think, Randi.” My cracked voice is barely a whisper. What do I know? What do I have that could help me get the hell out of here without ripping my hands and feet off?

First things first, I need to take inventory of what’s broken, bruised, and okay on my own body.

I lick my dry lips, preparing for the worst—the pain and knowledge that even if I do get out of these restraints, my legs could be broken, or something else that could hinder my escape. I start with my toes, wiggling one and then adding another in. Besides the raw sensation along the tips of my toes and feet, I’m good there. Slowly I work my way up my shins, past my knees. And because avoidance is the healthiest option at this point, I skip over the apex of my thighs, too scared that will break me mentally if I discover I was abused while drugged.

Swallowing the tears that are lodged in my otherwise dry throat, I take a deep fortifying inhale.

Terrible idea.

Horrible, awful, delusional idea.

Immediately my lungs revolt as if I’d swallowed burning coals. A violent cough shoves all that air back up my dry throat with a hacking cough. To force whatever is lodged in my lungs up and out, my abs tighten and flex while my back presses hard into the solid surface beneath me in an attempt to gain some leverage, doing whatever needed to not choke to death on my own phlegm.

That isnotan option for tomorrow’s headline.

President found dead. Choked on own spit.

She should’ve swallowed.

A delirious snort tickles my nose between violent coughs at my slightly disturbing and gross humor. A cool smooth surface slides along my cheek as I force up whatever is lodged in my chest. A tangy, metallic taste fills my mouth as I ready to spit whatever was in my lungs as far as I can.

Which, of course, doesn’t even go half a centimeter. Spit and what I now suspect is mucus and coagulated blood oozes along my warm cheek before slowly dripping away.

Awesome. Tied up and covered in my own spit—and from the skull-splitting pain in my brain, probably a concussion too boot.

Oh, and bonus, no fucking clue where I am or who the hell took me. Or why.

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