Page 37 of Power Term

“Now what?” I ask the universe.

“We use every available contact, every fucking favor owed, to dig up information on Whit.” Before the last word is past his lips, his cell phone is gripped in a grime-covered palm. “The director sent a message stating they’re in a standstill like we are,” he says, his eyes scanning the screen. “FBI as well. Everyone is on standby waiting for a location.”

“It’s our save. My kill.” My jaw works back and forth. “Ponder and Whit are mine.”

“You find them first, you kill them first.”

“Will there be a second killing?” An almost smirk plays at my lips.

“I won’t let you have all the fun.”

The smirk grows wider into a full sinister smile at his need for revenge almost matching my own.

Both our heads whip in the direction of a roaring engine. A bright red vintage Chevy Camaro barrels down the street before screeching to a halt along the curb. Dirt, clouds of smoke from the tires, and the scent of burned rubber float around the car as I bend down, leaning into the passenger side through the open window.

Without a legit evidence baggie, I finagle the cell phone down into an unused latex glove and tie the end to keep it from slipping out.

“Here.” I toss our only lead onto the black leather seat. For a split second, I allow myself to appreciate the car and the care Smith’s obviously put into restoring it. “Find us something.”

I barely have a second to lean back out of the window before the engine revs, tires squeal, and the classic car shoots into oncoming traffic like he has zero fucks to give about the possibility of a head-on collision.

At my back, Tank’s deep voice snaps and directs orders. I watch him pace at a fast clip with his phone pressed to his ear, face in a deep scowl.

I tap my own phone against my thigh in quick rhythm, matching my pulse. With a deep inhale, I tilt my face to the sky and close my eyes.

I’m coming, Randi.

Hold on, baby. I’m coming for you.

Chapter Eleven

Randi

Everything aches. My bones, my skin, my head and ringing ears. After that initial neck-snapping punch to the face, the man who I still haven’t identified eased back—even further than he had before, if I believe what he told Shawn about not hitting me at full force. The smacks to the face and punches to the gut still hurt like hell, but they’re not nearly as bone-crunching and brain-rattling as that initial hit.

What worries me the most is that after the third or fourth hit to the gut, it hurt to breathe deeply. Hell, it hurt to breathe at all because of the stomach shots, but this is different. There’s a pinch or a stabbing sensation every time my lungs fully fill with air, almost like a rib or something else is jabbing into it.

I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve revived me either with smelling salts—which should be renamed as smelly salts because they’re nasty—or a quick adrenaline shot. Those I’m growing to like with the way they amp up my body enough to forget the pain for a few short minutes.

After multiple punches, backhands, taunting, and threats, I still haven’t given in to Shawn’s request. And I won’t. Why does it matter at this point? I’m not getting out of this alive unless Trey finds me. And there’s a piece of me that’s taking sick pleasure in watching Shawn’s anger rise with my resistance to his demands.

Does that make me a masochist? I’m not getting wet on the pain, just finding a sliver of joy in this fucked-up situation. So maybe that makes me an opportunist?

“Opportunist masochist?” A sharp stinging sensation bites across my lower lip as I mouth the words, deepening a split along the edge.

Thank goodness there’s no one to respond to my ramblings or give me hell for talking to myself. I’m finally alone after what felt like hours of being a human punching bag and thinking up creative ways to tell Shawn to fuck off before the two men stormed from the room.

The moment the door slammed shut, I sagged in relief. In the movies, now is the time I’d figure out a way to escape the bindings holding me to the chair and bust out of here, rescuing myself.

But that’s in the movies, and I’m no heroine.

I’m trailer trash Barbie playing dress-up in DC. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the choices I made to bring me to this point. The two biggest life-changing decisions were going to Harvard and convincing Kyle to put me on the presidential ballot as his VP. Both are what set all this in motion. Or maybe it was dreaming of having a better life away from the trailer park I grew up in that started all of this.

Whatever it was, put me here.

Fate? Destiny? The plotting of a sociopath?

Call it whatever, but it doesn't change the outcome. Or the good I’ve done since arriving in DC or the good that will continue to be done once I’m gone from office—either dead or replaced during the next election. Not going to lie, my hope is on the latter.

---