Page 48 of Power Term

Ears ringing, body still vibrating, I shift along the tunnel to look the way we came only to whip back around and shield my face as best I can from the approaching cloud of dust.

Shouts of confusion cut through the ringing in my ears. I shake my head, trying to clear away the fog, coughing and sneezing from the dust tickling my nose and throat.

What the hell was that?As I lean against the tunnel wall, more vibrations travel along the dirt, but they’re much weaker than before.

“Could’ve fucking warned us,” the asshole at my back shouts, probably thinking he’s whispering. “We were too close to the explosion, the fucker. I won’t be able to hear for a damn week.”

Explosives?

There’s no way. I think back to what the one guy said to Whit, and a knowing feeling sinks my gut. He blew the warehouse. That bastard Whit never planned to leave any evidence of where he escaped to. And we—no,Iplayed right into his hands.

He blew the warehouse with Smith, our only hope, presumably inside.

Now what the fuck are we going to do?

Chapter Fifteen

Randi

Cool air chills my bare, sweaty arms and legs, goose bumps sprouting in its wake. The same steady throbbing beat that’s been a constant pain drums against my skull. My lips part on a soundless cry at a simple move of my head.

But it’s not just my head, or my neck, or even the sliced-up skin of my wrists and ankles. Everything fucking hurts. There isn’t a single muscle, bone, or patch of skin that doesn't hurt like hell. I should come to terms with the fact that this will be my state of existence for the rest of my short life. However long that will be. Damn, that’s a depressing thought. A very clear depressing thought. Of course, nothing else makes sense around me except that little ticking clock in the back of my mind reminding me my life is in danger and I might die soon.

“Thanks for the encouraging thoughts, brain.” My voice is hoarse and raspy, barely above a whisper.

Each shallow breath is a hiss through clenched teeth. A quick tug of my wrists and ankles confirms both are still bound. Thin material—sheets, maybe—slides beneath my sticky cheek, the smoothness an unexpected sensation. Where am I? This is obviously different than the hotbox warehouse.

Continuing to breathe through the pain, I struggle to remember the last thing I saw or heard.

The ground trembling beneath my feet, dust and dirt pelting my face.

Someone carrying me, the stench of weed and body odor a distinct contrast to the musty scent that surrounded us.

Blinding light, welcomed fresh air. Trees. Lots of trees and men.

Shouting. A familiar voice yet filled with a rage and fear I’d never heard it hold before.

Then… nothing.

Not a single memory, just darkness and peace only oblivion can offer.

Compelling one lid open, then the other, I blink to clear the blur and focus on my new unfamiliar surroundings. Soft rays of dusky sunlight stream through a single rectangular window along the far wall, the only one on this side of the room that I can see. Unfinished walls, wires, insulation exposed, a simple concrete floor, wooden stairs leading up to a single door, and a low ceiling above. A basement, maybe? I have zero clue where I am, but at least this place has air conditioning. Even the stabbing pain radiating from my side is manageable without the suffocating heat.

“Mess.”

My frantic gaze bounces around the room, searching for the owner of the hollow voice. A squeak of a mattress spring and the rattle of a flimsy metal bed frame sound as I shift to roll to my back. With a grunt, I flip, the bindings biting into my wrists with my slight weight lying on my secured hands. The white sheet slides beneath my heels as I struggle to gain leverage to flip again. Pushing and rolling my shoulders, I finally rotate to rest on my side, facing the opposite direction from before.

That’s when I see him.

My eyes widen in shock at his disheveled state, but it’s the sheer devastation behind his dull honey eyes that catches my breath.

“It’s okay. We’ll get you out of here.” His tone is dull and lifeless, lacking its normal cocky arrogance.

“What’s wrong?” I rasp. The sadness radiating off his slack features fuels my panic. “Trey,” I beg.Fuck, what if it’s him? What if he’s hurt beyond repair?I skim his dark T-shirt and pants in search of an injury.

“Randi, I need you to focus on me.” Reluctantly, I do as he asks. “Don’t be scared, baby. The others will find you, but—” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “—I don’t know when. I need you to listen to me, okay?” I nod, too transfixed on his words to utter a response. “They’re going to use us against each other to get what he wants. And I need you to be strong for me, strong for you.”

“I’ll give it to him.” My voice is as panicked as I feel. “I can’t—”

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