Power Switch (Power Play #3) - Kennedy L. Mitchell Page 0,107
work so hard and get so much accomplished in a short amount of time. If she leaves, the inky darkness that has begun to recede from this city will swallow it whole once again.
But as much as I don't want that, as much as I want her to stay and fight, I won't make her.
“Okay,” she says with a tight breath.
“Okay what?”
I roll my eyes at Sam, all for Randi's benefit, rewarding me with a small smile.
“You're exactly what I imagine as an attorney,” Tank grumbles to my left.
“And what's that?” Sam says, just as annoyed.
“Annoying as hell and can't take a fucking hint.”
And just like that, the world rights itself with her growing smile. I return the look and move back, allowing her to step down. Skimming her small hands over the black tailored pants and retucking her pale pink dress shirt into the back, she stares up at the White House.
“Let's do this.”
Tank seals himself to her left side and me to her right. Stride for stride, we march toward the door currently being held open by an agent. The rest of the guys flank around us, creating several layers of human armor with her in the middle.
“Madam VP,” the agent says in greeting. “Washington, Benson.” Tank and I dip our chin in acknowledgment but continue forward, keeping pace with Randi. “He's in his personal office waiting for you.”
“Joy.” Randi sighs.
With her fast pace, it takes less time than normal to reach the president’s personal office in the residential wing.
“You're with me, right?” she asks under her breath before turning the doorknob.
“Always,” I say at the same time Tank gives her a “Hell yes.”
The door opens noiselessly. Inside, the four of us pause, giving Tank and me a moment to assess the room.
Three agents linger along the wall, two on the left side and one on the right, and I can sense at least two more at my back. The large space has a single sitting area with four leather chairs surrounding a low coffee table. The mahogany desk similar to the one in the Oval Office sits near the back of the room but is clearly the center of attention. American flags dot the two front corners along with a single lamp and other papers and knickknacks scattered over the top.
Kyle sits behind the desk, his dimpled chin resting on the point of two fingers with his elbow anchored to the desk. A heavy scent of alcohol wafts through the room. Upon a deeper inspection of Birmingham, I notice his bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and nearly white lips, as if all the color has leaked from his face.
Tank and I notice his drunken state at the same time, seconds after entering the office. As one, we step in front of Randi, creating a human wall between her and Birmingham.
“Everyone out,” Birmingham barks, and if I'm not mistaken, there’s a slight tremble in his words. “Except her.”
“Not a chance,” I say back as composed as I can. Drunk, this clown is a loose cannon. Even I know not to poke him in this state.
This is a terrible idea. We need to get her out. Now.
It only takes a single glance from him to the two behind us before arms wrap around mine, sealing them to my sides. With grunts of exertion, the agents haul us back, edging us toward the door. Well, me. They’re edging me. The other agent has yet to make Tank budge.
“Stop,” Randi shouts, her voice firm and commanding. All movement ceases. “Everyone stays in this room, Kyle. It's over.” The buttons of her shirt strain with each of her heavy breaths. “You have no more cards to play.”
“How did you do it?” he asks. Grabbing the empty glass, he strangles a nearly empty decanter and pours four fingers of the dark liquid over the melting ice. I don’t miss the tremble of his hand or the bits of liquid that splash out.
“You really don't know?” Her steps are hesitant as she approaches the back of one of the leather chairs. Leaning forward, she rests her forearms along the back. Everything in me tenses the closer she puts herself to that ticking time bomb.
“Whit,” Birmingham snarls.
Randi gives a slow nod.
“That bastard,” he mumbles. Taking a few swallows of his drink, he slams the glass to the desk, splashing liquor over the top and several nearby papers. A single dribble slides down his chin.
“It's over, Kyle. You'll find a prewritten resignation letter in your email.” With