His hands tightened on the wheel. “Intelligence.”

The reporter in her smelled a story, but the woman in her knew better than to piss off the man she was stuck with until they resolved this mess. Still, she couldn’t resist asking, “Why did you leave?”

“Army and I weren’t a good fit,” he answered, his line sounding dull and rehearsed. He conveniently ended the conversation by switching the radio to AM and turning up the volume. Yeah, there was definitely more to the story. But they weren’t friends. He owed her no more than she owed him.

He stopped on a news station and they listened to the day’s top stories. A foiled terror attack on some obscure African country. Another shooting of a minority by a police officer. A debate in the Senate between Senator Hutton, who was calling for additional funding to protect the nation in case of viral warfare, and Senator Byron, who wanted to cut federal spending on homeland security. Rachel should be at her office right now, in the thick of it, reading the Associated Press wire and watching her network’s national station.

Walter whimpered in her lap, making little doggie noises in his sleep. Did dogs have nightmares? Patting his head, she jerked at the sound of her name on the radio. “The FBI is unable to comment on that. However, the public should consider them armed and dangerous. I’d like to reiterate that if you see Logan Bradford and/or Rachel Dawson, please do not approach them, but instead, call 911 to report the sighting to the police or call the FBI’s Major Case Contact Center. That’s all we have for now. We won’t be answering any questions at this time.”

Her mind whirled with the knowledge that she no longer reported the story.

She was the story.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Rachel said as the station switched from the FBI media coordinator to another story. “How did the FBI get jurisdiction over Rinaldi’s murder?”

Worry was etched on Logan’s face. “I’d assume from the organized crime angle, but there’s much more going on here than a couple of agents taking out a multimurdering mobster no one would mourn.” He rubbed his hand over his head. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It means we’ve just become national fugitives.” She heaved a sigh, soothing the whining Walter. “It means we’re fucked.”

Chapter Seven

STARING IN THE full-length mirror, the Senator straightened his tie and practiced his speech, the words he’d spoken dozens of times before but nevertheless continued to rehearse. There was nothing worse than a man who stumbled over his words. Appearances were everything, which was why men like him could tell a thousand lies and yet no one bothered to question him. He was American royalty, the son and brother of former United States presidents. His family had dirt on every CEO of every major news outlet as well as the most influential politicians on both the federal and state level, from their addictions to underage hookers to their penchant for cross-dressing to rape of senatorial interns. None of them dared speak out against his family for fear of exposure of their dirty little secrets.

Arms circled around him, a naked body pressing against his back and a hard length digging into the crack of his ass. His eyes closed and he suppressed a groan, knowing it would only excite his lover and invite another round. He was still sore from last night.

Everyone had a secret.

Even him.

Especially him.

Hands drifted down his chest over his thickening cock to his balls and squeezed. Hard. Harder. The pain mounted until he couldn’t stop the moan from escaping his lips.

The hands released him only to unbuckle his belt and yank his pants to his ankles. Then they returned, rolling his testicles.

“You’re nervous about your speech,” said his lover, the admonishment in the tone shaming him. “I’ve told you, there is no place for fear in politics.”

Since the age of six, he’d been trained to fear nothing. By the time he’d turned ten, the methodical whippings and food deprivation were as commonplace as a wet dream for a thirteen-year-old boy. He didn’t fear the rituals or the way his father and brother watched without blinking, their stares as harsh as the tail of the whip cutting into his flesh. He thrived on it. Exulted in it. Embracing the history of his family that would one day take him all the way to the White House. He grew to love the pain that reminded him he was still alive.

When he wasn’t in trouble for stuttering in a school speech or trembling from receiving only a B on a history test, he was ignored, his parents too busy campaigning or running the fucking country to care about their son in his room with a 104-degree fever from the flu. His youthful indiscretions brought plenty of wrath from his father’s political management team, but nothing got the man’s attention like fear.

Their attempt to condition him had somehow warped into a fetish. He craved sexual domination, his only chance to relinquish power for a time and beat the fear that remained with him like a second skin. It wasn’t unusual for men in politics to submit to a professional dominatrix, but his sexual desires and his daily life intertwined until he could barely function without a beating. When he was younger, he purposely started fights in order to get the release he needed. Of course, that got his parents’ attention once the press caught wind of it. They had paid for professionals to visit him daily, but when one had threatened to go to the media about it and was eliminated by one of his father’s cronies, his parents found a permanent solution to his “problem.”

Nails jabbed his balls, forcing him out of his head. “Focus on the pain,” said his lover, the husky timbre of the voice making his dick throb. “What does it mean?”

“I’m weak.” The Senator hissed as the nails pierced his skin. “Fear is for pussies.”

His lover quivered behind him, aroused by his pain. “Are you a pussy?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.” The grip on his balls tightened and the nails sunk deeper. Warmth welled and dripped down his testicles, blood he couldn’t afford to lose after the amount he’d lost last night. “If you can’t convince me, how will you convince the American public?”

“I. Am. Not.” He punched the mirror hard enough to create a fissure in the clear glass. “A. Pussy.” His knuckles stung but he didn’t bother to check. Any sign of weakness on his part would prolong his torture. And although he got off on the pain and humiliation, he couldn’t be late for his speech. Any form of unprofessionalism was grounds for a beating that would leave him pissing blood for days.

“Much better. I almost believed you this time,” crooned his lover. “Maybe after I fuck you without any lube, you’ll sound more convincing. Bend over.”

He trembled as he complied, excitement replacing the fear and erasing all the doubts from his mind. A gag fastened over his mouth, his lips around the red ball in the center. Drool gathered in his mouth almost instantly and his cock hardened, the tip bouncing up to his belly button.

Without warning, his lover thrust inside him.

This is what he needed. To be dominated and forced to surrender. To endure pain so that he could inflict it on others without fear or remorse.

Plenty of heads would roll for fucking up the Rinaldi assassination.

Beginning with Logan Bradford and Rachel Dawson.

Chapter Eight

SHE DIDN’T WANT to admit to it, but Logan had been right. Walter whined every couple of hours to go to the bathroom, slowing their journey to their final destination. Wherever the hell that was. “Are you sure you know where we’re going? There’s no way anyone lives out here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”