Page 133 of House of Cards

Like you don’t have a midnight deadline to save your brother’s Ricky’s life.

My plan was to slip out a back entrance somewhere, and since I was already wearing a uniform, stealing through the kitchen seemed a safe bet.

Silly me forgot how many people would be here, and how most of them would assume I’m on duty.

My stomach churns as I push through the swinging doors toward the service corridor. Sorry Room Seven, but as soon as I can dump your tray somewhere inconspicuous, I’m outta here.

It better happen soon, before I lose every shred of courage I still have left. Before the clock ticks past midnight and Elonzo decides Ricky isn’t worth keeping alive anymore.

A busboy gives me a double take as I pass him in the corridor, his eyes narrowing when he glances down at my tray. “Where you going with that?”

“Oh, thank God!” My voice cracks a little as I shove the tray into his chest. “Get this to room seven, stat!”

“What the—?” He glares at me, grabbing the tray on instinct while I have to force myself to let it go. “Hey! I’m on break!”

“Fucking now!” I yell, before whipping around and speed-jogging the other way before he can call me back.

“I’m reporting you, Kate!” he shouts, but thankfully, he doesn’t chase me down. I glance down at the name tag still attached to my breast pocket and lay my hand over it for a moment.

Damn it. Sorry, Kate.

I’m tempted to go back to the kitchen and make another try of reaching that big red EXIT sign above the back door, but if that sous chef spots me, I’m done for.

No choice but to keep going.

Another employee pushing a big laundry cart appears around a corner up ahead, disappearing through a set of doors. I follow him into the hot, damp laundry.

The hum of massive washing machines fills the chemical-scented air. Most of the masked workers have their heads down, focusing on their tasks.

Damn. If this had been my first escape route, I’d be in the clear already.

I spot another EXIT sign above a distant set of doors. I force myself to walk instead of running, so I don’t draw attention. It helps that every step feels like I’m wading through quicksand. The faster I want to move, the slower I urge myself to go.

Ricky is an idiot, and a liar, and his gambling addiction is probably the reason I’ll die young, but I’ll never be able to live with myself if I let him be tortured. Even if it means Smith will make me wish I were dead when he finds me.

I push the exit door open and reel back when I see how hard it’s raining outside.

Well, I’d say this night couldn’t get worse, but that would be tempting fate. I push my shoulders back, squinting as I step into the pounding rain. My arm goes up to shield my face, but I change my mind and clap my hand over my nose a moment later.

Jesus, it fuckingstinksout here.

I crowd against the wall beside the laundry’s exit door, trying to find my bearings before venturing away from its pseudo-safety.

The smell is coming from the nearby row of dumpsters…which is the only cover available in this huge, rain-soaked courtyard.

And if Smith is watching…

Forcing myself not to hurl, I reluctantly hurry over to the stinking containers, one hand over my nose, the other cupped against my forehead to keep the rain out of my eyes.

It’ll take Ricky decades to repay me for all the shit I’m going through for him.

I feel so fucking exposed, but thankfully it doesn’t take that long to reach the dumpsters. There’s not enough space to fit behind them, but I crouch low and hope the dark and the rain will do a good enough job of shielding me from any prying?—

“Who’s there?” comes a man’s voice. Aggressive. Slurred. A pair of red flags my feminine instincts immediately interpret as danger.

I edge backward, hoping to retreat into the shadows at the start of the row of dumpsters before the invisible man spots me, but my foot connects with an empty soda can.

You’d think, with all the pounding rain, that its metallic clatter wouldn’t echo through the alley…but it does.

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