Page 209 of House of Cards

My teeth squeak against each other how my jaw clenches, the AK weighing a ton in my hands. No longer an extension of myself, but a burden.

I’ve spent most of my life evading death...then becoming it. And I’ve never wanted anything else.

Until now.

I want—need—to change. To become someone worthy of the woman who stole my heart.

Whose heartIstole, too…and then crushed.

Someone better.

Someone human.

Someone she can love, and who she’d let love her in return.

But I’ll always have blood under my nails, no matter how hard I scrub. She deserves someone with hands as clean as hers.

End of fucking story.

“Smith? You ready?” Troy’s sharp voice cuts through the dismal fog clinging to my mind. Thoughts of Zoey reluctantly disperse as I force my critical mind back into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” I mutter, shifting my weight and wincing as pain shoots through my calf where a ricocheting bullet hit flesh. Warm blood seeps through my sweatpants, the fabric sticking to my skin with each movement.

A constant reminder of how close I came to joining the body count.

“Sure? Because if you’re too busy having an existential crisis, I could wait.”

“Christ, I said I’m fine.” I check the chamber of my AK-47, the familiar click-clack of the bolt carrier grounding me. I run my thumb over the safety selector, ensuring it’s set to semi-auto.No need to spray the room with bullets if there’s only one or two targets inside.

“Bullshit,” Troy snaps. “Get your head in the game before someone blows it off.”

I don’t think there’s anyone left who isn’t on our side, but Troy’s right—I can’t afford the distraction.

Troy waits until I nod, then we both push open the doors. There’s brief resistance, then a loud crash. Someone pushed one of the wingback chairs against the doors, but all it did was slow us down.

As soon as we’re clear, I realize our mistake.

And by then, it’s already too late.

A shot rings out. Troy grunts, half-collapsing, half-lunging behind the wingback we’d just shoved aside. I duck down beside him, teeth gritted as I see the bloom of red soaking through his fingers when he clutches his shoulder.

“You’re hit.”

“I’ll live.” Troy motions with his head. “Get the sonofabitch.”

“That sonofabitch is Zoey’s brother.”

Troy clenches his jaw. “You sure?”

“Ninety percent.”

He snorts. “Your fucking funeral.”

“Ricky?” I yell, slowly raising my rifle above the top of the wingback. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” comes a pained voice from deeper inside the library. “Eat shit, motherfucker!”

Bullets thump into the wingback, one of them penetrating the back and digging a hole into the doorjamb.

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