Page 76 of House of Cards

It could be a coincidence. Maybe Colombians go around calling everyone rats. But I’m not exactly the poster child for happy accidents. I’d bet good money these guys work for Buzzcut. Though how the hell he found me is anyone’s guess.

A tall, dark shape looms nearby. He’s moving so quietly that I can’t even hear his footsteps. Just how in the hell can he move through this forest of tortured mannequins without knocking them over? I can’t be that clumsy, can I?

I risk a quick peek around the slutty nurse I’m hiding behind, and hurriedly rock back on my heels when I catch sight of my closest hunter.

Motherfucking night vision goggles.

There’s no way I can keep hiding from them. I need to get the fuck out of here.

But the second I move, they’ll see me.

I’m trapped.

My fingers tighten around the mannequin arm in my hand. It’s hard, but hollow, plastic. Not much of a weapon, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The taller one moves closer, scanning the room methodically. In the dim light, I can make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, dark clothes. The night vision goggles make him look like some insectile alien being, especially when he turns his head with an exaggerated gesture as he searches for me.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls, his voice lilting like a prepubescent antichrist.

The second man circles around the other side of the mannequin forest, silently and intentionally cutting off my escape route.

These whack jobs are herding me with palpable enjoyment and anticipation. Of what I don’t care to think about.

…Someone who doesn’t care if his prey enjoys the hunt as much as he does…

Fuckthis.

I force down the fear pounding in my chest, my hands tingling how I grip the mannequin’s wrist. Before I can chicken out, I rush to my feet, plastic arm held like a baseball bat. Antichrist spots me out of the corner of his night vision goggles, his head snapping in my direction.

He lets out a creepy, rasping, “Thereyou?—”

I swing the plastic arm with every ounce of my strength. It connects with a sickening crack against his temple, the impact vibrating up my arms.

He drops like a stone, night vision goggles flying off his face and skittering across the floor.

Holy shit. Did I just kill someone?

I don’t have time to check. Nor should I fucking care.

The second man lets out a stream of Spanish curses, charging toward me through the mannequins, sending them crashing to the floor.

I turn to run, but I stumble over a mannequin leg. Balance thrown, I fall onto hands and knees. I try to scramble away on all fours, but I don’t get away in time.

He body slams me face down on the floor, knocking the air from my lungs. I thrash beneath him, but he’s too heavy, too strong. His hand grips my hair, slamming my head against the floor hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes.

“Stupidputa!”

Dragging me onto my back, he backhands me. The blow snaps my head to the side, splitting my lip and filling my mouth with warm copper. I’m so stunned by the pain, by his violence, that I just gape at him as he straddles me.

There’s a sharp tug at my throat as he slips a finger behind my collar.

“You don’t belong to them,” he says through a manic grin. “You belong tous.”

His hand finds the hem of my skirt, ripping the fabric up with a violent jerk. There’s a loud clatter near my head as his goggles drop to the floor.

“Didn’t think we’d find you here in your little nest, did you?” he whispers, his accent thickening with rage, breath hot against my face as he leans in close. “Thesegringoscan’t save you.”

He’s not wrong. Smith might be watching, but he sure as hell isn’t putting a stop to this. It’s that thought, more than anything else, that fills me with rage.

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