Page 202 of House of Cards

“Zoey.” He smooths hair from my face, eyes scanning for signs of injury.

He’d need an MRI for that.

And an actual heart, not one carved from stone.

As much as I would love to be held and soothed right now, all I can think about is the expression on Smith’s face as he shot Miguel in the head. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

“I’m okay,” I murmur. “Get Elonzo!”

Smith blinks at me like he’s wondering who the fuck I’m talking about. Then I hear Troy’s boots thundering over the marble toward us. He slams into the bedroom door where Elonzo locked himself in, and Smith jolts like he’s just remembered we’re in the middle of a gang war.

“Go!” I wriggle in Smith’s grip, and he reluctantly lets me slide back to the ground. “I said I’m fine!”

I’m lying, of course.

I’ll never be fine again.

But if that psycho Elonzo escapes, I’ll never be able to sleep either. Always wondering if he’s around the corner, still so eager to sample the goods. Smith stands, gun braced in both hands but held low as he heads for the bedroom door.

I don’t dare close my eyes, because gravity still wants to suck me under, and fuck knows if it’ll just be a little nap or something more…permanent.

Thank God I force myself awake, because as Smith reaches the door, I see movement from the corner of my eye.

Luis.

I thought he was dead, but I guess that’s why these guys wear bullet-proof vests. Except Elonzo, because he thinks he’s God. Or the Devil, more likely.

No, Luis is alive. And he’s aiming his gun at Smith’s bare back.

If he gets a shot off, there’s nothing between Smith and that bullet.

We’re less than a yard apart, but it might as well be a mile. I’m on my back, shellshocked, and Luis already has Smith in his crosshairs. In the time it would take me to scramble over to him, Smith’s dead.

But I push onto hands and knees and yell out, “Hey, asshole!” anyway.

Luis must have thought I was unconscious, because he jerks in surprise at the sound of my voice and misses his shot. Wood sprays into the air inches away from Smith, just as he’s about to step into the bedroom behind Troy.

Luis glances over at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Because as Luis takes aim again, I throw myself at him.

My weight isn’t enough to knock him back, but I grab his gun hand and wrestle the weapon free. It clatters to the ground, but my victory is short-lived, because a second later I’m pinned to the ground right beside it.

Something long and sharp and shiny appears in Luis’s hand.

A knife.

I hear Smith’s bare feet slap over the marble as he runs to us, but that knife is already arcing toward my face.

Someone fires.

Luis jerks away from me, tumbling onto his back on the floor with a hoarse scream. All I want to do is lie where I am, maybe close my eyes for a bit—forever—until this is all over.

But what if he gets up again?

I roll onto my side, see the knife still held loosely in Luis’s right hand, and dive for it. Luis groans and tries to hold on, but he was shot in the chest, right beside his vest, and it’s weakened his arm enough for me to pull the knife free.

Smith appears in my peripheries, but I’m done waiting for him to save me. He’d probably just try to trade me to Luis for a pack of cigarettes or something, anyway.

It shouldn’t be this easy to stab someone’s eye.

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