Page 206 of House of Cards

My target must be injured pretty badly to be moving so clumsily.

I round the center island, weapon held steady at shoulder height, finger already tightening on the trigger.

Only to find myself face-to-face with Tear Drop.

Christ, I knew he was young when I first spotted him, but this scrawny kid is barely old enough to drive. His back is pressed to an open shelf of the kitchen island, an array of pots and pans stacked behind him. He fumbles with his rifle, a lanky elbow catching on the shoulder strap.

I lunge forward and snatch it out of his hands, tossing it out of reach behind me as I stand.

“¡No me mates, por favor!”?1 he begs, voice thickly accented. “I have family. I bring money home?—”

“Like I give a fuck,” I say, my voice flat.

He shudders, cowering as I aim the rifle at his head. No one ever cared enough to make sure he was dressed properly. His bullet-proof vest is strapped so loosely to his birdcage chest, I can see it gaping along the sides.

“¡Virgencita, ayúdame!”?2 he whimpers, hands raised over his head like they’d stand a chance of protecting him against AR-15’s cartridges.

Movement catches my eye, my gaze flickering briefly to the puddle of urine spreading under him.

Christ.

I should have put a bullet between his eyes already. One less scumbag to worry about.

But I can’t unsee that look on Zoey’s face. The disgust. The fear. Not of what I might do to her, but of what Iam.

And my hesitation gives the kid a sliver of hope.

He lunges at me with the clumsy determination of someone who’s never had proper training. I sidestep easily, and bring the butt of my AK down on the back of his head.

It’s pure instinct, and I barely pull back at the last second, transforming the lethal blow into one just violent enough to knock him unconscious.

I pi him with a knee as I search his limp body. At least they were thoughtful enough to give him zip-ties.

Automatic gunfire reaches me, muffled, sporadic. It goes on for a for a minute. Then silence.

I secure his hands behind his back, hesitate, and bind his ankles as well. Then I drag him over to a cabinet and zip tie his neck to the metal handle. He’d probably choke to death before he could rip that handle off.

I double check that he doesn’t have any other weapons on him, and leave.

It’s not mercy. It’s pragmatism. A living informant is more valuable than a dead soldier.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

When I return to the entertainment room, Troy is crouched beside one of Elonzo’s men, checking that he’s dead. Thehostages are all clustered together in one corner, sobbing, or silent, or praying.

Someone’s turned on the overheads, lighting the scene in garish clarity.

It’s a fucking massacre, blood and gore everywhere.

Dead bodies sprawled every which way.

A haze of dry plaster and gun smoke hangs in the air, the chemical stink of it obliterating all other scents, even the blood. Bullets have churned the sofa into an unrecognizable mass of wood, leather, and stuffing. Holes gouged out of the walls. Cracks and chips all over the marble floors.

“The runner?” Troy asks as he goes to check another dead body. I pad over to the far side of the room, checking the men on that side.

Those that still have a head, of course.

“Handled.”

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