Page 191 of House of Cards

What the fuck is happening? I was supposed to be safe here.

Smith’s handler drags him to his feet, pressing his big gun into Smith’s back. Miguel heads my way, but stops at a tongue click from Boss Man, who comes to fetch me himself. Guess he still doesn’t trust Miguel not to slow things down.

I rear back out of sheer instinct, and get another warning tongue click. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep still as Boss Man takes a zip tie handcuff out of his vest and secures my hands behind my back.

So tight, I hiss in pain.

Smith whips his head around at the sound. His eyes lock with mine, and I see something there I’ve never seen before.

Fear.

Not for himself.

Forme.

“Move,” Boss Man says, grabbing my arm and hauling me off the bed when my body chooses freeze instead of flight or fight.

I swallow down the terror swirling around inside me, and push forward on numb legs.

They march us into the hallway, me and Boss Man at the back, Miguel and the thug up front with Smith. I’m hyperaware of the men’s boots on the marble floor. The smell of sweat and cigarettes. The steely hand gripping my arm.

But with my eyes focused solely on Smith, everything else is little more than a blur.

“Who sent you?” Smith asks, voice eerily calm. He glances over his shoulder to address the question to Boss Man, but his eyes flicker to me for just a moment, mouth tightening. Trying to reassure me, probably.

The fear is gone, replaced by his usual stoic mask.

Guess he’s been in situations like this plenty of times in his life. More commonly on Boss Man’s side, I assume. He knows the drill.

Boss Man says nothing, but Miguel answers Smith with a rifle butt to his kidney. Smith doubles over, Miguel dragging him a few steps before he can straighten again.

“Shut the fuck up,” the third thug says, shoving Smith forward.

We’re herded down the grand staircase at a dangerous speed, me stumbling halfway down when I miss a step. I would’ve broken my fucking neck, but Boss Man yanks at my arm, bruising me as he pulls me back on my feet.

Smith risks a quick glance over his shoulder when he hears me gasp.

There’s that fear again.

My stomach drops when we’re dragged into an entertainment area with a door on each side. The pool table and overstuffed sofas have been pushed up against the wall to make room for all the captives.

The villa’s household staff huddle in one corner, a man training his rifle on them to keep them at bay. Some are crying silently, others staring blankly ahead. Two more armed men have the security guys on their knees, spaced out in a line, fingers laced behind their heads, wrists zip-tied. Their faces are bloody and bruised.

Jesus, there must be over a dozen armed men in this room. Most are keeping their rifles trained on the captives, but a few are gathered in the middle of the room like they’re waiting for something.

Or someone.

One of them moves aside to murmur something to his comrade, revealing another captive in faded jeans and a blue jacket.

Ricky?

“Ricky!” I shriek, surging forward. But Boss Man yanks me back so hard my teeth click together.

My brother is on his knees, slumped forward like he doesn’t have the strength to keep himself upright. One eye is swollen shut, and blood mats his hair on the same side. His windbreaker is torn, his jeans stained with blood.

He isn’t he zip-tied like me and Smith, and I realize that’s because his one arm is hanging at an odd angle, like it’s broken or dislocated.

There’s a grubby, blood-stained bandage on his left hand, tight enough that I can see the stump where his pinkie finger used to be.