Page 4 of House of Cards

Stars flicker over my vision.

The brutal impact drives all the air from my lungs. I claw it back in pained, ragged breaths, trying to ignore how effortlessly he pins me, how the rough wall scrapes me through my shirt.

He clicks his tongue like I’ve disappointed him and digs the cool muzzle of his gun under my chin.

“Dámelos?2.” He tugs at the keys I just tried to gouge his eyes out with.

I reluctantly open my hand. He watches me for a second, eyes narrowing as he takes the keys from me. “Pull a move like that again, and they’ll be scraping your brains off the wall.”

“And you’ll be locked up for murder.”

“We don’t live in the same world,mamacita,”?3 he says, so matter of fact the hairs on my nape stand up. “You kill someone, even in self-defense, you go to jail.Ikill someone, it’s just another Wednesday.”

I almost tell him to get it over with. Soon as this thug realizes I was bluffing about the money, my brains are on the wall anyway. Why wait?

Buzzcut unlocks the door and uses the muzzle of the gun to herd me inside my future crime scene.

“Keep your hands up,” Buzzcut says when I slide them into my armpits for warmth.

“Where could I possibly be concealing a weapon?”

“Keep fucking around, sweetheart. I got a weapon in my pants I’m itching to take out.”

“Should see a doctor about that,” I mutter, quickly tugging my hands free when he digs the muzzle into my shoulder blade.

I go to my knees in front of the safe tucked under the desk, turning the combination lock, then swinging open the door. There are two thick plastic envelopes inside, both filled with cash. As I take them out, I realize there can’t be more than ten grand inside.

My heart clenches so tightly, I pause for the heart attack that’s sure to hit me.

Sweet baby Jesus. I knew it was a slow week, but there’s barely anything in here.

I try to stand, but the muzzle of Buzzcut’s gun presses against the top of my head, keeping me on my knees.

Execution style.

I don’t look as I hold up the two envelopes with a shaking hand.

He snatches them. “The fuck is this?”

“Business has been slow lately.”

“Fuck!” he snaps. “Tell me you didn’t waste my time on five grand?—“

“There’s at least ten in there!”

Buzzcut sighs. “Up.”

I slowly get to my feet, holding up my hands so he doesn’t think I’m ‘pulling another move’.

“Turn around.”

Oh, God. Is this where he gives these dreary walls a splash of color? Or where he takes out his other weapon?

Buzzcut tilts his head. “You owe me a hundred grand, Zoey.”

“Ninety,” I bite back.

Buzzcut lifts the envelopes and taps his tattooed fingers against the plastic. His dark, slashed eyebrow twitches. “Call out fee.”