Page 75 of House of Cards

I side step the closest mannequin, trying to see if there’s a wide enough path through the scandalously posed figures so I won’t accidentally knock them over. The ambient lighting is so dim, I can barely make out more than the outline of my outstretched hand.

“Nope,” I mutter, backing away so I can retreat out of this mind fuck of a room before I end up in a straight jacket. “Nope, fuckity, nope.”

But instead of backing into the corridor, I reverse into a mannequin, sending it tumbling noisily to the tiled floor. Her limbs snap off and scatter, collapsing two mannequins nearby.

It sounds like I got a strike at a bowling alley.

I spin around, trying to figure out which of the two doorways closest to me I came through, but I’m disorientated, and they all look the fucking same.

A sound echoes in from a corridor.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate…until they suddenly speed up. Heading straight toward me.

I freeze, holding my breath, trying to figure out whether I should run or hide.

Before I can decide, there’s another sound, but from a different corridor. My head snaps toward the black, yawning doorway, ears honing in.

A second set of footsteps. Quicker, lighter. Definitely not the same person as before, seeing as I can still hear their stepsbehind me.

But that’s impossible.

Unless there’s more than one person chasing me.

Is this some kind of sick group hunt?

My hunters close in, so quick and so sure that they either have a map, or…

I touch the collar around my neck.

Fuck.

Is this some kind of tracker?

I tug at the latch, but I can’t figure out how to open it. The pendant bumps against my throat, and I yank at that next, but this collar was purposefully made to withstand tampering.

I dart between a pair of mannequins posed with their arms above their heads, trying to shield themselves from some invisible assailant. Crouching low, I fold myself into the shadows, trying to become invisible. My hand brushes againstthe cold plastic leg of one figure as I steady myself, and I recoil with a shudder.

The footsteps are nearing the room, coming from two different corridors. I crawl away as quietly as possible, heading for the nearest doorway.

“Ratoncita?1 wants to play?” a voice calls out, amused, like he’s holding back a laugh.

The man’s strong Colombian accent makes my blood run cold. He sounds almost exactly like Buzzcut, but younger. And cockier, if that’s even humanly possible.

I pick my way through the minefield of mannequin parts, picking up a slender arm lying discarded on the floor.

Just in case.

“Stop wasting our time,puta?2,” another voice says, this one deeper, much less amused.

I’m less than two yards from the doorway, but I have to cross an empty area of floor to reach it. I’ll be exposing myself to either of them if they look in my direction.

But I’d be free.

If I’m fast enough.

“Even the smartest rats eventually get caught,” the first voice says, sounding so much closer that I flinch in surprise. “And we know you’re not that smart.”

Rat.