Page 26 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

My lungs are screaming at me to stop. My heart pounding against my backbone like the cops at the door with a fucking warrant.

Thirty seconds isn’t enough of a head start when you’re running through a dimly lit maze with Mary Jane straps digging into your ankles. I almost ripped them off so I could run faster, but things keep crunching under my soles, and it’s too dark for me to see what I’m standing on.

For all I know, Smith and his psycho boss sprinkled thumb tacks and shards of glass around to slow me down.

I skid around another corner, lose my balance, and almost fall. My hand slaps against the wall to steady myself, but I don’t pause more than a second before I push off, darting down yet another identical corridor.

This maze is enormous. I’ve been running for minutes and I’m ninety percent sure I haven’t been down the same hallway twice.

Except the few times I hit a dead end and had to trace my way back a yard or two, of course.

The walls are paneled in the same dark wood as the hallway outside, but stretches of mirrors distort and multiply the surrounding maze.

Every time I glimpse myself in one of them, flushed face, wild eyes, that ridiculous beer maid costume, fresh panic surges through me.

Behind me, footsteps echo.

So close. So fucking close.

And getting closer.

I veer around another sharp turn, nearly colliding with a wall.

Another dead end.

I spin around, hurriedly backtracking, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

…Keep running. Don’t let him catch you…

Smith’s words loop in my head as I run, a panicked mantra that keeps my feet moving despite my body begging for rest. I haven’t found an exit. For all I know, there aren’t any.

The corridor opens unexpectedly into a large space.

I stumble to a halt, bent double as I try to catch my breath, but my head still tilted up as I waste no time assessing whatever fucked up hidey-hole I’m in now.

“What the fuck?”

This isn’t the first weird room I’ve come across.

The first was the doctor’s office. An intimate, mirror-lined room with a solitary gynecological chair in the center, stirrups raised and waiting.

It reeked of disinfectant and surgical gloves.

As I scampered through it with the hair on the nape of my neck lifting, I swear I saw a flash of a white doctor’s coat hanging from a hat stand.

Then a classroom. Fake windows with mirrors instead of glass that reflect the massive teacher’s desk, a chair bolted to the floor in front of it.

The restraints, I thought, were an unnecessarily evil touch, as was the chalkboard with row upon row of white scratches keeping a tally on the punishment meted inside.

But by far the creepiest—until now—was the pink room with its fourposter bed, and an army of plushies standing guard against the headboard. There was an oversized teddy bear in one corner that looked like it had seen shit.

But this?

My blood turns to ice as I straighten.

I’m in a huge, circular room with five doorways branching off like spokes on a wheel, its walls and ceiling covered in mirrors reflecting…

Mannequins? Really?

There are dozens of them, all female figures, all in various states of undress, all posed in positions of submission or flight. Those that have heads have no features—just a smooth, egg-shaped blob. Some are cracked, dented, or have gaping holes in them like they’ve been used for target practice.

They’re wearing evening gowns, lingerie, or slutty costumes like mine. Wenches, school girls, nurses. A few are naked except for the strips of black leather around their throats.

Collars, just like mine.

The mirrors lining the walls multiply the mannequins into an army, surrounding me from all sides. Way too many of those blank faces are turned toward me, somehow watching me without eyes.

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 steps behind 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 against the 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.

It could be a coincidence. Maybe Colombians go around calling everyone rats. But I’m not exactly the poster child for happy accidents. I’d bet good money these guys work for Buzzcut. Though how the hell he found me is anyone’s guess.

A tall, dark shape looms nearby. He’s moving so quietly that I can’t even hear his footsteps. Just how in the hell can he move through this forest of tortured mannequins without knocking them over? I can’t be that clumsy, can I?

I risk a quick peek around the slutty nurse I’m hiding behind, and hurriedly rock back on my heels when I catch sight of my closest hunter.

Motherfucking night vision goggles.

There’s no way I can keep hiding from them. I need to get the fuck out of here.

But the second I move, they’ll see me.

I’m trapped.

My fingers tighten around the mannequin arm in my hand. It’s hard, but hollow, plastic. Not much of a weapon, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The taller one moves closer, scanning the room methodically.

In the dim light, I can make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, dark clothes.

The night vision goggles make him look like some insectile alien being, especially when he turns his head with an exaggerated gesture as he searches for me.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls, his voice lilting like a prepubescent antichrist.

The second man circles around the other side of the mannequin forest, silently and intentionally cutting off my escape route.

These whack jobs are herding me with palpable enjoyment and anticipation. Of what I don’t care to think about.

…Someone who doesn’t care if his prey enjoys the hunt as much as he does…

Fuck this .

I force down the fear pounding in my chest, my hands tingling how I grip the mannequin’s wrist. Before I can chicken out, I rush to my feet, plastic arm held like a baseball bat. Antichrist spots me out of the corner of his night vision goggles, his head snapping in my direction.

He lets out a creepy, rasping, “ There you?—”

I swing the plastic arm with every ounce of my strength. It connects with a sickening crack against his temple, the impact vibrating up my arms.

He drops like a stone, night vision goggles flying off his face and skittering across the floor.

Holy shit. Did I just kill someone?

I don’t have time to check. Nor should I fucking care.

The second man lets out a stream of Spanish curses, charging toward me through the mannequins, sending them crashing to the floor.

I turn to run, but I stumble over a mannequin leg. Balance thrown, I fall onto hands and knees. I try to scramble away on all fours, but I don’t get away in time.

He body slams me face down on the floor, knocking the air from my lungs. I thrash beneath him, but he’s too heavy, too strong. His hand grips my hair, slamming my head against the floor hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes.

“Stupid puta !”