Page 57 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

I’ve never gotten car sick before, but I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like. I’m deeply nauseous, and maybe if I had food in my stomach, I’d need to puke. Instead, there’s just this hollow churning in my stomach, like a whirlwind got trapped in there.

What the hell just happened?

I swear I witnessed Smith switch to a new personality when I found that note. What’s that mental disorder called? Used to be multiple personalities, but I think it’s called dissociative something or other these days.

Then again, I wasn’t exactly myself after I saw that finger.

Ricky’s finger.

Who am I to judge how a sex-trafficking psycho deals with trauma?

But it wasn’t like he was sickened, or shocked. Smith looked like he’d seen a ghost. And then he’d…changed.

I was terrified of the previous Smith. This one?

Nightmare fuel.

I sit prim and proper in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, gripping tight so he won’t see them tremble. On some instinctual level, I know I shouldn’t let him sense my fear.

But when I realize he’s heading back to the casino, my roiling stomach drops right through the car’s fucking chassis, and I have to say something, or die knowing I was a yellow-bellied coward.

“Um…”

His silence is deafening.

“Are we…?”

“Hush now.”

I suppress a shudder at the utter lack of emotion in his voice. It’s like he’s reading off a script, but there’s no way he’s getting the part.

He said we’re going to get there on time, but then why is he detouring to the casino? Does this have anything to do with the message he sent on his cellphone as we got into the car? I couldn’t make out what he was typing, and it was so quick it couldn’t have been more than a few words.

My imagination is going wild. I mean…he didn’t say why everything was going to be fine. I just assumed it was because we were going to the drop, paying the cash, and getting Ricky back. Minus a finger, but hopefully otherwise intact.

Now? Now I can’t stop thinking about that text.

FRESH ORGANS EN-ROUTE. PREPARE THE ICE BATH.

Nope, too long. The message was shorter than that.

MEET ME AT MASS GRAVE #7.

Maybe…but it’s a little too short. What about…

BUYER LINED UP? FRESH PUSSY INCOMING.

Yup. That’s just right.

When we pass Smith’s casino and head into the basement parking of the Devil’s Den, I feel like I’m about to faint.

I knew it.

But instead of demanding I get out, or throwing a sack over my head, Smith switches off the car and just…sits there.

“Is this the part where I plead for my life?” My voice hitches a bit, but otherwise a solid delivery.

“What?” Smith turns stiffly to me, looking so confused that I feel a hysterical giggle coming on. I push it down with all my might.

“Just wondering if there’s anything I can do to change your mind?”

“About what?” The frown is fading, but he still doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

I hold up my hands, trying to look harmless. “Look, I didn’t want to get you involved in this. I was pretty clear about that.”

Smith is frowning at me like I’ve grown a second head, but I just keep blathering on.

“So, fine, if this is too much effort, just let me out. I told you I wouldn’t tell a soul about any of this. No cops, etcetera. But if you kill me, Ricky will die too, and I can’t?—“

There’s a rap on Smith’s window. We both flinch like it’s a fucking gunshot.

Smith presses the button to roll down his window, slowly revealing Troy’s bulky midsection behind the heavily tinted glass. He bends down, giving me a dead-eyed glance I feel right in my soul.

“Business or pleasure?” he grumbles to Smith.

“I’ll explain later.” Smith pushes a button on his door’s side panel, and I hear the locks disengage. “Get in.”

Troy slides into the back of the car with a duffel bag, taking the seat behind Smith. I suppose it’s tactical, because now he has a clear view of me. Without looking, Smith holds his hand behind him, palm raised.

“The fuck happened to your hand?” Troy asks.

“You know what happened.”

“Not that one, this one.”

“She did.” Smith flicks his fingers, signaling the end of Troy’s interrogation.

Troy glances at me with a frown as digs around in the duffel bag, that frown deepening as he hands Smith a brown Tom Ford eyeglass case.

I watch, morbidly fascinated, as Smith takes off his glasses and swaps them for the contact lenses inside the case. In moments, the lenses are in his eyes, and he’s slipping his eyeglasses into the glove box.

Guess hostage negotiations need twenty-twenty vision and not glasses that can get smashed by stray bullets.

Smith puts the Bentley into drive and pulls off fast enough to push me back in my seat, the SUV’s tires squealing over the smooth concrete floor as he races for the exit.

At a metallic click from the back seat, I glance over my shoulder…and instantly wish I hadn’t. An icy chill pours over me as I watch Troy check his handgun with a few quick, practiced motions.

He looks up, locking eyes with me. “Knew she was trouble.”

“You and everyone else in this goddamn place,” Smith replies whip-crack quick.

“I’m sitting right here,” I mutter.

Troy ignores me. “Time to fill me in, Smith.”

Smith glances at me, then into the rearview mirror, somehow while guiding the SUV effortlessly at high speed down the road. The note mentioned some warehouse district I’ve never heard of, but I don’t know how to get there. Smith seems to know where he’s going, so I guess that’s all that matters.

“Zoey’s brother skipped town, left her with his debt. But they caught up to him, now they’re demanding ransom.”

“Stellar guy, leaving you to deal with his shit,” Troy says.

“It’s not like th—“ I cut off with a huff. “I was going to handle this myself, but Smith bullied me into letting him come with.”

“What were you going to pay him with?” Troy asks.

“Chips,” Smith replies. Now he really sounds smug, the fucking prick.

“It’s untraceable currency,” I say. “I’m sure he’d have been thrilled.”

Troy lets out a breathy, “Jesus,” from the backseat, turning to look out the window with a shake of his head.

“Exactly,” Smith says.

“Fuck both of you.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to merge my shoulder blades together. I was nervous before, sure, but after seeing Troy’s gun, it feels like my organs are shivering.

“Myles is gonna—” Troy begins, but Smith cuts him off.

“—be thrilled I’m finally taking a vacation.”

“A vacation?” I pipe up. “Is that code for something?”

Smith throws me a hard look. “I told you to hush.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Troy makes a sound that could have been anything from a suppressed chuckle to him just clearing his throat, and he’s still looking out the window, so he doesn’t even see the daggers I’m glaring at him.

“Sure we shouldn’t pick up a few more guys?” Troy asks a few minutes later.

“If we’re not enough, twenty won’t be enough either.”

“Jesus, tell me what the fuck’s going on, Smith.”

Smith’s quiet for a moment, and I sit just as silent, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s warmed up a little since Troy got in the car, like he shook off whatever weird mood came over him at the diner. But he’s still not back to normal—or, at least, as normal as Smith could ever be.

“No fucking clue,” he finally says, making a left turn onto the freeway.

Troy sighs like he’s so over this shit, but that’s it. He doesn’t demand Smith turn the car around, doesn’t press him for more info. Like he knows he’s hit rock bottom, and he’s been here enough times that it’s almost familiar enough to feel comforting.

I don’t share his fucked up sentiments.

I’m crapping myself as the SUV tears down the road, speedometer glued on seventy-miles an hour. Why the hell did Smith think he needed Troy as backup? And that comment about twenty men not being enough?

What is Smith expecting to happen?

But that’s not even the most pressing thing on my mind right now. My eyes are on that dashboard clock again, watching the minutes count down. Smith wasted valuable time detouring to pick up Troy. And God knows how long it will take us to reach Ricky.

I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “What if we’re too late?”

“Which part of ‘hush’ don’t you understand?”

I turn to the windshield, staring straight ahead. He’s right. I shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Before, when he’d said that to me, I’d get all fluttery in my stomach and hot in my cheeks. Now all I feel is a heavy, swelling dread deep inside my body. Like I’m slowly filling up with concrete…and Smith’s the one pouring it down my throat.

Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.

Maybe this all just got too real, too fast.