Capture Me (8 page)

“I don’t know!” His wail is full of desperation, and I know he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know anything, which makes him useless. I’m tempted to save him for Esguerra or Peter’s amusement, but it’ll take too much effort to get him out of the country.

That means there’s only one thing left for me to do.

Squeezing the trigger, I pepper Karimov with bullets and watch his body slam against the wall, blood and bits of brains spraying everywhere. Then I lower the weapon and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding pain in my head.

When Sharipov’s troops burst into the room a few seconds later, I’m sitting in the chair, the empty weapon lying at my feet.

“I apologize about the mess,” I say, leaning on the crutches to stand up. “We’ll pay for the clean-up of this room.”

And ignoring the horror on everyone’s faces, I start hobbling toward the door.

Y
ulia

“
W
hich organization do
you belong to?” Buschekov leans forward, his eyes trained on me with the intensity of a snake hypnotizing its prey.

I stare back at the Russian official, barely registering his question. I can’t decide if his eyes are yellowish gray or pale hazel; whatever color his irises are, they manage to blend with the yellowish-gray whites around them, producing the illusion of a complete lack of eye color. In general, everything about Arkady Buschekov is yellowish gray, from his skin tone to the wispy hair plastered against his shiny skull.

“Which organization do you belong to?” he repeats, his gaze boring into me. I wonder how many people have caved from that stare alone; if I believed in x-ray vision, I’d swear he’s looking straight into me. “Who sent you here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, unable to keep my exhaustion out of my voice.

It’s been over twenty-four hours since my capture, and I’ve neither slept nor had anything to eat or drink. They’re wearing me down this way, undermining my willpower. It’s a standard interrogation technique here. The Russians consider themselves too civilized to resort to outright torture, so they use these “softer” methods—things that mess with your psyche rather than cause lasting harm to your body.

“You know, Yulia Andreyevna”—Buschekov addresses me by my name and fake patronymic—“the Ukrainian government has disavowed any connection with you.” He leans even closer, making me want to shrink back into my seat. At this distance, I can smell the salted fish and garlic potatoes he must’ve eaten for lunch. “Unless some unofficial agency in Ukraine claims you, we’ll have no choice but to presume that you’re a Russian citizen, as your false background indicates,” he continues. “You understand what that means, right?”

I do. If treason is the charge they levy against me, I’ll be executed. That’s no reason for me to talk, though. Obenko won’t come forward to claim me, not even if I expose our off-the-books agency. One operative is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

When I remain silent, Buschekov sighs and leans back in his seat. “All right, Yulia Andreyevna. If that’s how you wish to play it.” He snaps his fingers at the wall-wide mirror to the left of me. “We’ll talk again soon.”

He rises to his feet and walks to the door in the corner. Stopping in front of it, he looks back at me. “Think about what I said. This can go very badly for you if you don’t cooperate.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I look down at my hands, which are handcuffed to the table in front of me. I hear the door open and shut as he walks out, and then I’m alone, except for the people watching me through the mirror.

T
he hours drag by
, each second more torturous than the next. The thirst that torments me is comparable only to the hunger that gnaws at my insides. I try to lay my head down on the desk to sleep, but every time I do so, an ear-piercing alarm blares through the speakers, startling me awake. The screeching noise is impossible to ignore, even in my exhausted state, and eventually I stop trying, doing my best to zone out for a few precious moments while sitting upright in my chair.

I know what they’re doing, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. People who haven’t experienced prolonged sleep deprivation don’t understand that it’s genuine torture, that every part of one’s body begins to shut down after a while. I’m nauseated and cold all over, and everything hurts—my stomach, my muscles, my skin, my bones... even my teeth. The headache from earlier is a blaze of agony in my skull, and my lips are cracking from lack of water.

How long has it been since Buschekov left me alone? Several hours? A day? I don’t know, and I’m losing the will to care. If there’s any silver lining to all this, it’s that I don’t need to use the bathroom. I’m too dehydrated, and my stomach is too empty. Not that this saved me from humiliation. Upon arrival, they stripped me and went over every inch of my body. Even now that I’m dressed in a gray prison jumpsuit, I feel horribly naked, my skin crawling at the memory of the guards’ latex-covered fingers invading me all over.

I close my eyes for a second, and the screeching alarm blares to life, jolting me awake. Opening my eyes, I attempt to swallow, to gather what little moisture remains in my mouth so I can wet my throat. I feel as though I’ve been eating sand. Swallowing hurts even more than not swallowing, so I give up, focusing on just surviving from moment to moment. They won’t let me die like this, not when they hope to get some information from me, so all I need to do is hang on until they bring me some water.

Until they return to question me again.

My mind drifts, going over the last few days. There’s no reason not to think of Lucas now, so I let the memories come. Sharp and bittersweet, they fill me, taking me away from my aching, exhausted body.

I remember the way he kissed me, the way he fit against me and inside me. I recall his taste, his smell, the feel of his skin against mine. He’d looked at me while he was fucking me, his gaze possessing me with its intensity. Did it mean anything to him, the night we spent together? Or was I just a casual lay, a way to scratch an itch while passing through Moscow?

My dry eyes burn as I stare, unseeing, at the wall in front of me. Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t matter. It never mattered, but now it has zero relevance. Lucas Kent is dead, his body likely blown into pieces.

The room blurs in front of me, fading in and out of focus, and I realize I’m shaking, my breathing shallow and my heart beating painfully fast. I know it’s probably from dehydration and lack of sleep, but it feels like something within me is breaking, the pressure around my chest hard and crushing. I want to curl up into a ball, to shrink into myself, but I can’t, not with my hands cuffed to the table and feet chained to the floor.

All I can do is sit and grieve for something I never had—and now would never know.

L
ucas

A
fter my interrogation of Karimov
, Sharipov assigns ten armed soldiers to stand guard over me and accompany the nurses when they take care of me. I know he’s tempted to do more, like throw me in prison, but he doesn’t dare. Peter’s already worked some magic with his Russian connections, so everyone at this hospital is on their best behavior, the minor matter of armed guards excluded.

I don’t mind my entourage. Now that I’ve had a chance to release some of my rage, I’m a tiny bit calmer, and I spend the time between Karimov’s death and Esguerra’s rescue learning how to move around on crutches. According to the doctors, it’s a clean tibial break, so the cast should come off in six to eight weeks. That gives me a small measure of comfort, lessening my anger and frustration at being stuck in the hospital while others are doing my job.

Peter keeps me updated, so I know Al-Quadar took the bait. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for Nora to be brought to wherever the terrorist cell is hiding Esguerra. Feeling cautiously optimistic, I make arrangements for the two of them to be brought to a private clinic in Switzerland after the rescue. I have a feeling they’ll need it. I also strategize with Peter about the best way to extract Esguerra out of whatever hole they’re keeping him in, and regularly check on the burned men, who are at this point stable but drugged unconscious to ease their suffering. They’ll need multiple skin grafts—an expense Esguerra needs to authorize when he returns.

With all that activity, I don’t spend much time resting in bed, which upsets the doctors taking care of me. They claim I need to lie still and not stress in order to let my concussion heal. I ignore them. They don’t understand that I need to keep busy, that even the worst headache is better than lying there and thinking about
her
.

The Russian interpreter / Ukrainian spy.

Yulia.

Just thinking her name makes my blood pressure spike. I don’t know why I can’t put her betrayal out of my mind. It’s not even a betrayal as such. Rationally, I understand she didn’t owe me any loyalty. I came to her apartment to use her body, and she ended up using me instead. That makes her my enemy, someone I should want to kill, but it doesn’t mean she betrayed me. I shouldn’t give her any more thought than I give Al-Quadar.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

I think about her constantly, remembering the way she looked at me and how her breath caught when I first touched her. How she clung to me as I drove into her, her pussy tight and slick around my cock. She wanted me—that much I’m sure of—and sex with her had been the hottest thing I’d experienced in years.

Maybe ever.

Fuck.

I can’t keep doing this to myself. I need to forget the girl. She’s in the hands of the Russian government, which means she’s no longer my problem. One way or another, she’ll pay for what she’s done.

It’s a thought that should comfort me, but it enrages me more instead.

“
W
e got them
.”

At the sound of Peter’s voice, I get up, too tense to sit still. “How are they?” It’s a struggle to hold on to the phone while balancing on crutches, but I manage.

“Esguerra’s pretty fucked up. They did a number on his face—I think he lost an eye. Nora seems okay. She took out Majid. Blew his brains out before we got there.” Peter sounds admiring. “Gunned him down cold, if you can believe that.”

“Damn.” I can’t form that picture in my mind, so I don’t even try. Instead, I focus on the first part of his statement. “Esguerra’s lost an eye?”

“Seems like it. I’m not a doctor, but it looks bad. Hopefully, they can fix it in that Swiss place.”

“Yeah.” If they can do it anywhere, the clinic in Switzerland would be it. It’s known for treating celebrities and the obscenely wealthy of all persuasions, from Russian oil tycoons to Mexican drug lords. A stay there begins at thirty thousand Swiss francs a night, but Julian Esguerra can easily afford it.

“He wants you and the others transferred to that clinic, by the way,” Peter says. “We’ll send a plane for you shortly.”

“Ah.” I’d expected nothing less, but it’s still nice to hear that. Recuperating at the ritzy Swiss clinic should be much better than being stuck in this shit hole. “He didn’t rip into you for letting Nora get taken?”

“I didn’t really talk to him. I’m keeping my distance.”

“Peter...” I hesitate for a second, then decide the guy deserves a fair warning. “Esguerra’s not very rational when it comes to his wife. There’s a chance he’ll—”

“Rip out my liver barehanded? Yeah, I know.” The Russian sounds more amused than concerned. “Which is why I’m dropping them off at the clinic and leaving. They’re all yours now.”

“Leaving? What about your list?” It’s no secret that in exchange for three years of service, Esguerra promised to get Peter the names of people responsible for what happened to his family.

“Don’t worry about that.” Peter’s voice cools to arctic levels. “They’ll get what’s coming to them.”

“All right, man.” This is probably my cue to message the guards to detain Peter. Esguerra would undoubtedly praise me for that, but I can’t bring myself to betray the Russian like that. Though we haven’t been working together that long, I’ve grown to admire the man. He’s a cold-blooded motherfucker, and that makes him excellent at what he does. And frankly, he’s dangerous enough that I don’t want to risk the lives of any more of our men. “Good luck,” I say, and mean it.

“Thanks, Lucas. You too. Hope you and Esguerra heal up soon.”

And with that, he hangs up, leaving me to wait for the plane and try not to think about Yulia.

W
e stay
at the Swiss clinic for almost a week. During that time, Esguerra undergoes two surgeries—one to fix his cut-up face and the other to put a prosthetic eye into his left eye socket.

“They said the scars will be barely visible after a while,” his wife tells me when I run into her in the hallway. “And the eye implant should look very natural. In a few months, he’ll be almost back to normal.” She pauses, studying me with her large dark eyes. “How are you, Lucas? How’s your leg feeling?”

“It’s fine.” I’ve been refusing painkillers, so it actually hurts like a motherfucker, but Nora doesn’t need to know that. “I got lucky. We both did.”

“Yeah.” Her slender throat works as she swallows. “What’s the prognosis on the others?”

“They’ll live until the next surgery.” That’s about the only positive thing I can say about the three burned men. “The doctors say they’ll each need about a dozen operations.”

She nods somberly. “Of course. I hope the surgeries go well. Please give them my best wishes if you speak to them.”

I incline my head. There isn’t much chance of that, since they’re completely doped up, but I don’t see any need to tell her that. The petite young woman in front of me is already dealing with enough shit. Esguerra said she’s handling it, but I wonder. Not many nineteen-year-olds from the American suburbs blow open a terrorist’s head.

I’m about to continue on my way when Nora asks quietly, “Have you heard from Peter?” Her expression as she stares up at me is hard to decipher.

“No, I haven’t,” I tell her honestly. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Just curious. We do owe him our lives.”

“Right.” I have a feeling there’s more to this, but I don’t pry. Instead, I incline my head at her again and continue hobbling to my room.

As I fall asleep that night, the blond spy invades my thoughts again, and my cock hardens despite my lingering headache. It’s been like that every night for the past week. Random images from our night together come to me when my guard is down—when I’m too tired to fight them off. I keep recalling the tight clasp of her pussy, the cries that escaped her throat as I fucked her, the way she smelled, the way she tasted... It’s gotten so bad I’ve considered getting a hooker, but for some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal to me.

I don’t just want sex. I want sex with
her
.

Furious, I get up, grab my crutches, and hobble to the bathroom to jerk off again.

If all goes well, tomorrow we’ll be back in Colombia, and this chapter of my life will be over.

Maybe then I’ll forget Yulia once and for all.