Capture Me (9 page)

L
ucas

M
y fingers hover
over the keyboard of my laptop as I stare at the screen, debating the wisdom of what I’m about to do. Then I take a deep breath and start typing. My email to Buschekov is short and to the point:

Esguerra requests to have Yulia Tzakova remitted into his custody for further interrogation.

I click “send” and get up, reveling in the freedom of moving without crutches. It’s been two weeks since I’ve gotten the cast off, and I still feel exhilarated every time I stand up and walk unassisted.

Leaving my library/office, I head into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Cooking is a skill I’ve never been able to master, so my sandwich is beyond simple: ham, cheese, lettuce, and mayo between two slices of bread.

I sit down at the table to eat, so I don’t overtax my leg. Though it’s healing well, I still have to fight a tendency to limp. It’s only been two months since the break, and the bone needs longer to mend completely.

As I eat, my thoughts turn to the Russians’ probable response to my email. I can’t imagine Buschekov will be pleased to lose his prisoner, but at the same time, I don’t think he’ll push back too hard. Esguerra’s weapons are the best in the business, and with the conflict in Ukraine escalating, the Kremlin needs our covert deliveries to the rebels more than ever.

One way or another, they’ll honor Esguerra’s—but really, my—request. Which means that after two months of obsessing about her, I’m going to get my hands on Yulia Tzakova.

I can’t fucking wait.

O
ver the next two days
, I exchange half a dozen emails with Buschekov. As I’d suspected, he’s not too happy, initially going so far as to say he’ll only talk to Peter Sokolov about the matter.

“Sokolov is currently unavailable,” I tell Buschekov when we get on a video call. The Russian official is once again using an interpreter—a middle-aged woman this time. “I’m the one speaking for Esguerra in all matters now, and he wants Tzakova in his custody as soon as possible, along with whatever information you’ve been able to uncover about her thus far.”

“That’s impossible,” Buschekov retorts once the translator conveys my words. “It’s a matter of national security—”

“Bullshit. All we require are the files on her background. That has nothing to do with Russian national security.”

Buschekov doesn’t say anything for a few moments after the woman translates, and I know he’s considering how to best handle me. “Why do you need her?” he finally asks.

“Because we want to track down the individual or the specific organization responsible for the missile strike.” Or at least that’s what I tell myself: that I want to interrogate the girl personally to find the motherfuckers who shot down our plane.

Buschekov’s colorless eyes are unblinking. “You don’t need Tzakova for that. We’ll share that information with you as soon as we have it.”

“So you don’t have it. After two months.” I’m both surprised and impressed that they haven’t managed to break the girl. Her training must’ve been top notch to withstand such lengthy interrogation.

“We’ll have it soon.” Buschekov folds his arms in front of his chest. “There are ways to accelerate information retrieval, and we’ve just received authorization to use them.”

My stomach muscles tighten. I’ve been trying not to think of what they might be doing to her in Moscow, but every so often, those thoughts creep in along with memories of our night together. I want Yulia to suffer, but the idea of some faceless Russian guards abusing her stirs something dark and ugly within me.

“I don’t care about your authorizations.” I force my voice to remain calm as I lean closer to the camera. “What you’ll do is remit her into our custody. If you wish to maintain our business relationship, that is.”

He stares at me, and I know he’s thinking this over, wondering if I’m bluffing. And I am—Esguerra didn’t authorize any of this—but Buschekov doesn’t know that. As far as the Russian official is concerned, I represent the Esguerra organization, and I’m about to pull the plug on what has been a mutually beneficial association.

“It wouldn’t go well for you, you know,” Buschekov says finally. “If you were to go against us like that.”

“Maybe.” I don’t blink at the not-so-veiled threat. “Maybe not. Esguerra’s enemies rarely fare well.”

I’m referring to Al-Quadar, which has been completely decimated since our return. We’ve been at war with the terrorist group for a number of months, ever since they tried to get a certain explosive from Esguerra by kidnapping Nora. However, things have really escalated since we came back from Tajikistan. We’ve gone after the terrorists’ suppliers, financiers, and distant relatives; nobody even remotely connected to the group has escaped our wrath. The body count is coming up on four hundred, and the intelligence community has taken notice.

Buschekov doesn’t respond for a few tense moments, and I wonder if he’s going to call my bluff. But then he says, “All right. You’ll have her within a month.”

“No.” I hold Buschekov’s gaze as the woman translates my words. “Sooner. We’re sending a plane for her tomorrow.”

“What? No, that—”

“Should be enough time to get everything ready,” I interrupt the translator. “Remember, we expect to get her
and
the files. You don’t want to disappoint us, believe me.”

And before he can voice any further protests, I disconnect from the video call.

T
he next morning
, I train with Esguerra and the crew, as usual. Like me, he’s almost back to normal, having kicked ass with our three new recruits. Since my leg is still healing, I’m sticking to boxing and target practice, and I’m more than a little envious that he’s able to spar properly.

As we leave the training area, I fill him in on the latest developments with Peter Sokolov. Turns out the Russian somehow got his list from Esguerra, and is now going through the names and systematically eliminating them one by one.

“There was another hit in France, and two more in Germany,” I tell Esguerra, using a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. This area of Colombia, near the Amazon rainforest, is always hot and humid. “He’s not wasting any time.”

“I didn’t think he would,” Esguerra says. “How did he do it this time?”

“The French guy was found floating in a river, with marks of torture and strangulation, so I’m guessing Sokolov must’ve kidnapped him first. For the Germans, one hit was a car bomb, and the other one a sniper rifle.” I grin. “They must not have pissed him off as much.”

“Or he went for expediency.”

“Or that,” I agree. “He probably knows Interpol is on his tail.”

“I’m sure he does.” Esguerra looks distracted, so I decide it’s as good a time as any to bring up the Yulia situation.

“By the way,” I say, keeping my tone casual, “I’m having Yulia Tzakova brought here from Moscow.”

Esguerra stops and stares at me. “The interpreter who betrayed us to the Ukrainians? Why?”

“I want to personally interrogate her,” I explain, draping the towel around my neck. “I don’t trust the Russians to do a thorough job.”

Esguerra narrows his eyes, his prosthetic eerily lifelike. “Is it because you fucked her that night in Moscow? Is that what this is about?”

A wave of anger makes my jaw tighten. “She fucked me over. Literally.” That much I’m comfortable admitting. “So yeah, I want to get my hands on the little bitch. But I also think she might have some useful info for us.”

Or at least I’m hoping she does, so I can justify this insane obsession with her.

Esguerra studies me for a second, then nods. “In that case, go for it.” We resume walking, and he asks, “Did you already negotiate this with the Russians?”

I nod. “Initially, they tried to say they’d only deal with Sokolov, but I convinced them it wouldn’t be wise to get on your bad side. Buschekov saw the light when I reminded him of the recent troubles at Al-Quadar.”

“Good.” Esguerra looks grimly pleased. In the world of illegal arms dealing, reputation is everything, and the fact that the Russians backed down bodes well for our relationships with clients and suppliers.

“Yes, it’s helpful,” I say before adding, “She’ll be arriving here tomorrow.”

Esguerra’s eyebrows lift. “Where are you going to keep her?” he asks. It’s a measure of his trust in me that he doesn’t question my initiative. Ever since I saved his life in Thailand, he’s been giving me tremendous leeway.

“In my quarters,” I say. “I’ll be interrogating her there.”

He grins, and I know he understands. “All right. Enjoy.”

“Oh, I will,” I say darkly. “You can bet on it.”

I’m literally counting down the hours until Yulia is on the plane. I considered flying to Moscow myself to get her, but after some deliberation, I decided to send Thomas, a former Navy pilot, and a few other men I trust. It would’ve looked strange if I’d gone; as Esguerra’s second-in-command, I’m needed on the estate, not handling minor tasks like spy retrieval.

“If there’s any trouble, notify me immediately,” I told Thomas, though I’m confident there won’t be.

In less than twenty-four hours, Yulia Tzakova will be here.

She’ll be my prisoner, and nobody will save her from me.

Y
ulia

T
he heavy metal
door at the end of the hallway clangs, and I jerk awake, conditioned to respond to that noise as if to an electric shock.

They’re coming for me again.

I begin to shake—yet another conditioned response. As much as I want to remain strong, they’re getting to me, breaking me down piece by piece. Every grueling interrogation, every humiliation great and small, every day that blends into night as I sit there without food and sleep—it all adds up, destroying my willpower bit by tiny bit. And I know they’re only getting started. Buschekov implied as much the last time he had me in that mirrored room.

Trying to control my breathing, I sit up on my cot, pulling a thin, dirty blanket around myself. Outside, it might be May, but in this prison, it’s still winter. The chill here is everlasting. It permeates the gray stone walls and rusted metal bars, seeps in through the cracks in the floor and ceiling. There are no windows anywhere, so the sun never warms these rooms. I reside in fluorescent grayness, the cold walls around me pressing closer each day.

Footsteps
.

Hearing them, I slide my sock-covered feet into my boots. My socks are dirty, as is the jumpsuit I’m wearing. I haven’t had a shower in three weeks, and I undoubtedly stink to high heaven. It’s one of those small humiliations designed to make one feel less than human.

“Yulechka...” A familiar singsong voice makes me shake even more. Igor is the guard I hate most, the one with the grabbiest hands and the nastiest-smelling breath. Even with the cameras everywhere, he manages to find opportunities to touch me and hurt me.

“Yulechka,” he repeats, approaching my cell, and I see the glee in his beady brown eyes. He’s using the most familiar form of my name, one that would normally be an endearment spoken by parents and other family members. On his thick lips, it sounds dirty and perverted, like he’s a pedophile talking to a child.

“Are you ready, Yulechka?” Staring at me, he reaches for the lock on the cell door.

I fight the urge to shrink back against the wall. Instead, I stand up and throw off my blanket. He’d welcome any excuse to lay hands on me, so I don’t give him one. I just walk over to the metal bars and stand there waiting, my stomach twisting with nausea.

“You’re wanted out there again,” he says, reaching for my arm. I almost puke as he grabs my wrist, his fingers thick and oily on my skin. He snaps a handcuff on that wrist and then grabs my other arm, stepping closer. “They said you won’t be coming back here,” he whispers, and I feel one of his hands squeezing my ass, his fingers digging painfully into the crack. “It’s too bad. I’ll miss you, Yulechka.”

Vomit rises in my throat as I smell his breath—stale cigarettes mixed with rotting teeth. It takes everything I have not to shove him away. Fighting means he’ll get to touch me even more; I know that from experience. So I just stand there and wait for him to release me. He won’t rape me—that’s one humiliation I’ve been spared, thanks to the cameras—so all I need to do is remain still and not throw up.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, he snaps the second handcuff on my wrist and steps back, disappointment darkening his features.

“Let’s go,” he barks, grabbing my elbow, and I gulp in air untainted by his stench, desperately hoping my stomach will settle down. I’ve thrown up once before, when they fed me greasy meat after starving me for three days, and they made me clean it up with the blanket that’s still on my cot.

To my relief, my nausea recedes as Igor marches me down the hall, and I register what he said.

You won’t be coming back.

What does that mean? Are they moving me to another facility, or did they finally decide it wasn’t worth it, trying to get anything out of me? Am I about to be executed? Is that what Buschekov was hinting at when he said he was about to get some new authorization?

My heartbeat picks up, a fresh wave of nausea moving through me. I’m not ready for this. I thought I was, but now that the moment is here, I want to live.

I want to live to see Misha.

Except if I give the Russians what they want, I won’t see Misha ever again. Obenko’s sister and her family will be forced to go into hiding, and my brother along with them. Misha’s happy life will be over, and it’ll all be my fault.

No.
My resolve firms again.

It’s better that I die.

At least then I’ll be out of this hellhole once and for all.

D
espite my determination
, my legs feel like gelatin as Igor leads me down an unfamiliar hallway. We’re moving away from the interrogation room, which means the guard wasn’t lying.

Something different is happening today.

“This way,” Igor says, tugging me toward a set of double doors. As we approach, they swing open for us, and I blink at the sudden flood of blinding light.

Sunlight.

It’s warm and pure on my skin, so unlike the cold fluorescence of the prison lights. The air wafting in through those doors is different too. It’s fresher, full of scents that speak of city in the spring and have nothing to do with desperation and human suffering.

“Here she is,” Igor says, pushing me through the doors, and to my shock, a woman’s voice repeats his words in Russian-accented English.

Squinting against the overwhelming brightness, I turn my head to see a short middle-aged woman standing next to five men in a narrow courtyard. Beyond them is a thick wall with barbed wire at the top and several armed guards.

“Who are you?” I ask the woman in English, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she turns to look at one of the men—a tall, thin one who seems to be their leader.

“You can go now, thank you,” he says to her, speaking American English without an accent, and I realize she must be an interpreter.

She nods at him and hurries toward the gate on the other side of the courtyard. The man steps toward me, and I see an expression of disgust cross his narrow face. He must’ve smelled my lack of showers.

“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from Igor.

“Where are you taking me?” I’m trying to stay calm. This is not at all what I was expecting. What could Americans want from me? Unless... Could they be with—

“Colombia,” the man says, confirming my horrified guess. “Julian Esguerra requests the honor of your presence.”

And before I can process this new blow, he drags me toward the gate.

I
don’t know
at what point I start fighting—whether it’s once we’re beyond the prison gate or when we approach the black van. All I know is that a beast wakes up inside me, and I lash out at the man holding me with all my remaining strength.

I have no idea how the arms dealer could be alive, and at this moment, I don’t care. The panicked animal inside me cares only about avoiding the terrible torment that awaits at the end of this journey. I’ve read the file on Esguerra, and I’ve heard the rumors. He’s not only a ruthless businessman.

He’s also a sadist.

My hands are cuffed, so I use my feet, kicking out at the leader’s knee at the same time as I crouch and twist, breaking his hold on my arm. He cries out, cursing, but I’m already rolling on the ground, away from the five men. I don’t get far, of course. Within a second, they’re on me, two big men pinning me to the ground and then jerking me up to my feet. I continue to fight them, kicking and biting and screaming as they shove me into the back of the van. It’s only when the doors close and the van starts moving that I stop struggling, exhausted and shaking all over. My breathing is harsh and loud, and my heart slams against my ribcage in a terrified tempo.

“Hijo de puta, she stinks,” the man holding me mutters, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment, as if it’s my fault I’ve been reduced to this disgusting creature.

They gag me then, probably to stop me from screaming again, and cuff my wrists to my ankles before throwing me in the corner of the van and sitting down a couple of feet away. They don’t touch me beyond that, and after a few minutes, some of my blind panic recedes and I begin thinking again.

Julian Esguerra wants me delivered to him. That means he didn’t die from the missile strike. How is that possible? Did Obenko lie to me, or did Esguerra somehow get lucky? And if the arms dealer survived, what about the rest of his crew?

What about Lucas Kent?

A familiar ache pierces my chest as I think his name. I’d only known him for that one night, but I’ve grieved for him, cried for him in the cold confines of my cell. Could he possibly be alive? And if he’s alive, am I going to see him again?

Will he be the one who tortures me?

No. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think of that right now. I need to take it one minute at a time, same as I did in that interrogation room. It’s likely that the next several hours are my last ones without extreme pain—if not my last ones overall—and I can’t spend that precious time worrying about the future.

I can’t spend it thinking about a man who’s most likely dead.

So instead of Lucas Kent, I think of my brother again, of his sunny smile and the way his small, pudgy arms embraced me when he was little. I was eight years old when he was born, and our parents were afraid I would resent the intrusion of a new baby into our close-knit family. But I didn’t. I fell in love with Misha from the moment I met him in the hospital, and when I held him for the first time and felt how tiny he was, I knew it would be my job to protect him.

“It’s wonderful that Yulia loves her brother so much,” my parents’ friends would tell them. “Look how well she takes care of him. She’ll make a wonderful mother one day.”

My parents would nod, beaming at me, and I would redouble my efforts to be a good sister, to do whatever I could to ensure my baby brother was happy, healthy, and safe.

The van comes to a halt, bringing me out of my thoughts, and I realize with a jolt of panic that we’ve arrived.

“Let’s go,” the group leader says when the van doors open, and I see that we’re on a landing strip in front of a Gulfstream private jet. I can’t walk with my wrists cuffed to my ankles, so the man who complained about my smell earlier carries me out of the van and onto the plane, the interior of which is as luxurious as anything I’ve seen.

“Where do you want her?” he asks the leader, and I see his dilemma. The wide seats in the cabin are upholstered with cream-colored leather, as is the couch next to the coffee table. Everything here is clean and nice, whereas I’m filthy.

“There,” the leader says, pointing to a seat by the window. “Diego, cover it with a sheet.”

A dark-haired man nods and disappears into the back of the plane. He returns a minute later with what appears to be a bed sheet. He drapes it over the seat, and the man holding me deposits me there.

“Do you want the gag removed and her ankles uncuffed?” he asks the leader, and the thin man shakes his head.

“No. Let the bitch sit like this. It’ll teach her a lesson.”

And with that, they turn away, leaving me to stare out the window and try to keep my mind off what awaits me when the plane lands.