Capture Me Page 4

  I pulled it off, dropping it on the floor. Her eyes followed the movement, and I saw a flush creep across her face again. She was embarrassed by what happened, I realized, and my anger intensified.

  She invited me in, said she wanted me—her body fucking told me she wanted me—and now she was acting like it was all some big mistake.

  Like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

  Well, fuck that, I decided, my blood boiling with a mixture of fury and renewed lust. If she thought I’d let her get away with that shit, she was very much mistaken.

  And for the rest of the night, I dedicated myself to showing her just how mistaken she was. I licked her pussy and fucked her until she begged me to stop, until her voice was hoarse from screaming my name and my dick was raw from pounding into her tight flesh. I made her come half a dozen times before I allowed myself my second release, and then I had to restrain myself from taking her for the third time when she woke up to use the restroom.

  I had to restrain myself because somehow, impossibly, I wanted more.

  I still want more.

  Son of a bitch. I told Yulia I might return one day, but if this insane hunger doesn’t go away, I’ll have to come back to Moscow sooner than planned—maybe as soon as we’re done in Tajikistan.

  Yes, that’s it, I decide as I get up and start getting dressed.

  I’ll do my job, and then, if the Russian girl is still on my mind, I’ll come back for her.

  6

  Yulia

  I pretend to be asleep as Lucas gets dressed and quietly lets himself out of my apartment. When he closes the door behind him, I hear the automatic lock click into place. I’m grateful that he set it. In Moscow, it’s not safe to leave the door open for even a few minutes. Criminals are bold, resourceful, and seemingly omnipresent.

  I lie with my eyes closed for another minute to make sure Lucas is not coming back, and then I jump out of bed, ignoring the twinge of soreness between my legs. Automatically, my thoughts turn to the source of that soreness, and I’m once again cognizant of that strange pang of sadness.

  Odds are, I’ll never see Lucas Kent again.

  Stop it, I scold myself. There’s no reason to dwell on him. We had sex, nothing more. What I need to do now is find out if Obenko had a chance to strike at Esguerra while Kent was out of the way. If so, my gig here will finally be up. My cover is strong, but once the Russians realize there’s been a leak, I’ll fall under suspicion.

  I call Obenko while I’m getting dressed. “Anything new?” I ask when he picks up.

  “We have a plan,” he says. “We were able to track down Esguerra’s Boeing C-17—it’s the only private plane of that size scheduled to take off in the next couple of hours. Our contact in Uzbekistan will take care of the rest.”

  I pause in the middle of zipping up my boots. “What do you mean?”

  “The Uzbekistani military will fire a missile when they fly over their airspace,” Obenko says. “Accidentally, of course. The Russians won’t be pleased, but they won’t go to war over one arms dealer. Our contact will get jail time and a demotion, but his family will be well compensated for his trouble.”

  “You’re going to shoot down Esguerra’s plane?” A cold knot forms in my throat. I don’t care what happens to Esguerra, but the thought of Lucas dying in a tangle of crushed metal or being blown into bits...

  “Yes. It would be too risky to attack him here. He has four dozen mercenaries with him. There’s no way we can get to him otherwise.”

  “I see.” I feel cold all over, as though someone walked over my grave. “So they’ll all die.”

  “If everything goes according to plan, yes. We’ll eliminate the threat in one shot and without any casualties on our end.”

  “Right.” I try to inject a note of appropriate enthusiasm into my voice, but I don’t know if I succeed. All I can think about is Lucas’s big body burned and broken, his pale eyes staring unseeing at the sky. It shouldn’t matter—he’s nothing to me—but I can’t get that gruesome image out of my mind.

  “We need to exfiltrate you,” Obenko says, bringing my attention back to him. “If the Russians begin really digging and our Uzbekistani contact decides to talk, it won’t take them long to figure out how the information got to us. It’s unfortunate, but we always knew this was a risk with this specific assignment.”

  “All right.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rub the bridge of my nose. “Where do I meet the team?”

  “Take the train to Kon’kovo. We’ll have a car ready for you there.” And the phone goes silent in my hand.

  * * *

  It takes me less than twenty minutes to pack. I’ve lived in Moscow for six years, but I’ve acquired few possessions I care about. Some makeup, a hairbrush, a change of underwear, my fake passport, my gun—that’s all that goes into my large Gucci handbag. I also make sure that the clothes I’m wearing—designer jeans tucked into knee-high flat boots, a cashmere sweater, and a thick, well-fitting parka—are both warm and stylish. In case anyone sees me leaving the apartment, I’ll look much as they’d expect: a young woman heading off to work, bundled up against the brutal cold.

  After I’m done packing, I wipe down the entire apartment to erase my fingerprints and walk out, carefully locking the door behind me. I no longer care if thieves break in, but there’s no need to make it easy for them.

  Nobody seems to be watching the apartment as I exit onto the street, but I still keep a wary eye on my surroundings, making sure I’m not being followed.

  As I approach the metro station, thoughts of Lucas intrude again, making me shiver despite my warm clothing. I should be happy—I’ve been looking forward to exfiltration for months—but I can’t get my mind off Lucas’s fate.

  Will he die fast or slowly? Is it going to be the missile that kills him, or the crash itself? Will he stay conscious long enough to realize he’s about to die?

  Will he guess I had something to do with what happened?

  The knot in my throat expands, making me feel like I’m choking. For one insane moment, I’m seized by an overwhelming urge to call him, to warn him not to get on that plane. I actually reach for the phone in my bag before I jerk my hand away, sticking it in my pocket instead.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, I chide myself as I walk down the stairs into the metro station. I don’t even have Kent’s number. And even if I did, warning him would mean betraying Obenko and my country.

  Betraying Misha.

  No, never. I take a steadying breath, ignoring the crush of Moscow commuters all around me. At this point, the operation is out of my hands. Even if I wanted to change something, I can’t. Obenko and his team are in control now, and the best I can hope for is a speedy exit from Russia.

  Besides, even if Lucas Kent wasn’t affiliated with the arms dealer who just became Ukraine’s enemy, there’s no room in my life for romance of any kind. Whether Kent is dead or alive shouldn’t matter—because either way, I won’t see him again.

  The approach of the train drags me out of my dark musings. The people around me press forward, pushing their way onto the crowded train, and I hurry to make sure I squeeze in before the doors close.

  Thankfully, I make it. Grabbing onto a rail, I wedge myself into a space between two middle-aged women and do my best to ignore a leer from an old man sitting in front of me. Another couple of hours, and I won’t need to put up with the Moscow metro system.

  I’ll be on my way to Kiev, where I belong.

  I close my eyes and try to focus on that—on coming home.

  On being near Misha, even if I can’t meet with him in person.

  My baby brother is fourteen now. I’ve seen his photos; he’s a handsome teenage boy, his blue eyes bright and mischievous. In all the pictures, he’s always laughing, hanging out with his friends and his girlfriends. He’s social, Obenko tells me. Outgoing.

  Happy with the life they’ve given him.

  Each time I receive one of those pictures, I stare at it for ho
urs, wondering if he remembers me. If he’d recognize me if I approached him on the street. It’s unlikely—he was only three when he was adopted—but I still like to imagine that some part of him would know me.

  That he’d recall the way I took care of him that one brutal year in the orphanage.

  A crackling announcement interrupts my musings. Opening my eyes, I realize that the train is slowing down.

  “We apologize for the delay,” the conductor repeats loudly as the train comes to a complete halt. “The issue should get resolved shortly.”

  The passengers around me groan in unison. The middle-aged woman to my left begins swearing, while the one to my right mutters something about corrupt officials pocketing public funds instead of fixing things. It’s not the first delay this month; the extreme temperatures this winter have taken a toll on both roads and underground metro tracks, exacerbating the commuting nightmare that is Moscow at rush hour.

  I suppress my own sigh of impatience and check my phone. As expected, I have zero bars. The thick walls of the tunnel block out all cell phone reception, so I can’t notify my handlers of the delay.

  Great. Just great.

  I put the phone away, trying not to give in to my frustration. With any luck, this problem is something that requires a little welding, rather than something more serious. Last month, a burst pipe snarled traffic all over Moscow, causing metro delays of three hours or more. If it’s something along those lines again, I might not get to my pickup location until late this afternoon.

  Against my will, my thoughts turn to Lucas again. By late afternoon, his plane will likely be flying over the Uzbekistani airspace. He might even be dead by then. My stomach churns with acid as I picture his body torn into pieces, destroyed by the explosion and the crash.

  Stop it, Yulia. The churning in my stomach intensifies, turning into an empty rumble, and I realize with relief that I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I was in such a rush to pack and get going that I didn’t have so much as a bite of an apple.

  No wonder I’m feeling sick. It has nothing to do with Kent and everything to do with the fact that I’m hungry.

  Yes, that’s it, I tell myself. I’m just hungry. Once the train starts moving again and I get to my destination, I’ll grab some food and everything will be fine.

  I’ll be safely in Kiev, and I won’t think of Lucas Kent ever again.

  7

  Lucas

  By the time I get to the plane, the whole team, including Esguerra, is already on board and dressed in combat gear. The suits are bulletproof and flame-retardant—which makes them ridiculously expensive. I’m grateful Esguerra insists on them for every mission; they help minimize casualties among our men.

  I’m the last one on board, and I’m piloting the plane, so as soon as I get suited up, we take off for Tajikistan, where the terrorist organization of Al-Quadar has its latest stronghold. Esguerra sniffed it out recently, and since the idiots fucked with him by kidnapping his wife a few months back, he’s determined to wipe them off the map. The Russians granted us safe passage—that’s what that meeting with Buschekov was about—so I’m not expecting any trouble. Still, I keep an eye on the radar as we get farther away from Moscow and closer to Central Asia.

  In this part of the world, one can never be too careful.

  Once we’re at our cruising altitude, I put the plane on autopilot and check all of my weapons, taking each one apart to clean it before putting it back together. It’s one of the first things I learned in the Navy: make sure your guns are good to go before every battle. Esguerra’s equipment is top notch, and I’ve never had it malfunction on me, but there’s always a first time.

  Satisfied that everything is in good shape, I put the weapons away and glance at the radar again.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Leaning back in my seat, I stretch out my legs. I can already feel it—the beginnings of the adrenaline burn, the buzz of excitement deep in my veins.

  The anticipation that grips me before every fight.

  My mind and body are already preparing for it, even though we still have a few hours before we get to our destination.

  This is what I was made for, what I love to do. Fighting is in my blood. That’s why I enlisted in the Navy right out of high school, why I couldn’t stand the thought of following the path my parents laid out for me. College, law school, joining my grandfather’s prestigious law firm—I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of those things. I would’ve suffocated in that kind of life, choked to death in the stuffy, elite boardrooms of Manhattan.

  My family didn’t understand, of course. For them, corporate law—and the money and prestige that comes with it—is the pinnacle of success. They couldn’t comprehend why I’d want to do anything else, why I’d want to be anything other than their golden child.

  “If you don’t want to go into law, you could try for medical school,” my father said when I expressed my concerns to him in eleventh grade. “Or if you don’t want to be in school for so long, you could go into investment banking. I can get you an internship at Goldman Sachs this summer—it would look great on your Princeton application.”

  I didn’t take him up on his offer. I didn’t know at that point where I belonged, but I knew it wasn’t at Goldman Sachs, and it wasn’t at Princeton or the prep school my parents paid through the nose to have me attend. I was different from my classmates. Too restless, too full of pent-up energy. I played every sport there was, took every martial art class I could find, but it wasn’t enough.

  Something was still missing.

  I discovered what that something was late one night during my senior year, when I was stumbling home drunk from a party in Brooklyn. In an empty subway station, I was attacked by a group of thugs hoping to score some easy cash off a kid from the Upper East Side. They were armed with knives, and I had nothing, but I was too drunk to care. Whatever training I received in those martial art classes kicked in, and I found myself in the first real fight of my life.

  A fight where I ended up knifing a man and seeing his blood spill over my hands.

  A fight where I learned the extent of the violence living within me.

  * * *

  We’re flying over Uzbekistan, just a few hundred miles from our destination, when Esguerra comes into the pilot’s cabin.

  Hearing the door open, I turn to face him. “We’re on track to get there in about an hour and a half,” I say, preempting his question. “There is some ice on the landing strip, so they’re de-icing it for us right now. The helicopters are already fueled up and ready to go.”

  We need those helicopters to get to the Pamir Mountains, where we suspect the terrorist hideout to be.

  “Excellent,” Esguerra says, his blue eyes gleaming. “Any unusual activities in that area?”

  I shake my head. “No, everything is quiet.”

  “Good.” He enters the cabin and sits down in the copilot’s seat. “How was the Russian girl last night?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.

  I feel a momentary stab of jealousy, but then I remember how Yulia responded to me all night long. “Quite satisfying,” I say, smiling at the images filling my mind. “You missed out.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he says, but I can see that he’s not the least bit sorry. The man is obsessed with his young wife. I have a feeling the most beautiful woman in the world could parade naked in front of him, and he wouldn’t so much as blink. Esguerra’s been well and truly caught—and by a girl he’s been keeping captive, no less.

  The thought makes me grin. “I have to say, I never expected to see you as a happily married man,” I tell him, amused by the idea.

  Esguerra lifts his eyebrows. “Is that right?”

  I shrug, my grin fading. I’m not exactly friends with my boss—I’ve never known Esguerra to be particularly friendly with anyone—but for some reason, he seems more approachable today.

  Or maybe I’m just in a good mood, thanks to one gorgeous interpreter.

&
nbsp; “Sure,” I say to Esguerra. “People like us aren’t generally considered good husband material.”

  In fact, I can’t think of two individuals less suited to domestic life.

  Esguerra chuckles. “Well, I don’t know if, strictly speaking, Nora considers me ‘good husband material.’”

  “Well, if she doesn’t, then she should.” I turn back to the controls. “You don’t cheat, you take good care of her, and you’ve risked your life to save her before. If that’s not being a good husband, then I don’t know what is.” As I speak, I notice a flicker of movement on the radar screen.

  Frowning, I peer at it closer.

  “What is it?” Esguerra’s tone sharpens.

  “I’m not sure,” I begin saying, and at that moment, a violent jolt rocks the plane, nearly throwing me out of my seat. The plane tilts, angling down sharply, and adrenaline explodes in my veins as I hear the frantic beeping of controls gone haywire.

  We’ve been hit.

  The thought is crystal clear in my mind.

  Grabbing the controls, I try to right the plane as we plunge through a thick layer of clouds. My heartbeat is rocket fast, its pounding audible in my ears. “Shit, fuck, shit, shit, motherfucking shit—”

  “What hit us?” Esguerra sounds calm, almost disinterested. I can hear the engines grinding and sputtering, and then the smell of smoke reaches me, along with the sound of screams.

  We’re on fire.

  Fucking fuck.

  “I’m not sure,” I manage to say. The plane is nosediving, and I can’t get it to straighten out for longer than a second. “Does it fucking matter?”

  The plane shakes, the engines emitting a terrifying sputtering noise as we head straight for the ground below. The peaks of Pamir Mountains are already visible in the distance, but we’re too far to make it there.