Claim Me (Capture Me Book 3) Page 6

  “The men we killed were cops?” Nora asks, visibly trembling. She must be coming down from an adrenaline high. “The ones in the Hummers and the SUVs, too?”

  “Judging by their gear, many of them were.” Esguerra wraps a supportive arm around her waist. “Some were probably dirty, but others just blindly following orders from their higher-ups. I have no doubt they were told we were highly dangerous criminals. Maybe even terrorists.”

  “Oh.” Nora leans against her husband, her face suddenly turning gray.

  “Fuck,” Esguerra mutters, picking her up. Holding her against his chest, he says, “I’m going to take her to the plane.”

  To my surprise, Nora shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Please let me down.” She pushes at him with such determination that Esguerra complies, carefully setting her on her feet.

  Keeping one arm around her back, he gives her a concerned look. “What is it, baby?”

  Nora gestures toward our captives. “What are you going to do with them? Are you going to kill them?”

  “Yes,” Esguerra answers with no hesitation. “I will.”

  Nora doesn’t say anything, and I remember my promise to her friend. “I think Rosa should be here for this,” I say. “She’ll want to see justice served.”

  Esguerra looks at his wife, and she nods.

  “Bring her here,” Esguerra says, and despite the grimness of the situation, I feel a twinge of amusement as I walk back to the plane.

  Esguerra’s delicate little wife has acclimated to our world quite well.

  When I get to the plane, Rosa steps out to meet me, her face pale. “Lucas, are they—”

  “Yes, come.” Carefully taking her arm, I lead her out of the hangar. As we step outside, I see that Patrick Sullivan has passed out on the ground, but his son is still conscious and pleading for his life.

  I glance at Rosa, and I’m pleased to see that her cheeks have regained some color. Approaching Sean Sullivan, she stares down at him for a couple of seconds before looking up at me and Esguerra.

  “May I?” she asks, holding out her hand, and I smile coldly as I hand her my rifle. Rosa’s hands are steady as she aims at her attacker.

  “Do it,” Esguerra says, and she pulls the trigger. Sean Sullivan’s face explodes, blood and bits of brain matter flying everywhere, but Rosa doesn’t flinch or look away.

  Before the sound of her shot fades, Esguerra steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into the older man’s chest.

  “We’re done here,” Esguerra says, turning away from the dead body, and the four of us return to the plane.

  II

  The Lead

  16

  Lucas

  I spend the week after our return from Chicago dealing with the aftermath of the trip and recuperating from my injuries. According to Goldberg, our estate doctor, I have cracked ribs and a few first-degree burns on my back and arms—injuries that are beyond minor in light of the battle we survived.

  “You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” Diego says when I finally sit down with him and Eduardo to catch up on the Yulia situation. “All those guys…”

  “Yeah.” My teeth ache from clenching my jaw all day long. The faces of our dead men haunt me, just like those of the guards who died in the plane crash. Over the past couple of months, we’ve lost more than seventy of our people, and the mood on the compound is grim, to say the least.

  Between organizing funerals, finding new recruits, and cleaning up the mess in Chicago, I’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline fumes.

  “I hope you made the fuckers pay,” Eduardo says, his voice vibrating with fury. “If I’d been there—”

  “You’d be dead just like the others,” I say wearily. I’m in no mood to indulge the young guard’s bluster; my burns are mostly healed at this point, but my ribs hurt with every movement. “Tell me what you’ve learned thus far. Did you figure out if anyone had contact with my prisoner prior to the escape?”

  Diego and Eduardo exchange an odd look. Then Diego says, “Yes, but I don’t think it’s her.”

  I frown. “Her?”

  “Rosa Martinez, the maid from the main house,” Eduardo says hesitantly. “She… Well, the drone footage showed her coming to your house a couple of times during those two weeks.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I chuckle humorlessly. “She had some kind of strange curiosity about Yulia.” I’m not about to tell the guards about Rosa’s possible crush on me. The girl seems to be past that now, and I don’t think she’d appreciate the others knowing about her feelings.

  She’s been through enough.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you know about that.” Diego blows out a relieved breath. “We figured it’s unlikely to be her, but I wanted to let you know just in case. She’s the only one who came by your house on Tuesday, so…” He shrugs.

  “Wait, Tuesday? As in, the day before we left?” I’d warned Rosa away long before that, and I thought she’d listened. “She came to my house on Tuesday?”

  “That’s what the footage shows,” Eduardo says cautiously. “But it can’t be her. I know Rosa—we dated for some time. She’s not… she wouldn’t—”

  I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “I’m sure she’s not the one to blame,” I say, even as a hard knot forms in my chest. If Rosa came to my house after I warned her away, that changes things.

  My assumptions about the girl were wrong.

  “You did well telling me about this,” I say to the two guards. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about it for now. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea—Rosa herself included.”

  If there’s something more to her actions than a misplaced crush, I don’t want anyone to tip her off.

  Diego and Eduardo both nod, looking relieved as I dismiss them. When they’re gone, I pick up the phone and call the men we sent to Chicago.

  Esguerra’s CIA contacts did their best to cover up our high-speed battle, but it was impossible to conceal it all, and now every news outlet in Chicago is blaring with speculation about the clandestine operation to apprehend a dangerous arms dealer. The “arms dealer” story originated with the police chief, who had been in cahoots with Sullivan. The man used the information that Sullivan uncovered about us to come up with the tale of an arms dealer smuggling explosives into Chicago. Under that pretext, he assembled the SWAT team that helped Sullivan, and told everyone that Sullivan’s men were reinforcements from another division. The operation was kept secret from other law enforcement agencies—which is why we didn’t have advance warning of the attack. So now there’s a shitload of work to be done. The police chief and any remaining Sullivan moles have to be taken care of, and the remnants of Sullivan’s organization must be wiped out before Nora’s parents can return home.

  As much as I’d like to tackle Rosa’s betrayal, I have more pressing matters to deal with first.

  * * *

  It’s not until I’m lying in my bed late that night that I have a chance to think about Rosa again. Could she have done it? Could she have helped Yulia escape? If so, why? Out of jealousy or because someone got to the maid?

  Could Yulia’s agency have bribed or threatened Rosa?

  I mull over that possibility for a few minutes before deciding that it’s unlikely. The compound is isolated, and all emails and phone calls with the outside world are monitored. Esguerra is the only one whose communications are private, which means there’s no way UUR could’ve contacted Rosa without raising alarms in the system.

  Whatever Rosa did, she did of her own initiative.

  The knot in my chest tightens, the bitterness of betrayal mixing with the ever-present anger. Rage has been my companion since I learned of Yulia’s escape, and now I have a new target for my fury. If it weren’t for the fact that the maid has just been through an ordeal, I’d drag her in for questioning tomorrow. As it is, I’m going to give Rosa another week to heal and use the time to keep a close eye on her, just in case I’m wrong about her mot
ivations.

  If she is on someone’s payroll, I’m going to find that out. In the meantime, I have to finish the cleanup in Chicago and locate Yulia, and I have to do it soon. Not having Yulia is messing with my head. Despite working to exhaustion, I can’t sleep at night. There are dozens of urgent business matters that should occupy my thoughts, but it’s not worry over finding new guards or containing media leaks that keeps me awake. No, what I think about when I lie in bed is her.

  Yulia.

  My beautiful, treacherous obsession.

  The moment I close my eyes, I see her—her eyes, her smile, her graceful walk. I remember her laughter and her tears, and I ache for her in a way that goes beyond my cock’s craving for her silky flesh. As much as I’d like to fuck her, I also want to hold her, to hear her breathing next to me and smell the warm peach scent of her skin.

  I fucking miss her, and I hate her for it.

  Does she think about me at all, or is she too busy with the man she loves? I picture her lying in his arms, drowsy and replete after sex, and my fury edges into agony, tightening my chest until I can’t breathe. I’d take a dozen broken ribs, suffer a hundred burns to avoid this sensation.

  I’d do anything to have her back with me.

  I love you. I’m yours.

  Motherfucker.

  I turn on the bedside lamp and sit up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Getting up, I walk to my library and grab a random book.

  It’s only when I return to my bed that I realize the book I took was the last one I saw Yulia reading.

  The tightness in my chest returns.

  I have to get her back.

  I simply have to.

  17

  Yulia

  “I have a new assignment for you,” Obenko says, walking into the kitchen of the safe house apartment.

  Startled, I look up from my plate of cream-of-wheat kasha. “An assignment?”

  Over the past week, my boss has been busy erasing all traces of UUR’s existence from the net and reassigning key agents to lower-profile operations whenever possible. He’s also been studiously ignoring me—which is why I’m surprised to see him here this morning.

  Obenko takes a seat across from me at the table. “It’s in Istanbul,” he says. “As you know, the situation with Turkey and Russia is beginning to heat up, and we need someone on the ground.”

  I consume another spoonful of kasha to give myself time to think. “What do you want me to do in Istanbul?” I ask after I swallow. I have no appetite—I haven’t had one all week—but I force myself to eat to keep up appearances.

  I don’t want Obenko to know how listless I feel and speculate about the cause of my malaise.

  “Your assignment is to get close to a key Turkish official. To do that, you’ll matriculate at Istanbul University as part of a graduate student exchange program with the United States. We have already prepared your documents.” Obenko slides a thick folder toward me. “Your name is Mary Becker, and you’re from Washington D.C. You’re working on your Master’s in Political Science at the University of Maryland, and though your undergraduate degree is in Economics, you minored in Near Eastern Studies—hence your interest in a study abroad program in Turkey.”

  The kasha I’ve eaten turns into a rock in my stomach. “So it’s another long-term play.”

  “Yes.” Obenko gives me a hard look. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not.” I do my best to sound nonchalant. “But what about my brother? You said you’d get me the pictures.”

  Obenko’s mouth thins. “They’re in that folder as well. Take a look and let me know if you have any questions.”

  He gets up and walks out of the kitchen to make a call, and I flip open the folder, my hands shaking. I’m trying not to think about what this assignment will entail, but I can’t help it. My throat is cinched tight, and my insides churn with nausea.

  Not now, Yulia. Just focus on Misha.

  Ignoring the papers in the file, I find the photos clipped to the back of the folder. They’re of my brother—I recognize the color of his hair and the tilt of his head. The pictures were clearly taken in a rush; the photographer captured him mostly from the side and the back, with only one photo showing his face. In that picture, Misha is frowning, his youthful face looking unusually mature. Is he upset because his family had to relocate, or is something else behind his tense expression?

  I study the pictures for several minutes, my heart aching, and then I force myself to set them aside so I can look at my assignment.

  Ahmet Demir, a member of Turkish Parliament, is forty-seven years old and known to have a weakness for blond American women. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad-looking man—a little balding, a little chubby, but with symmetrical features and a charismatic smile. Looking at his photo shouldn’t make me want to throw up, but that’s precisely how I feel at the prospect of getting close to him.

  I can’t imagine sleeping with this man—or any man who’s not Lucas.

  Feeling increasingly sick, I push the papers away and take several deep breaths. The last time I felt a dread this strong was before my first assignment, when I feared a man’s touch in the wake of Kirill’s attack. It was a phobia I battled through in order to do my job, and I’m determined to overcome whatever it is I’m feeling now.

  For Misha, I tell myself, picking up his pictures again. I’m doing it for Misha. Except this time, the words ring hollow in my mind. My brother is no longer a child, no longer a helpless toddler abused in an orphanage. The face in the photo is that of a young man, not a boy. Because of my mistake, his life has already been disrupted. I don’t know what reason his adoptive parents gave him for changing their identities, but I have no doubt he’s stressed and upset. The carefree, stable life I wanted for him is no longer a possibility, and despite the black guilt gnawing at my chest, I’m aware of a sense of relief.

  What I feared has come to pass, and I can’t undo it.

  For the first time, I consider what would happen if I left UUR—if I simply walked away. Would they let me go, or would they kill me? If I disappeared, would Obenko’s sister and her husband continue treating my brother well? I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t; he’s been their adopted son for eleven years. Only monsters would throw him out at this point, and by all indications, Misha’s adoptive parents are decent people.

  They love Misha, and they wouldn’t harm him.

  I pick up the documents in the folder and study them. They look authentic—a passport, a driver’s license, a birth certificate, and a social security card. If I accept this assignment, I’ll start over as Mary Becker, an American grad student. I’ll live in Istanbul, attend classes, and eventually become Ahmet Demir’s girlfriend. My interlude with Lucas Kent will fade into the past, and I’ll move on.

  I’ll survive, like I always have.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” Obenko asks, and I look up to see him walk back into the kitchen. “Did you have a chance to look through the file?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounds hoarse, and I have to clear my throat before continuing. “I’ll need to brush up on a number of subjects before I go to Istanbul.”

  “Of course,” Obenko says. “You have a week before the start of the summer semester. I suggest you get busy.”

  He leaves the kitchen, and I pick up my half-full plate with unsteady hands. Carrying it over to the garbage, I dump the remnants of my breakfast, wash the plate, and walk to my room, a ghost of a plan forming in my mind.

  For the first time in my life, I may have a choice about my future, and I intend to seize the opportunity with both hands.

  * * *

  Over the next week, I learn the basics of Turkish language and culture. I don’t need to know a lot, just enough to pass for an American graduate student interested in the subject. I also memorize Mary Becker’s background and brush up on American college life. I prepare stories about my roommates and frat parties, read Economics textbooks, and come up with Mary’s interest
s and hobbies. Obenko and Mateyenko quiz me daily, and when they’re satisfied that I make a convincing Mary Becker, they buy me a plane ticket to Berlin.

  “You’ll travel as Elena Depeshkova to Berlin,” Obenko explains. “And as Claudia Schreider from Berlin to New York. Once you’re in the United States, your identity as Mary Becker will go into effect, and you’ll fly from there to Istanbul. This way, nobody will be able to connect you to Ukraine. Yulia Tzakova will disappear for good.”

  “Got it,” I say, slicking on a bright red lipstick in front of a mirror. I’ll be wearing a dark wig for Elena’s role, so I’ll need bolder makeup for that. “Elena, Claudia, then Mary.”

  Obenko nods and makes me repeat the names of all of Mary’s relatives, beginning with distant cousins and ending with parents. I don’t make a single mistake, and when he leaves that day, I know my hard work has paid off.

  My boss believes I’ll make an excellent Mary Becker.

  The next morning, Obenko drives me to the airport, dropping me off at the Departures area. I’m Elena now, so I’m wearing the wig and high-heeled boots that go well with my dark jeans and stylish jacket. Obenko helps me load my suitcases onto a cart before driving away, and I wave him goodbye as he disappears into the airport traffic.

  The minute his car is out of sight, I spring into action. Leaving my suitcases on the cart, I run to the Arrivals area and grab a cab.

  “Head toward the city,” I tell the driver. “I need to pull up the exact address.”

  He starts driving, and I take out my phone. Opening the tracking app I installed a couple of days ago, I locate a small red dot heading toward the city a kilometer or two ahead of us. It’s the tiny GPS chip I surreptitiously placed in Obenko’s phone back at the safe house.

  I may have no intention of carrying out the Istanbul mission, but I certainly found use for the surveillance equipment UUR gave me.