Capture Me Read online

  “The terrorists attacked the hospital a few hours ago,” Sharipov repeats, his face tense and tired. “It seems we underestimated their capabilities—and their desire to get at your boss. As we didn’t find his body among the dead, we can only assume that they took him.”

  “They took Esguerra?” It takes everything I have not to leap out of bed and strangle the colonel with my bare hands—which are still unrestrained, I note with some corner of my brain. “You fucking let them take him? I told you to put security around him—”

  “We did. We had several of our best soldiers standing guard—”

  “Several? It should’ve been several dozen, you fucking idiots!”

  The nurse flinches at my roar and jumps well out of my reach. Smart woman. At this moment, I’d gladly strangle her too.

  Sharipov’s jaw tightens. “As I said, we underestimated this particular terrorist organization. We won’t make this mistake again. It was a bloodbath. They wounded dozens of patients and hospital staff on the way out and killed all the soldiers assigned to guard duty.”

  “Fuck.” I punch the mattress so hard, the pillow bounces. “Were you at least able to follow them?” Majid wouldn’t be stupid enough to take Esguerra to the Al-Quadar compound in the Pamir Mountains; he must know by now that we’ve sniffed out its location.

  Sharipov prudently steps back. “No. The police were notified right away, and we sent for more soldiers, but the terrorists got away before we could get to the hospital.”

  “Son of a bitch.” If it weren’t for the cast immobilizing my leg, I’d be out of bed and punching the colonel’s weary face. As is, I have to settle for slamming my fist into the cheap mattress again. My head throbs with the violent movement, but I don’t give a fuck.

  Esguerra was taken while I lay here, drugged and oblivious.

  I failed at my job, and I failed badly.

  “Give me the phone,” I say when I’m calm enough to speak. “I need to talk to Peter Sokolov.”

  Sharipov nods and takes the phone out of his pocket. “Here you go.” He offers it to me cautiously. “We already spoke to him, but you’re welcome to do so as well.”

  Fighting the urge to grab Sharipov’s hand and break his arm, I take the phone and punch in the numbers for a secure connection that takes me through a number of relays. To my annoyance, Peter doesn’t pick up.

  Sharipov is watching me, so I conceal my frustration as I try again. And again. And again.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sharipov says on my fifth attempt. “Feel free to contact whomever you need.”

  He departs, and I resume trying Peter’s number, driven by increasing anger and worry. Esguerra’s Russian security consultant always carries his phone with him, and I have no idea why he’s suddenly out of reach. Could there have been an attack on Esguerra’s estate in Colombia? The mere possibility makes me see red.

  Just when I’m about to give up, the call connects. “Yes?” The faintly accented voice is unmistakably Peter Sokolov’s.

  “It’s Kent.”

  “Lucas?” The Russian sounds surprised. “You’re awake?”

  “Fuck, yeah, I’m awake. Where are you? Why didn’t you pick up?”

  There’s a short pause on the line. “I just landed in Chicago.”

  “What?” That’s the last thing I expected to hear. “Why?”

  “Esguerra’s wife. She wants to be Al-Quadar bait.”

  “What?” I almost jump off the bed, the cast be damned.

  “Yeah, I know. That was my reaction too. Turns out Esguerra, that obsessive bastard, implanted some trackers in her. If they take her to use as leverage against Esguerra, we’ll have a fix on their location.”

  “Fuck.” The plan is brilliant, and dangerous as hell. If the terrorists find those trackers in her, Esguerra’s pretty little wife will pray for death. And if Esguerra somehow survives, he’ll dismember Peter—slowly—for using the girl like that. “Nora came up with this?”

  “She did.” There’s a hint of admiration in the Russian’s cool voice. “I don’t know what hold he’s got over her, but she’s pretty determined. I was against it at first, but she convinced me.”

  I inhale and let the air out slowly. I should be surprised—Esguerra did kidnap the girl, after all—but I’m not. However their relationship started, it’s obvious that whatever’s between them now is mutual. I’m tempted to rip into Peter for going against Esguerra’s orders, but that would be a waste of time and energy. What he’s set in motion can’t be undone. “So what’s the exact plan?” I ask instead. “Are you going to hang out in Chicago to make sure they take the bait?”

  “No. I’m heading to Tajikistan right away. The rescue team is already on the way there. As soon as Majid’s men bring her over, we’ll come for her—and for Esguerra.”

  “You know they might not bring her to him. A video of her getting tortured would be just as effective as the real thing.”

  “I know.”

  Of course he does. Like me, he’s used to life-and-death gambles. I could point out the risks from now ’til eternity, and it wouldn’t change anything. The plan will either work or it won’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Did you figure out what happened?” I ask, changing the topic. “Sharipov said it may have been some kind of error on their part.”

  “An error?” I can hear Peter’s derisive snort over the phone. “More like lax security. One of their officers has been in the Ukrainians’ pocket for years, and the idiots had no clue until he fired a missile at your plane.”

  “Ukraine?” It makes sense; now that Esguerra’s sided with the Russians, the Ukrainians would want to eliminate him. Except... how could they have found out about our conversation so quickly? Was the restaurant in Moscow bugged? Did Buschekov play for both sides? Or did—

  “It was the interpreter,” Peter says, voicing my next guess. “I had her detained in Moscow as soon as I learned what happened.”

  A loud beep sounds in my ear, and I realize I squeezed the phone so hard I nearly crushed one of the volume buttons.

  “What the fuck—”

  “Sorry. Pressed the wrong button.” My voice is cold and steady, even as burning lava moves through my veins. “The interpreter is a Ukrainian spy?”

  “It appears that way. We’re still digging into her background, but so far at least half of her story appears to have been fabricated.”

  “I see.” I force myself to unclench my fingers before I crush the phone completely. “That’s how they were able to act so quickly.”

  “Yes. They somehow figured out exactly when you’d be passing through the Uzbekistani airspace and activated their agent there.”

  The phone emits another angry beep as my hand tightens involuntarily. I know exactly how they figured out the timing: I all but told the spying bitch our departure time.

  “Lucas?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so furious. Yulia Tzakova—if that’s even her real name—had played me for a fool. Her initial reluctance, her peculiar air of innocence—it had all been an act. She had probably been hoping to get close to Esguerra, and when she couldn’t get him, she settled for me.

  “I have to go now,” Peter says. “I’ll contact you again when we land. Get some rest and heal up; there’s nothing else for you to do right now. I’ll keep you apprised of any new developments.”

  He disconnects, and I force myself to lie down, my headache worsened by my burning rage.

  If Yulia Tzakova ever crosses my path again, she will pay.

  She will pay for everything.

  * * *

  I’m still livid with fury when Sharipov returns to reclaim his phone. As he approaches my bed, I sit up and glare at him. “A fucking error, huh?”

  Raising his hand, the colonel rubs the bridge of his nose. “We’re questioning the officer responsible right now. It’s not yet clear whether—”

  “Take me to him.”
<
br />   Looking taken aback, Sharipov lowers his hand. “I can’t do that,” he says. “This is a matter for our military.”

  “Your military fucked up big time. You had a traitor in charge of your missile defense system.”

  The colonel opens his mouth, but I forestall his objections. “Take me to him,” I demand again. “I need to question him myself. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to assume that others in your military or your government were involved in the missile strike.” I pause. “And maybe even in this terrorist attack on the hospital.”

  Sharipov’s eyes widen at my implied threat. If the Uzbekistani government is found to have ties to a terrorist organization like Al-Quadar, that could be disastrous for the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if the colonel is aware of our connections in the US and Israel. By denying me a chance to interrogate one treasonous officer, the Uzbekistani government might be making an enemy of the powerful Esguerra organization and getting a worldwide reputation for associating with terrorists.

  “I have to discuss this with my superiors,” Sharipov says after a second. “Please, let me have my phone.”

  I hand it to him and watch as he leaves the room, already dialing someone. I wait, confident of the outcome, and sure enough, he returns a few minutes later, saying, “All right, Mr. Kent. We’ll have our officer brought here within the next hour. You can talk to him, but that’s all. Our military will handle it from there.”

  I give him a grim look. The only thing their military will handle is the traitor’s body, but Sharipov doesn’t need to know that yet. “Bring him,” is all I say, and then I lie back and close my eyes, hoping the throbbing pain in my skull subsides in the next hour.

  I may not be able to lay my hands on the interpreter right now, but I can certainly get my pound of flesh here.

  * * *

  When the traitor arrives, the nurses give me crutches and lead me to another hospital room. It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of walking with the crutches—the fucking headache certainly doesn’t help—and by the time I get there, they have the guy sitting on a bed, with Colonel Sharipov and an M16-toting soldier flanking his sides.

  “This is Anton Karimov, the officer responsible for the unfortunate incident with your plane,” Sharipov says as I hobble toward them. “You are welcome to ask him whatever questions you have. His English is not as good as mine, but he should understand you.”

  One of the nurses drags a chair over, and I sit down on it, studying the profusely sweating man in front of me. In his early forties, Karimov is on the plump side, with a thick black mustache and a receding hairline. He’s still in his army uniform, and I can see circles of sweat staining his underarms.

  He’s nervous. No, more than that.

  He’s terrified.

  “Who are the people who paid you?” I ask when the nurses leave the room. I decide to start off easy, as it might not take much to crack this man. “Who gave the order to shoot down our plane?”

  Karimov visibly cringes. “N-nobody. Just a mistake. I clean the controls—”

  I cut him off by lifting one of my crutches and putting the far end against his groin. Though I apply the lightest pressure to his balls, the man turns sickly pale.

  “Who gave the order to shoot down our plane?” I repeat, looking at him. I can see that Sharipov is uneasy with my method of questioning, but I ignore him. Instead, I push the wooden stick forward, applying greater pressure to Karimov’s crotch.

  “N-nobody,” Karimov gasps, scooting back to get out of the stick’s reach. “I clean the—”

  I lunge forward. He lets out a high-pitched squeal as I pin his balls to the mattress with the stick. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Who paid you?”

  “Mr. Kent, this is not acceptable,” Sharipov says, stepping between me and the prisoner. “We told you, questions only. If you do not stop—”

  Before he finishes speaking, I’m already on my feet, propping myself up on one crutch as I lash out at the armed soldier with another. He doesn’t so much as lift his M16 before I hit him in the knee and he pitches forward, enabling me to grab his weapon. In the next second, I have the assault rifle pointed at Sharipov.

  “Get out,” I say, jerking my chin toward the door. “You and the soldier both. Get the fuck out.”

  Sharipov steps back, his face turning red. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”

  “Out.” I lift the weapon to point it between his eyes. “Now.”

  Sharipov’s jaw clenches, but he does as I say. The soldier limps out behind him, shooting me a venomous look behind his shoulder. I have no doubt they’ll come back with reinforcements, but it will be too late by then.

  As soon as the door closes behind them, I turn my attention to Karimov. “Now,” I say, my tone almost pleasant as I point the gun at the traitor. “Where were we?”

  The man’s eyes are wild with fear. “It—it was mistake. I said it before. Nobody pay me. Nobody—”

  I squeeze the trigger and watch the bullets tear through his knee. The gunshots and the resulting screaming aggravate my headache, which adds to my rage. “I told you not to lie to me,” I roar when the man’s screams die down a notch. “Now, who paid you?”

  “I d-don’t know!” He’s sobbing and clutching his knee as his blood soaks the hospital bed. “It was all email! All email!”

  “What email?”

  “M-my Yahoo! They transfer money to my bank for years and then they ask favors. S-small favors. I not meet them. Never meet them—”

  “You don’t know who they are?”

  “N-no,” he sobs out, trying to stop the bleeding with his pudgy hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know...”

  Shit. I’m inclined to believe him. He’s too much of a coward not to give them up to save his skin, and they probably knew better than to trust him. We’ll hack into his email, but I doubt there’ll be many clues there.

  Hearing shouts and running footsteps in the hallway, I press the gun to Karimov’s sweaty forehead. “Last chance,” I say grimly. “Who are they?”

  “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.

  12

  Yulia

  “Which 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 t
o 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.

  * * *

  The 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.