Claim Me (Capture Me Book 3)

by Anna Zaires

  Reflexively, I duck, and at that moment, another blast rattles the room, throwing Kirill off-balance and causing more plaster to rain down on us. A creaking, groaning sound seems to emanate from the depths of the building itself, and one corner of the room suddenly crumbles, bricks and plaster falling in an avalanche less than a meter from me.

  Gasping, I jump to the side—and then I see it.

  A brick with a rusted metal rod embedded in it.

  I leap for it, sliding on my stomach across the debris-littered floor. Bits of rock and plaster scrape my bare legs and belly, but my hands close around the metal rod, and I jump up just in time to smash the brick across Kirill’s face as he rushes at me.

  He staggers back, catching himself on the sink, and I again hear the furious staccato of automatic gunfire above us. This time, though, the deafening noise doesn’t stop. Whoever the attackers are, they have serious firepower. I don’t get a chance to wonder about their identity, though, because I see Kirill reach into the sink and pull out a gun.

  Reacting in an instant, I let go of the heavy brick and throw myself to the side, rolling across the floor toward my attacker. I hear the shot, feel the burning sting of the bullet as it grazes my arm, and then I’m smashing into Kirill’s knees at full speed.

  He must not have fully recovered from my earlier hit, because he staggers back again, and his next shot goes wide. I scramble to my feet, my ears ringing from the shot and the gunfire above, and grab his right wrist, twisting it sideways in an effort to break his hold on the gun.

  In the next instant, I’m flying across the room. He backhanded me with his other hand, I comprehend hazily as I slam into a wall. Air whooshes from my lungs, and I wheeze in paralyzed agony as Kirill points the gun at me, his face twisted with manic rage.

  He’s going to kill me.

  The knowledge injects adrenaline straight into my brain. Without further thought, I throw myself at Kirill, my arms extended in a desperate grab, and my hand closes around the cold metal of the barrel. I feel it buck under my fingers, hear the deadly whine of the bullet, and then I’m falling.

  I’m falling, but I’m not dead.

  I land on top of Kirill, stunned, my hand still convulsively grasping the barrel. I can’t believe I’m alive. Instinctively, I yank at the gun, trying to pull it out of his grasp, and to my shock, I succeed. Clutching the weapon, I crawl backward off Kirill’s massive body, and it’s only when I’m a couple of feet away that I understand what happened.

  A portion of the ceiling collapsed on top of him, knocking him out. There’s a thin trickle of blood on his temple, and plaster all around him.

  Kirill is unconscious, maybe even dead.

  Dizzily, I climb to my feet and point the weapon at him, trying to steady my violently shaking hand. My vision is blurry, and every thought seems to require inordinate effort. All I’m aware of is hatred. Black and potent, it pulses through my veins, taking away all rational thought. My finger tightens on the trigger, almost of its own volition, and I watch as the first shot rips a bloody hole in my rapist’s side.

  His body jerks, and I shoot again, pointing the gun between his legs. His deflated cock and balls explode in a spray of bloody meat. My dizziness intensifies, my head swimming with pain, and I clench my teeth, determined to remain conscious long enough to finish him off.

  A fresh burst of gunfire above draws my attention, and I realize suddenly that I still have no idea what’s happening or who the attackers are. Almost immediately, I recall something else.

  Misha.

  My brother was here earlier.

  Icy terror cuts through my haze. Could Misha still be here? Could he be upstairs, in that war zone with the unknown enemies?

  Before I can even process the thought, I’m already out the door, sprinting down the basement hallway.

  I have to get to Misha.

  If he’s still alive, I have to save him.

  As I round the corner to the stairs, I collide with a person running toward me. We crash into each other, and as we tumble to the floor, I realize with shock that it’s Misha—that my brother was sprinting toward me. He lands on top of me, and before I can catch my breath, he climbs to his feet, breathing heavily.

  “Misha!” Fighting my dizziness, I scramble to my feet. I’m still holding Kirill’s gun, but I manage to grab Misha’s arm before he can step away. “Are you hurt? Are you injured? What’s happening?” My questions come out in a frantic mix of Russian and Ukrainian, but Misha just shakes his head, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He seems to be in shock; under the dirt and blood covering his face, his cheeks look sickly pale.

  My heart hammers as I run my free hand over him, looking for gunshot wounds or broken bones, but other than a few scratches, he seems to be in one piece. Relieved, I grab his arm again and tug him into one of the rooms off the hallway. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

  “You… they…” He seems to have trouble speaking. “They just—”

  “Yes, I know, come on.” I drag him into a small cell that resembles the one I was just in and look for a place to hide. There isn’t one, and my stomach sinks as the gunfire upstairs stops, and then resumes with even greater violence.

  “Misha.” Gripping my gun tightly in my right hand, I raise my left hand and gently touch his cheek. My baby brother is already a couple of inches taller than me, and if his lanky frame is anything to go by, he still has quite a bit of growing to do. He’s also shaking uncontrollably, his skin icy under my touch. “Mishen’ka, do you know a way out of here?”

  He swallows. “No.”

  “Okay.” I’m shaking myself, but I keep my voice calm so as not to add to his terror. “Do you know what’s going on upstairs? Who’s attacking?”

  “I don’t know.” His shaking intensifies. “They just… They killed Uncle Vasya and—”

  “Obenko is dead?” Despite everything, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Pushing the illogical emotion aside, I lower my hand and ask, “How many are there? Did any of them say anything?”

  Misha shakes his head again, his eyes brimming with tears. “They killed Uncle Vasya,” he whispers, as if unable to believe it. “And Agent Mateyenko.” His face crumples, just like it did when he was a toddler.

  “Oh, Misha…” I step closer, swallowing my own tears. “I’m sorry.” More than anything, I want to hug and console him, but there’s no time, so I say, “We have to figure out a way out. There must be—”

  I’m interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs. Misha tenses, and I see terror flash in his eyes. “They’re coming for us. They’re going to—”

  “Shh.” I hold up my finger to my lips as I step back and cast a desperate look around the room. I don’t know if Kirill’s gun was fully loaded when he got to my cell, but even if it was, there can’t be more than a couple of bullets left. Still, I could potentially use those bullets as a distraction so Misha can get away.

  “Come,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. “The minute you see a chance to run, you run. Understand?”

  “But they’re—”

  “Quiet,” I hiss, towing him down the hallway. When we reach the next room, I shove my brother in there and whisper, “Don’t make a sound.”

  And gripping the gun with both hands, I turn back toward the stairs, ready to meet my fate.

  24

  Lucas

  Yulia.

  I have to get to Yulia.

  The thought hammers in my brain as I run down the stairs, ignoring the blood dripping down my arm. A bullet had grazed my shoulder and my ribs ache from all the movement, but I’m barely cognizant of the pain. The fight turned out to be lengthy and brutal; even caught off-guard and dazed by the bombs we set, the UUR operatives weren’t easy to take down. Being forced to exchange fire with them while Yulia was getting assaulted downstairs nearly drove me mad. As soon as we took out two of the three agents defending the house on the first floor, I sprinted to the basement stairs, leaving Diego and Edu
ardo to deal with the remaining shooter. I hope they’re able to capture him instead of killing him like we did the other two, but either way, it’s not worth me sticking around.

  Saving Yulia beats gathering intelligence any day.

  When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I force myself to slow down. The young agent ran this way after we killed the second shooter, and Yulia’s assailant could be lying in wait for me here too. He couldn’t have missed the shots and explosions upstairs. Or so I’m hoping, at least. I gave the order to detonate the bombs before we were optimally positioned for that exact reason: I figured the man was unlikely to continue with Yulia once he realized they were under attack.

  Gripping my M16, I stop as I reach the corner. The hallway with all the rooms is to my right. If my recollection is correct, Yulia’s cell should be the fourth one on the left.

  This is going to be tricky. I can’t shoot indiscriminately, like I did upstairs—not without risking Yulia’s life.

  Crouching, I risk a quick look around the corner.

  The hallway is empty.

  I risk a second glance, this time eyeballing the distance to the nearest cell with an open door.

  Ten feet. I can make it.

  Tightening my grip on the gun, I dive for the cell, rolling across the floor. I half-expect to feel the bite of bullets, but nothing happens as I throw myself through the open door and leap to my feet, scanning the room for danger.

  Empty. No sign of anyone.

  I inhale to steady my racing heartbeat. The knowledge that Yulia is only a few rooms away from me is like a fire in my blood, but I know I need to be patient. Somewhere down here are two potentially dangerous opponents, and I have to be cautious if I’m to survive and get her back.

  Plastering myself against the wall next to the door, I study the hallway, all my senses on alert. I have no doubt they know I’m here, which means it’s just a matter of time before someone gets impatient and tries to take me out. To combat my own urge to act, I mentally count to ten, then do so again.

  By my third count, I hear a faint scrape and catch a flash of movement. It’s almost nothing—just a shadow changing shape inside one of the other doorways—but I know.

  This is the enemy.

  The safest move would be to pepper that doorway with bullets, but I can’t risk shooting Yulia by accident. As is, I can see that the bombs we set off did some damage down here. The floor is covered with plaster, and the ceiling lights are flickering madly. The idea of Yulia hurt in any way is intolerable, so I push the thought aside, along with the fear and rage clawing at my chest. I can’t focus on any of that, not until I have Yulia safely with me.

  Taking another breath, I mentally measure the distance to the other doorway.

  Seven feet, give or take a few inches.

  I allow myself one more steadying breath, and then I spring for it, covering the distance in three long strides. A shot rings out, but I’m already there, knocking the gun out of the shooter’s hand as I tackle him to the floor and pin him with my assault rifle across his throat.

  No, I realize a split second later.

  Across her throat.

  Yulia is on her back underneath me, her blue eyes huge with shock. Her pale face is dirty and bruised, marred with blood and bits of plaster, but there’s no doubt that it’s her.

  “Lucas?” she chokes out, and I see her gaze suddenly flick to the right.

  I react instinctively. Clutching Yulia with one hand and the M16 with the other, I throw myself to the side and roll, pulling her with me. My ribs hurt like hell, but the brick that was about to connect with my head crashes into the floor instead, and I jump up to meet the new threat—the young agent I saw in the video feed.

  The boy has clearly had some training, and he’s fast. As I swing my weapon at his head, he ducks and simultaneously kicks out with his right leg. I jump back, causing his foot to miss my side, and before he can regroup, I thrust the gun forward, ramming the barrel into his solar plexus.

  His face turns ghostly white, and his knees buckle. He collapses to the floor, gasping for air, and I raise the gun to knock him out. But before I can bring the handle down on his head, I spot a flicker of movement at my side.

  It’s Yulia leaping at me, teeth bared.

  “Get away! Don’t hurt him!” Her scream verges on hysterical as I catch her mid-leap and twist to pin her against the wall. Her fist lands in my side, causing my ribs to scream in agony as I struggle to contain her without dropping my weapon. She grabs for the gun, trying to wrestle it away from me, and I grunt in pain as her elbow hits me in the ribs again.

  “Fucking hell, Yulia, stop!” I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t let her get that weapon. She’s already shot at me once; there’s no telling what she’d do with a fully loaded M16. As I’m wrestling with her, in my peripheral vision I see a shadow move across the hallway.

  If it’s the other agent joining the fight, I’m screwed.

  Steeling myself, I twist and slam my elbow into Yulia’s ribcage. It’s a carefully controlled blow—I use just enough force to knock the air out of her—and then I jump back and turn to face the boy, who’s still on the floor but beginning to recover from my hit.

  His eyes widen as I raise the gun, pointing it straight at him, and for the first time, I get a good look at his features.

  Features that are oddly familiar.

  “No!”

  Before I have a chance to process what I’m seeing, Yulia slams into me, tackling me with such force that I stagger back before I can catch myself. Her face is twisted with terrified anger as she wrestles with me for the weapon, and I begin to get an inkling of what’s happening.

  “Misha!” she yells at the top of her lungs, followed by some Russian word, and my suspicion crystallizes into certainty as I see the boy struggle to his feet and rush at me, his teeth bared in a grimace that’s nearly identical to the one on Yulia’s face.

  Motherfucker.

  “Stop,” I snarl, yanking the gun out of Yulia’s hands with one hard pull. “I’m not going to fucking hurt him!”

  The boy crashes into me before I finish speaking, and I hit him in the throat, tempering the force of my blow to avoid crushing his trachea. Even with my light tap, he collapses, choking and gasping for air, and I’m left to deal with Yulia’s attack.

  She flies at me like a feral creature, all teeth and claws, her eyes wild with terror. She clearly didn’t believe my promise not to hurt the boy, whoever he is to her, and is fighting like a mama bear protecting her cub. Cursing, I block her attempt to knee me in the balls, and duck to avoid her swinging fist. Before she can lash out again, I catch her and pin her arms to her sides, squeezing her tightly. The M16 is still in my hand, but I don’t use it. I just hold Yulia against me, letting her tire herself out with her desperate struggles.

  She weakens faster than I expected, likely because she’s injured. Within a couple of minutes, she goes limp in my arms, her breathing fast and shaky. I feel her muscles quivering in exhaustion as I hold her, and despite the violent ache in my ribs, a familiar mix of lust and tenderness spreads through me, warming my chest and stiffening my cock.

  Yulia.

  I finally have my Yulia.

  Her breasts are soft against me, her body slim and delicate in my embrace. She smells of fear, sweat, and blood, but underneath it all is the faint scent of peaches—a fragrance I’ll forever associate with her. I breathe it in, indulging myself for a moment, but then I recall the shadow I saw moving earlier.

  The other agent—Yulia’s attacker—is still on the loose.

  “Did he hurt you?” My voice thickens with spiking rage. “Did that bastard touch you?”

  Yulia’s whole body goes rigid, and then she starts struggling again. “Let me go.” Her words are muffled against my shirt. “Let me go, Lucas!”

  I tighten my arms around her, ignoring the pain the move causes me. “Answer me.”

  She stills, breathing rapidly, and I see the boy trying to
get to his feet. I clench my jaw and turn Yulia so I have my M16 pointed at him. He freezes immediately, and I try to figure out how to proceed next. Everything in me demands that I rush into the hallway to capture the agent who assaulted her, but if I let go of Yulia, she’ll attack me again, and I don’t want to have to hurt her.

  Also, there’s the fucking kid.

  As I wrestle with my dilemma, I realize that I’m no longer hearing any gunfire—that, in fact, it’s been quiet for a couple of minutes. Just as the thought occurs to me, I hear running footsteps on the stairs, and a minute later, Eduardo bursts into the room, ready to take down our remaining opponents.

  “Wait,” I order as he points his weapon at the kid. “Don’t shoot him.”

  Yulia begins to struggle again, so I squeeze her tighter and whisper in her ear, “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt him. If I wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.”

  That seems to get through to her. She stops fighting, and I risk loosening my grip on her. When I see that she’s still not attacking, I release her and step back. At the last moment, I change my mind and grab her wrist with my left hand, anchoring her to me.

  There’s no way I’m chancing her escaping me ever again.

  “There’s one more down here somewhere,” I tell Eduardo in a hard voice. The thought of Yulia’s attacker on the loose is intolerable. “Find him and bring him to me.”

  Eduardo nods and disappears, and Yulia stares at me, trembling all over. She looks like she’s on the verge of either fainting or bolting. “You’re not—” Her voice breaks. “You’re not going to hurt Misha?”

  I glance down at the boy, who’s wisely remaining motionless on the floor. “If that’s Misha, then no.” I take a calming breath, trying not to wince at the pain in my ribs. “Who is he to you?”

  Yulia’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? But you said—”

  “I think it’s possible I misunderstood,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Who is he? Your cousin?”

  She blinks. “My brother.”

  Now it’s my turn to be taken aback. “You said you were an only child.”