Claim Me (Capture Me Book 3)

by Anna Zaires

  “Let me through,” my brother hisses when Lucas still doesn’t budge. “It’s my parents. Fucking let me through!”

  This time, I’m the one to catch Misha’s arm. “Don’t,” I say quietly, and he freezes in place. I don’t know if my brother thinks I have a plan, or if it’s the false calmness of my voice, but he stops shoving at Lucas and stands still, staring fixedly into the hallway.

  “You don’t want to come in?” Kirill says. “Fine, we can do it the hard way.”

  In a blur of motion, he lifts his right hand and fires. The shot is muffled—Kirill’s gun has a silencer on it—but the screams that follow are unmistakable. I convulsively leap forward, terrified for Lucas, but he’s still standing there, refusing to budge even as my brother renews his efforts to get into the apartment.

  The bullet hit Misha’s father in the leg, I realize as I peer around Misha’s struggling figure. The older man is on the floor, screaming as he clutches his bleeding leg, and Misha’s mother is kneeling next to him, weeping hysterically.

  “The next bullet goes into his head,” Kirill says, and Misha stills again. “And the one after that, into her brain.” He waves the gun at the crying woman. “Oh, and if any of you try to run, I’m going to shoot both of them immediately, and the bombs will go off before you make it down a single flight of stairs.” His smile widens as he takes in our expressions. “Like I said, come in and make yourself at home.”

  “Lucas, please,” I whisper when he still doesn’t move. Bile churns thickly in my throat. “Please, we have to do this. We can’t let him kill them in front of Misha.” I have no idea if Kirill is crazy enough to sacrifice himself by setting off the explosives, but I have no doubt he’ll shoot Misha’s parents without a second thought.

  “You. Drop your weapon before you come in,” Kirill says, gesturing at Lucas with the gun. “You don’t want this to go off by mistake.” He lifts his left hand—the one with the detonator—to illustrate exactly what he means.

  Without saying a word, Lucas reaches for the strap of his M16 and drops the weapon on the floor. Then, just as silently, he steps into the hallway.

  Misha and I follow. My brother’s face is deathly pale, his eyes wild with fear. I have no doubt I look the same way. Terror is a hollow, icy pit in my stomach. When Kirill had captured me before, I’d been on my own, and I could escape into the dark corners of my mind. But there’s no escape here, not when the only two people I love are in danger next to me—in danger because of me.

  I know why Kirill is doing something so reckless and insane. He’s after me. He wants to punish me for what I did to him, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process. Lucas is still in front of me, his body forming a shield between me and my former trainer, but he won’t be able to save me.

  We have the numbers advantage and men on the ground, but Kirill has his thumb on that detonator.

  “Come here, bitch,” my former trainer says, his gaze swinging toward me. His dark eyes glint with rage and something close to madness. “You’re the one I want.”

  Ignoring the sickening terror twisting my insides, I step around my brother, pushing him behind me, but Lucas blocks my way.

  “She’s not going anywhere.” His voice is lethal steel.

  “No?” Kirill lifts his gun, pointing it at Viktor Rudenko’s temple. The man freezes, his screams dying down, and Kirill’s eyes cut back to me as Natalia’s weeping grows in volume. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  “Lucas, let me go.” I try to squeeze past him, but the narrow hallway is stuffed with furniture, and I almost trip on a stool placed in front of a tall mirror. Chills of horror race up and down my spine as Kirill’s jaw hardens at Lucas’s uncompromising stance. Frantically, I grip Lucas’s arm and try to push him aside. “Please, Lucas, let me through.”

  He ignores me. Every muscle in his body is locked tight, and when I glance at his face, the subzero fury in his pale eyes spikes my terror even more.

  He’s not going to listen to reason.

  To protect me, he’s going to let Misha’s parents die—and get himself killed in the process.

  “Why do you want her?” he asks Kirill, his tone incongruously calm. “You know you’re going to die here today.”

  “Do I?” Kirill laughs, the sound oddly high pitched, and for the first time, I notice the changes in his appearance. His hair is now more gray than brown, his face is bloated, and the body that had always been hard muscle looks merely thick instead. It’s as if he’s aged ten years over the last few months. “And what makes you think I care?”

  Lucas’s expression doesn’t change. “I know you don’t. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you? To go out in a blaze of glory rather than live like the pathetic half-man you’ve become?” Contempt seeps into his voice. “You should’ve just come to us from the beginning. I could’ve made it so much simpler for you, put you out of your dickless misery that much sooner.”

  What is Lucas doing? My heart pounds in horror as I watch Kirill’s face contort with rage and his right hand come up, the gun pointing straight at Lucas’s chest.

  It’s as if Lucas is trying to get himself shot.

  And in the next instant, I realize that’s exactly what he’s doing. My captor is hoping to sacrifice himself and buy us some time. To do what, I’m not sure. We’re on the fifth floor of a walk-up building. Even if the guards on the ground heard the shot—unlikely, given the silencer Kirill is using—they’d never get here in time. And even if they did, there’d still be the matter of explosives.

  Regardless, even if Lucas does have a plan, I can’t let him do this.

  In a split second, I come up with the only solution I can.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” I say loudly. Behind me, I hear Misha suck in a breath, but I ignore him. “I almost forgot that I shot your balls and cock off,” I continue, imbuing my tone with as much derision as I can. “What’s that like, huh? Must be rough not being able to rape fifteen-year-olds.”

  The fury that twists Kirill’s features is demonic. His bloated face turns a blotchy purple, and the gun swings toward me. Lucas moves to block me from Kirill’s view, but I jump to the other side, exposing myself again.

  I’m the one my former trainer wants. If I can get him to kill me, there’s a chance the others might walk away.

  “Go ahead,” I taunt the man, jumping from side to side to avoid Lucas’s attempts to shield me. “Shoot me like the coward you are, like the miserable slug that you’ve become.” The words spill out of my mouth faster and faster. “Just look at yourself. The famous Kirill Luchenko, never defeated in combat. And what happened to you? Got your dick blown away. I bet that must’ve hurt. I bet you can’t take a piss without crying like a baby. I wouldn’t know how that feels, of course, but—”

  The shot rings out, the noise deafening despite the silencer. Something slams into me, and I go flying.

  My last thought is a desperate hope that Misha and Lucas survive.

  49

  Lucas

  Everything happens in an instant. The second the shot rings out, I’m already in motion, leaping at Kirill. I don’t dare look back because if I see Yulia dead or dying, I’ll lose the last shreds of my sanity, and I can’t let that happen.

  I have to save her brother.

  We crash into the wall, and Kirill twists to protect the gun, but that’s not what I’m after. With both hands, I grab his left fist and squeeze tight, forcing his fingers to remain closed and his thumb to stay on the detonator. At the same time, I pull back and slam into him again, twisting so that my shoulder hits his right arm. The gun clatters to the floor, but before I can celebrate my victory, he uses his bulk to push me back and smashes his right fist into my temple.

  My vision goes dark for a second, my ears ringing, but I hang on to consciousness and force him back against the wall. The rage and grief boiling in my chest give me superhuman strength. The motherfucker shot Yulia. With a roar, I squeeze my fingers harder and hear his bones break
ing. He bellows and swings his right fist at me, but I duck this time, keeping my hands locked around his left hand. Distantly, I’m aware that Michael’s parents are scrambling to get out of the way, but I block out their panicked cries. The fight is happening with blurring speed; even a second of inattention could be fatal.

  My ears ring and I taste blood as another blow connects with my jaw, but I move my leg in time to block Kirill’s knee coming at my groin. Simultaneously, I jerk back to avoid a third blow and turn sideways to elbow him in the ribs. I hit him hard, but he doesn’t even grunt this time. The bastard is built like a tank, and though his reflexes aren’t as good as mine, he knows what he’s doing. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been a difficult fight, but with both of my hands squeezing his left fist, I’m at a severe disadvantage. I can’t let go of his hand, however, because I’m certain he’ll trigger that bomb.

  At this point, all the fucker cares about is revenge, and he’ll die to obtain it.

  He raped Yulia at fifteen. He shot her.

  The fury is like rocket fuel for my muscles. Spinning around, I slam the back of my head into his nose, crushing bone and cartilage, and before he can recover, I use my grip on his fist to swing him around and throw him against the opposite wall.

  His eyes roll backward as his head hits the hard surface, but he manages to land a kick, his boot crashing straight into my kidney. My breath hisses out, my grip on his fist slackening for a moment, and he throws himself on the floor, dragging me along as I tighten my grip again. We collide and roll, and in the next moment I see what he was after.

  The gun he dropped earlier.

  He’s grabbed it with his right hand, and he’s aiming it straight at my head.

  I see his finger start to tighten on the trigger, and things seem to slow. I register everything with vibrant clarity, as if my brain decided to take one last snapshot by sending my senses into overdrive. In that split second before I die, I see Kirill’s victorious snarl, smell the rank sweat dripping down his face, and hear Michael’s parents’ screams at the back of the hallway. I also think of Yulia and how desperately I hope she survives.

  I’d die a thousand deaths to keep her living.

  The gun goes off with a deafening blast.

  Only I don’t die.

  Instead, Kirill jerks with a scream, his right arm exploding into bloody bits. Stunned, I look up to see Michael holding my M16. The boy is panting, his pale face streaked with sweat and blood, and in the next instant, he squeezes the trigger again, releasing a round of bullets into Kirill’s right shoulder.

  Howling, Kirill kicks out at Michael, and I refocus on my opponent.

  It’s time to finish this thing.

  Keeping my fingers locked tightly around Kirill’s left fist, I slam my forehead into his bleeding nose, again and again, reveling in the crunch as I hammer the bone fragments into his brain. This isn’t how I wanted the bastard to go, but it’ll have to do.

  When he’s lying there unmoving, his face a bloody mess, I look up at Michael, my head throbbing. “Shoot his left arm,” I order hoarsely, and the kid gets it right away.

  Without hesitation, he unleashes another volley on the dead man’s upper arm. The bullets cut the bone clean through. All I have to do is yank on the fist, and the arm separates from the body.

  Ignoring the blood gushing from the stump, I climb to my feet, holding the severed appendage by the fist wrapped around the detonator. My heart thumps in a hollow, uneven rhythm as I turn toward the entrance. Behind me, Michael’s mother is sobbing and his father is groaning in pain, but I don’t give a fuck.

  All I care about is Yulia.

  She’s lying unmoving amidst shards of broken mirror, her body crumpled like a rag doll’s. Her long blond hair covers her face, but there’s blood everywhere, all over her slim frame.

  The hollowness in my chest spreads.

  No. Fuck, no.

  She can’t be dead. She can’t be.

  “Yulia,” I whisper, sinking to my knees beside her. I feel like I’m suffocating, like my lungs are collapsing in my ribcage. “Yulia, sweetheart…”

  She doesn’t move.

  Numbly, I tighten my left hand around Kirill’s fist, pressing down on the thumb to secure the detonator inside, and with my right hand, I reach for her. My fingers are drenched with Kirill’s blood, and as I brush aside her hair, I have a sudden horrible feeling that I’m polluting her with my touch, that I’m destroying something pure and beautiful… an angel who doesn’t belong in my ugly world.

  Her lashes are brown half-moons on her pale cheeks, her mouth slightly parted. It’s as if she’s sleeping, except there’s blood.

  So much fucking blood.

  “Yulia…” My hand shakes as I touch her face, leaving bloody fingerprints on her porcelain skin. The hollowness inside me expands, my very bones creaking under the pressure of the emptiness within. I can’t picture a life without her. Fuck, I can’t picture a single week without her. In a few short months, she’s become my entire world. If she’s dead, if she’s gone… My fingers graze the side of her neck, feeling for her pulse, and I freeze, a violent shudder rippling through me.

  There is a beat. A faint, but unmistakable beat.

  “Yulia!” I bend down, gathering her against me with my free arm. She’s soft and warm, unmistakably alive. I feel the puffs of her breath on my neck, and my pulse roars with fierce joy.

  She’s alive.

  My Yulia is alive.

  For a moment, it’s enough, but as my head clears, a new fear seizes me.

  Why is she unconscious, and where did all the blood come from?

  Lowering her to the floor, I frantically pat her down, looking for the bullet wound. She has numerous small cuts from the broken glass, and there’s a bloody gash on the side of her head, but I don’t see where the bullet went in.

  “Is she okay?” Michael says, and I glance up to see him standing there. He’s swaying on his feet, his face greenish white. For a moment, I think he’s going to puke from the sight of the severed arm I’m still holding, but as I watch, he sinks to his knees next to me—or, more precisely, collapses to his knees.

  Frowning, I start to reach for him and stop.

  Blood is dribbling from under Michael’s dark T-shirt.

  “Misha?” Yulia croaks hoarsely, and I turn my head to see her eyelids open. As she focuses on us, horror crosses her face, and I know she’s reached the same conclusion.

  Her brother has been shot.

  50

  Yulia

  In the next ten minutes, everything seems to happen at once. There’s blood everywhere: on Misha, who lies down beside me, on Lucas, around Kirill’s mangled body, and on the severed arm Lucas is holding. A couple of meters away, Misha’s father is groaning in agony, his leg bleeding uncontrollably, and Misha’s mother is weeping and rushing back and forth between her wounded husband and son. Lucas’s men—who must’ve heard the unsilenced gunshots—burst in, weapons ready, and Lucas starts barking orders at them. Within a minute, he has two men working on disarming the explosives, and two more trying to stem Misha’s and his father’s bleeding. I try to get up to help, but every time I move, a wave of nausea hits me and I have to lie down, my skull throbbing where I split my head open on the mirror. My frantic questions go unanswered in the chaos, but by the time we’re back in the armored SUV and speeding toward a hospital, I piece together what happened.

  It wasn’t a bullet that slammed into me. It was my brother. Misha knocked me out of the way, pushing me headfirst into the mirror that shattered. In the process, he took the bullet meant for me. According to Lucas, it went through the fleshy part of his shoulder, knocking him down on top of me. It’s mostly Misha’s blood that covers me, though I also bled from my head injury and the glass cutting into my skin.

  “He’ll be fine,” Lucas says for the fifth time as I reach for Misha, who’s passed out in the backseat next to me. “He lost a good amount of blood, but we stopped the bleeding and
he’ll be okay. He saved us all. If he hadn’t gotten my M16—” He breaks off, but a chill streaks down my spine as I fill in the unspoken words.

  We’d come within seconds of dying, all of us. In one fell swoop, I could’ve lost my brother and the man who’s become my entire life.

  My hand trembling, I squeeze Misha’s palm, and then I reach for Lucas, who’s sitting on the other side of me.

  Only he doesn’t let me hold his hand. The minute I touch him, Lucas pulls me into his lap, wrapping me tightly in his embrace, and buries his face in my hair. I can feel the shudders wracking his big body, and I can no longer restrain myself.

  Clutching him with all my strength, I cry.

  I just hold Lucas and cry.

  * * *

  A local hospital takes care of Misha’s and Viktor’s gunshot wounds and the gash on my head, and then we fly to Switzerland to recuperate at a private clinic Lucas has used before. Misha’s parents come with us, not wanting to be separated from their son despite their fear of me and Lucas.

  I do my best to reassure them that they’re safe, but I know that to them, we’re scary strangers from a violent world—a world that invaded their lives in the most brutal way. What Kirill did, the way he terrorized them, left scars that will never go away.

  Before that awful day, they knew what Natalia’s brother did for his country, but they didn’t truly understand it.

  “We woke up that morning, and he was there, holding a gun on us,” Natalia sobs as she tells us what happened. “He tied Viktor up and strapped the bomb to me, and then he did the same thing to him. We thought he was a terrorist—we thought we were going to die—but then he started talking about you and how he was waiting for you, and that’s when we realized what he was really after…” She breaks down in hysterics at that point, and Lucas has to call a nurse for a sedative to calm her down.