Capture Me

by Anna Zaires

  A tattoo of a bird behind one of the ragged pieces of the combat suit.

  “Gerard Montreau,” I say with certainty. The young Frenchman is the only one with that tattoo on the team.

  Lowering the phone to my chest, I look up at Sharipov. “Why am I not burned? How did I escape the explosion? And what about Esguerra? Is he—”

  “No, he’s fine,” Sharipov reassures me. “Or at least, not burned. The two of you were in the pilot’s cabin, which got separated from the main body of the plane during the crash. The back of the plane exploded, but the fire didn’t reach you.”

  The throbbing in my head becomes unbearable, and I close my eyes, trying to process everything.

  Five men out of fifty. That’s all that remains of our group. The rest are dead. Burned or blown to bits. I can imagine their terror as the fire engulfed the back of the plane. The fact that there are any survivors is nothing short of a miracle—not that the three men in the pictures will see it that way.

  An error. What fucking bullshit.

  I’m going to get to the bottom of this, but first, I need to do my job.

  Forcing my eyelids apart again, I squint at Sharipov, who’s cautiously reaching for the phone I’m still holding. What the fuck does the man think I’ll do? Strangle him while lying incapacitated in their hospital?

  I won’t—unless I learn he’s responsible for this “error.”

  “You need to get some bodyguards for Esguerra,” I say, gripping the phone tighter. “He’s not safe here.”

  The colonel frowns at me. “What do you mean? The hospital is perfectly safe—”

  “He has many enemies, including Al-Quadar, the terrorist group whose stronghold is right across your border. You need to arrange for protection, and you need to do it right now.”

  Sharipov still looks doubtful, so I add, “Your Kremlin allies will not be pleased if he’s killed or taken while in your custody. Especially after this unfortunate ‘error.’”

  Sharipov’s mouth tightens, but after a moment, he says, “All right. I’ll have a few soldiers brought in. They’ll make sure no one unauthorized comes near your boss.”

  “Good. Use more than a few. Forty or fifty would be good. Those terrorists have a real hard-on for him.” My head is in absolute agony, and the leg that’s in the cast is beginning to ache like only a broken bone can. “Also, you need to put me in touch with Peter Sokolov—”

  “We’ve already talked to him. He knows where you are, and he’s sending a plane to retrieve you and the others. Now, please.” Sharipov extends his hand palm-up. “Give me back my phone, Mr. Kent.”

  I open my mouth to insist on speaking to Peter myself, but before I can say anything, I feel something sharp prick my arm. Immediately, a heavy lassitude spreads through me, dulling the pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a nurse step back, holding a syringe. “What the—” I begin, but it’s too late.

  The darkness descends, and I’m not aware of anything else.

  10

  Yulia

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  Ignoring the nurse’s squawking protests, I remove the IV needle from my wrist and stand up. I’m dizzy and my head is aching, but I need to get moving. Judging by the sunlight streaming in through the hospital window, it’s already morning or later. The exfiltration team likely left already, but on the off chance they didn’t, I need to get in touch with Obenko right away.

  “Where’s my bag?” I ask the nurse, frantically scanning the room. “I need my bag.”

  “What you need is to lie down.” The red-headed nurse steps in front of me, folding her arms in front of her massive chest. “You have an egg-sized lump on your head from bumping into that pole, and you’ve been out cold since you were brought in last night. The doctor said we’re to monitor you for the next twenty-four hours.”

  I glare at her. My head feels like it’s splitting at the seams, but staying here means signing my death warrant. “Where is my bag?” I repeat. I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m wearing only a hospital gown, but I’ll worry about clothes—and the headache from hell—later.

  The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If I get you your bag, will you lie down and behave?”

  “Yes,” I lie, and watch as she walks to a cabinet on the other side of the room. Opening the cabinet door, she takes out my Gucci handbag and comes back.

  “Here you go.” She thrusts the bag into my hands. “Now lie down before you fall down.”

  I do as she says, but only because I need to conserve my strength for the journey ahead. It’s been less than ten minutes since I woke up here, and I’m shaking from the strain of standing. I probably do need to be under medical observation, but there’s no time for that.

  I have to get out of Moscow before it’s too late.

  The nurse begins to change the sheets on an empty bed next to mine, and I take out my phone to call Obenko.

  It rings and rings and rings...

  Shit. He’s not picking up.

  I try again. Come on, come on, pick up.

  Nothing. No answer.

  Growing desperate, I try his number for the third time.

  “Yulia?”

  Thank God. “Yes, it’s me. I’m in a hospital in Moscow. I almost got hit by a car—long story. But I’m leaving now and—”

  “It’s too late, Yulia.” Obenko’s voice is quiet. “The Kremlin knows what happened, and Buschekov’s people are looking for you.”

  An icy chill spreads through me. “So quickly?”

  “One of Esguerra’s people is well connected in Moscow. He mobilized them as soon as he learned about the missile.”

  “Shit.”

  The nurse gives me a dirty look as she gathers the sheets into a big pile on the empty bed.

  “I’m sorry,” Obenko says, and I know he means it. “The team leader had to pull his people out. It’s not safe for any of us in Russia right now.”

  “Of course,” I say on autopilot. “He did the right thing.”

  “Good luck, Yulia,” Obenko says, and I hear the click as he disconnects.

  I’m on my own.

  * * *

  I wait until the nurse leaves with the pile of sheets, and then I get up again, without any interference this time.

  The panic circling through me is stronger than any painkiller. I’m barely cognizant of my headache as I walk over to the cabinet that held my bag and look inside.

  As I’d hoped, my clothes are there too, folded neatly. I cast a quick look at the room entrance to verify that the door is closed, then strip off my hospital gown and put on the clothes I was wearing earlier. As I do so, I realize the lump on my head is not my only injury. The entire right side of my body is bruised, and I have scrapes all over.

  That stupid drunk. I so should’ve shot him and his hyena friends when I had the chance.

  No. I draw in a calming breath. Anger is pointless now. It’s a distraction I can’t afford. There’s still a small chance I may be able to get out of Russia. I can’t give up hope.

  Not yet, at least.

  I pull my hair up into a bun to make the long blond locks less noticeable, and then I do a swift check of the contents of my bag. Everything is there, except cash in the wallet and my gun. But that’s to be expected. I’m lucky the bag itself wasn’t stolen while I was unconscious. The lining at the bottom of the bag has some emergency cash sewn into it, and the thieves didn’t find it, as confirmed by the lack of rips inside.

  Gripping the bag tightly, I walk to the door and step out into the hallway. The nurse is nowhere in sight, and nobody pays me any attention as I approach the elevator. Well, one elderly man in a wheelchair gives me an appreciative once-over, but there’s no suspicion in his gaze. He’s just looking, likely reliving his youth.

  The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I step inside, my heart beating much too fast. Despite the ease of my getaway thus far, my skin is crawling, all my instincts warning me of danger.

  My
room is on the seventh floor of the building, and the ride down is torturously slow. The elevator stops on each floor, with patients and nurses coming in and out. I could’ve taken the stairs, but that might’ve drawn unnecessary attention to me. Nobody uses those stairwells unless they have to.

  Finally, the elevator doors open on the first floor. I step out, surrounded by several other people—and at that moment I see them.

  Three policemen entering the elevator on the opposite side of the hallway.

  Shit. I duck my head and hunch my shoulders, trying to make myself look shorter. Don’t stare at them. Don’t stare at them. I keep my gaze on the floor and stay close to a tall, heavyset man who lumbered out of the elevator ahead of me. He walks slowly and so do I, doing my best to look like I’m with him.

  They would be looking for a woman on her own, not a couple.

  Thankfully, my unwitting companion heads for the exit, and there are enough people around us that he doesn’t pay me much attention. His massive bulk provides some cover, and I use it as much as I can, maintaining my stooped posture.

  Walk faster. Come on, walk faster, I silently beg the man. Every muscle in my body is tense with the urge to run, but that would destroy any chance I have of leaving this hospital undetected. At the same time, I know I need to be out of here within minutes. As soon as those policemen realize I’m not on the seventh floor, they’ll put the entire hospital on alert.

  Finally, the man and I are by the exit, and I see a cab pull up next to the curb.

  Yes! I’m due for a little luck.

  Leaving the man behind without a second glance, I hurry to the cab and get in just as the woman inside climbs out. “The Lubyanka station, please,” I tell the driver as the door is closing. I say it in case the woman is paying attention. That way, if she’s questioned later, she’ll tell them my supposed destination and, hopefully, muddy the trail a bit.

  The driver nods and pulls away from the curb. As soon as we’re on the street, I say, “Oh, actually, I forgot. I’m supposed to pick up something at the Azimut Moscow Olympic Hotel. Can you please drop me off there instead?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, no problem. You pay, I take you wherever you want.”

  “Thank you.” I lean back against the seat. I’m too anxious to relax fully, but the worst of the tension drains out of me. I’m safe for the moment. I bought myself some time. There’s a car rental near that hotel. Once I get there, I’ll find myself a disguise and get a car. They’ll be watching airports, trains, and public transportation, but there’s a small chance I can make it to the Ukrainian border via some less popular roads.

  The drive seems to take forever. The traffic is bad, but not nearly as horrible as yesterday. Still, with the driver braking and accelerating every couple of minutes—and the numbing effect of adrenaline wearing off—my headache comes back in full force, as does the pain from all the bruises and scrapes. On top of everything, I become aware of a gnawing emptiness in my stomach and a cottony dryness in my mouth.

  Of course. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday afternoon.

  To distract myself from my misery, I think of Misha as he was in the last picture Obenko sent me. My baby brother had his arm around a pretty brunette girl—his current girlfriend, according to Obenko. The girl was smiling up at Misha with adoration that bordered on worship, and he looked as proud as only a teenage boy can.

  For you, Misha. I close my eyes to hold on to the picture in my mind. You’re worth it.

  “Well, that’s not good,” the driver mutters, and I open my eyes to see the cars coming to a complete stop ahead of us. “Wonder if there was an accident or something.” He rolls down the window and sticks his head out, peering into the distance.

  “Is it an accident?” I ask, resigned. It’s like the fates are conspiring to keep me in Moscow. It’s not enough that Russia has winters brutal enough to decimate its enemies’ armies; now it has spy-detaining traffic, too.

  “No,” the driver says, pulling his head back inside the car. “Doesn’t look like it. I mean, there are a bunch of police cars and all, but I don’t see any ambulances. Could be a blockade, or they caught someone—”

  I’m out of the car before he finishes speaking.

  “Hey!” he yells, but I’m already running, weaving my way through the stopped cars. Whatever discomfort I was feeling earlier is gone, chased away by a sharp surge of fear.

  A police blockade. Somehow they triangulated my location—or maybe they just blocked all the major roads in the hopes of catching me. Either way, I’m screwed, unless I can get out of this city.

  My heart pounds in a heavy staccato rhythm as I sprint for the street, heading toward a narrow alley I spotted earlier. They’ll have trouble following me there in a car, and if I’m lucky, I may be able to evade them long enough to find another cab.

  Anything to buy myself more time.

  Behind me, I hear shouts and the sound of running footsteps. “Stop!” a male voice yells. “Stop now! You’re under arrest!”

  I ignore the order, picking up my pace instead. The cold air hurts my lungs as I push my leg muscles to their limits. The alley looms ahead of me, narrow and dark, and I force myself to keep running at the same speed, to keep going without so much as a glance back.

  “Stop, or I will shoot!” The voice sounds more distant, giving me a grain of hope. Maybe I’ll be able to outrun him. I’ve always been fast, my long legs giving me an advantage over shorter people.

  A shot rings out, the bullet whizzing past me and plowing into the building ahead.

  Shit. He is shooting. I don’t know why that surprises me. The Moscow police aren’t exactly known for caring about the citizens they’re supposed to be protecting. They’re tools of their corrupt government, nothing more. It shouldn’t shock me that they’d risk the welfare of innocent citizens to catch me.

  Another shot, and the snow explodes off the ground a few feet ahead of me. I hear terrified screams and see people diving for cover on the sidewalk.

  Ignoring the commotion, I sprint into the alley. Straight ahead are two large dumpsters, and behind them, a metal fire ladder going up the side of the building.

  A third shot, and the bullet ricochets off the dumpster, narrowly missing me. The cop, or whoever’s chasing me, has good aim.

  I’m almost at the ladder, and I jump up as high as I can, managing to catch the bottom rung of the ladder with my hands. Then, using the momentum of my jump, I swing my legs up and catch the metal bar with my feet. Hooking my knees over the metal bar, I use all my strength to pull myself up high enough to grab the next rung of the ladder with my left hand. It works, and I pull myself up into a sitting position before starting to climb.

  Another shot, and the wall in front of me explodes, shards of brick flying everywhere.

  Shit, shit, shit. I scramble up the ladder as fast as I can without slipping on the icy metal bars. There are shouts and curses below me, and then I feel the ladder shaking as another person jumps on it.

  I guess they decided to try capturing me alive.

  I don’t look down as I continue my perilous climb. I’ve never liked heights, so I pretend it’s a training exercise and a thickly padded mat is waiting for me below. Even if I fall, I’ll be okay. It’s a complete lie, of course, but it serves to keep me going despite my heart trying to leap out of my throat.

  Before I know it, I’m at the roof, and I jump off the ladder onto the flat surface. The building I’m on is shaped like a square with a hole for a large yard in the middle—a typical Soviet-era structure that occupies an entire block. I pause just long enough to spot another ladder on the other side of the square, and then I start running again, heading toward that ladder.

  “Stop!” someone yells again, and I realize with a jolt of fear that they’re already up here, right on my heels. Unable to resist, I cast a frantic glance behind me and see two men running after me. They’re wearing police uniforms, and one of them is holding a gun. They’re both big
men, seemingly fast and strong. I won’t be able to outrun them for long.

  Changing my strategy, I put on a burst of speed and use the two-second lead I gain to zip behind a concrete smoke stack. Leaning against it, I gasp for air, desperately trying not to make any noise as I catch my breath.

  Three seconds later, I hear the men’s footsteps.

  Time to go on the offensive.

  As the first cop barrels past me, I stick my foot out. He trips, falling with a loud curse, and I hear the gun sliding across the icy roof.

  The shooter’s down and disarmed.

  Before his partner has a chance to react, I jump out in front of him, my right hand balled into a fist. He automatically ducks to the left as I swing it at him, and I use the momentum of his movement to punch upward with my left hand.

  My left fist slams into his chin, and he stumbles back, grunting. Without pausing, I dive for the gun, and see the other policeman doing the same.

  We collide, rolling, and for a second, my fingers brush against the weapon.

  Yes! I grab it, and as the cop attempts to pin me down, I pull the trigger.

  He screams, clutching his shoulder, and I push him off me, the adrenaline giving me almost superhuman strength. I’m already up on my knees when the second cop throws himself at me, his hand brutally squeezing my wrist.

  “Drop the weapon, bitch,” he hisses, and at that moment, I hear more footsteps.

  “You got her, Sergey?” one man yells, and I see five more cops show up, their weapons drawn.

  There’s no point in fighting anymore, so I let my grip on the gun slacken. It falls to the roof with a dull thud as Sergey spins me around and handcuffs my wrists behind my back.

  I’m caught.

  Now I can give up hope.

  11

  Lucas

  “They did what?”

  My voice is a low hiss as I sit up, ignoring the nurse’s hands fluttering around me in an attempt to get me to lie still. The rage blasting through me chases away all remnants of wooziness from the drug she gave me earlier. I have no idea how long I was out, but it was clearly too fucking long.