Page 16 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

Alive. I’m alive.

The realization seeps into me slowly, in stages. Along with it comes a sharp throbbing in my skull and a surge of nausea.

Where am I? What happened?

I strain to make out the voices.

It’s two women and a man, judging by the differences in pitch. They’re speaking in a foreign language, something I don’t recognize.

My nausea intensifies, as does the throbbing in my head. It takes all my strength to pry open my eyelids.

Above me, a fluorescent light flickers, its brightness agonizing. Unable to bear it, I close my eyes.

A female voice exclaims something, and I hear rapid footsteps.

A hand touches my face, a stranger’s fingers reaching for my eyelids. Bright light shines into my eyes again, and I tense, my hands bunching into fists as agony spears through me again. My instinct is to fight, to lash out at whoever this is, but something is preventing me from moving my arms.

“Careful now.” The male voice speaks English, albeit with a thick foreign accent. “The nurse is just checking on you.”

The hand leaves my face, and I force my eyes to remain open despite the pain in my skull. Everything looks blurry, but after I blink a few times, I’m able to focus on the man standing next to the bed.

Dressed in a military officer’s uniform, he looks to be in his early fifties, with a lean, sharp-featured face. Seeing me looking at him, he says, “I’m Colonel Sharipov. Can you please tell me your name?”

“Where am I? What happened?” I ask hoarsely, trying to move my arms once more. I can’t—and I realize it’s because I’m restrained, handcuffed to the bed. When I try to move my legs, I can move my right, but not my left. There’s something bulky and heavy keeping it still, and tugging on it makes me hiss in pain.

“You’re in a hospital in Tashkent,” Sharipov says, answering my first question. “You have a broken leg and a severe concussion. I would advise you not to move.”

Tashkent.That means I’m in Uzbekistan, the country bordering our destination of Tajikistan. As I process that, some of the fogginess in my mind dissipates, and I remember what happened.

The screams. The smell of smoke.

The crash.

Fuck.

“Where are the others?” Abruptly enraged, I tug at my wrist restraints. “Esguerra and all the rest?”

“I will tell you in a moment,” Sharipov says. “First, I must know your name.”

The pounding agony in my skull isn’t letting me think. “Lucas Kent,” I grit out. There’s no point in lying. He didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Esguerra—which means he already has some idea of who we are. “I’m Esguerra’s second-in-command.”

Sharipov studies me. “I see. In that case, Mr. Kent, you’ll be pleased to know that Julian Esguerra is alive and here in the hospital as well. He has a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a head wound, which doesn’t appear to be too serious. We’re waiting for him to regain consciousness.”

My head feels like it’s about to explode, yet I’m aware of a flicker of relief. The guy is an amoral killer—some might say a psychopath—but I’ve gotten to know him over the years and I respect him. It would be a shame if he were killed by some stray missile. Which reminds me—

“What the fuck happened? Why am I restrained?”

The colonel looks at me steadily. “You’re restrained for your own safety and that of the nurses, Mr. Kent. Your occupation is such that we didn’t feel comfortable putting the staff here at risk. It’s a civilian hospital and—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I clench my teeth. “I promise not to harm the nurses, okay? Remove these fucking cuffs. Now.”

We have a stare-off contest for a few seconds. Then Sharipov makes a short, jerky motion with his head and says something to one of the nurses in a foreign language. The dark-haired woman comes over and unlocks the cuffs, giving me wary looks the whole time. I ignore her, keeping my focus on Sharipov.

“What happened?” I repeat in a somewhat calmer tone, bringing my hands together to rub at my wrists as the nurse skitters away to the other side of the room. The pounding in my head worsens from the movement, but I persist in my questioning. “Who shot down the plane, and what happened to the other men?”

“I’m afraid that the exact cause of the crash is being investigated at the moment,” Sharipov says. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s possible there was a... miscommunication.”

“A miscommunication?” I give him an incredulous glare. “Did you shoot at us? You know we were to be granted safe passage through the region, right?”

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