Page 25 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

My mind drifts, going over the last few days. There’s no reason not to think of Lucas now, so I let the memories come. Sharp and bittersweet, they fill me, taking me away from my aching, exhausted body.

I remember the way he kissed me, the way he fit against me and inside me. I recall his taste, his smell, the feel of his skin against mine. He’d looked at me while he was fucking me, his gaze possessing me with its intensity. Did it mean anything to him, the night we spent together? Or was I just a casual lay, a way to scratch an itch while passing through Moscow?

My dry eyes burn as I stare, unseeing, at the wall in front of me. Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t matter. It never mattered, but now it has zero relevance. Lucas Kent is dead, his body likely blown into pieces.

The room blurs in front of me, fading in and out of focus, and I realize I’m shaking, my breathing shallow and my heart beating painfully fast. I know it’s probably from dehydration and lack of sleep, but it feels like something within me is breaking, the pressure around my chest hard and crushing. I want to curl up into a ball, to shrink into myself, but I can’t, not with my hands cuffed to the table and feet chained to the floor.

All I can do is sit and grieve for something I never had—and now would never know.

13

Lucas

After my interrogation of Karimov, Sharipov assigns ten armed soldiers to stand guard over me and accompany the nurses when they take care of me. I know he’s tempted to do more, like throw me in prison, but he doesn’t dare. Peter’s already worked some magic with his Russian connections, so everyone at this hospital is on their best behavior, the minor matter of armed guards excluded.

I don’t mind my entourage. Now that I’ve had a chance to release some of my rage, I’m a tiny bit calmer, and I spend the time between Karimov’s death and Esguerra’s rescue learning how to move around on crutches. According to the doctors, it’s a clean tibial break, so the cast should come off in six to eight weeks. That gives me a small measure of comfort, lessening my anger and frustration at being stuck in the hospital while others are doing my job.

Peter keeps me updated, so I know Al-Quadar took the bait. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for Nora to be brought to wherever the terrorist cell is hiding Esguerra. Feeling cautiously optimistic, I make arrangements for the two of them to be brought to a private clinic in Switzerland after the rescue. I have a feeling they’ll need it. I also strategize with Peter about the best way to extract Esguerra out of whatever hole they’re keeping him in, and regularly check on the burned men, who are at this point stable but drugged unconscious to ease their suffering. They’ll need multiple skin grafts—an expense Esguerra needs to authorize when he returns.

With all that activity, I don’t spend much time resting in bed, which upsets the doctors taking care of me. They claim I need to lie still and not stress in order to let my concussion heal. I ignore them. They don’t understand that I need to keep busy, that even the worst headache is better than lying there and thinking abouther.

The Russian interpreter / Ukrainian spy.

Yulia.

Just thinking her name makes my blood pressure spike. I don’t know why I can’t put her betrayal out of my mind. It’s not even a betrayal as such. Rationally, I understand she didn’t owe me any loyalty. I came to her apartment to use her body, and she ended up using me instead. That makes her my enemy, someone I should want to kill, but it doesn’t mean she betrayed me. I shouldn’t give her any more thought than I give Al-Quadar.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

I think about her constantly, remembering the way she looked at me and how her breath caught when I first touched her. How she clung to me as I drove into her, her pussy tight and slick around my cock. She wanted me—that much I’m sure of—and sex with her had been the hottest thing I’d experienced in years.

Maybe ever.

Fuck.

I can’t keep doing this to myself. I need to forget the girl. She’s in the hands of the Russian government, which means she’s no longer my problem. One way or another, she’ll pay for what she’s done.

It’s a thought that should comfort me, but it enrages me more instead.

“We got them.”

At the sound of Peter’s voice, I get up, too tense to sit still. “How are they?” It’s a struggle to hold on to the phone while balancing on crutches, but I manage.

“Esguerra’s pretty fucked up. They did a number on his face—I think he lost an eye. Nora seems okay. She took out Majid. Blew his brains out before we got there.” Peter sounds admiring. “Gunned him down cold, if you can believe that.”

“Damn.” I can’t form that picture in my mind, so I don’t even try. Instead, I focus on the first part of his statement. “Esguerra’s lost an eye?”

“Seems like it. I’m not a doctor, but it looks bad. Hopefully, they can fix it in that Swiss place.”

“Yeah.” If they can do it anywhere, the clinic in Switzerland would be it. It’s known for treating celebrities and the obscenely wealthy of all persuasions, from Russian oil tycoons to Mexican drug lords. A stay there begins at thirty thousand Swiss francs a night, but Julian Esguerra can easily afford it.

“He wants you and the others transferred to that clinic, by the way,” Peter says. “We’ll send a plane for you shortly.”

“Ah.” I’d expected nothing less, but it’s still nice to hear that. Recuperating at the ritzy Swiss clinic should be much better than being stuck in this shit hole. “He didn’t rip into you for letting Nora get taken?”

“I didn’t really talk to him. I’m keeping my distance.”

“Peter...” I hesitate for a second, then decide the guy deserves a fair warning. “Esguerra’s not very rational when it comes to his wife. There’s a chance he’ll—”

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