Page 27 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

I sit down at the table to eat, so I don’t overtax my leg. Though it’s healing well, I still have to fight a tendency to limp. It’s only been two months since the break, and the bone needs longer to mend completely.

As I eat, my thoughts turn to the Russians’ probable response to my email. I can’t imagine Buschekov will be pleased to lose his prisoner, but at the same time, I don’t think he’ll push back too hard. Esguerra’s weapons are the best in the business, and with the conflict in Ukraine escalating, the Kremlin needs our covert deliveries to the rebels more than ever.

One way or another, they’ll honor Esguerra’s—but really, my—request. Which means that after two months of obsessing about her, I’m going to get my hands on Yulia Tzakova.

I can’t fucking wait.

Over the next two days, I exchange half a dozen emails with Buschekov. As I’d suspected, he’s not too happy, initially going so far as to say he’ll only talk to Peter Sokolov about the matter.

“Sokolov is currently unavailable,” I tell Buschekov when we get on a video call. The Russian official is once again using an interpreter—a middle-aged woman this time. “I’m the one speaking for Esguerra in all matters now, and he wants Tzakova in his custody as soon as possible, along with whatever information you’ve been able to uncover about her thus far.”

“That’s impossible,” Buschekov retorts once the translator conveys my words. “It’s a matter of national security—”

“Bullshit. All we require are the files on her background. That has nothing to do with Russian national security.”

Buschekov doesn’t say anything for a few moments after the woman translates, and I know he’s considering how to best handle me. “Why do you need her?” he finally asks.

“Because we want to track down the individual or the specific organization responsible for the missile strike.” Or at least that’s what I tell myself: that I want to interrogate the girl personally to find the motherfuckers who shot down our plane.

Buschekov’s colorless eyes are unblinking. “You don’t need Tzakova for that. We’ll share that information with you as soon as we have it.”

“So you don’t have it. After two months.” I’m both surprised and impressed that they haven’t managed to break the girl. Her training must’ve been top notch to withstand such lengthy interrogation.

“We’ll have it soon.” Buschekov folds his arms in front of his chest. “There are ways to accelerate information retrieval, and we’ve just received authorization to use them.”

My stomach muscles tighten. I’ve been trying not to think of what they might be doing to her in Moscow, but every so often, those thoughts creep in along with memories of our night together. I want Yulia to suffer, but the idea of some faceless Russian guards abusing her stirs something dark and ugly within me.

“I don’t care about your authorizations.” I force my voice to remain calm as I lean closer to the camera. “What you’ll do is remit her into our custody. If you wish to maintain our business relationship, that is.”

He stares at me, and I know he’s thinking this over, wondering if I’m bluffing. And I am—Esguerra didn’t authorize any of this—but Buschekov doesn’t know that. As far as the Russian official is concerned, I represent the Esguerra organization, and I’m about to pull the plug on what has been a mutually beneficial association.

“It wouldn’t go well for you, you know,” Buschekov says finally. “If you were to go against us like that.”

“Maybe.” I don’t blink at the not-so-veiled threat. “Maybe not. Esguerra’s enemies rarely fare well.”

I’m referring to Al-Quadar, which has been completely decimated since our return. We’ve been at war with the terrorist group for a number of months, ever since they tried to get a certain explosive from Esguerra by kidnapping Nora. However, things have really escalated since we came back from Tajikistan. We’ve gone after the terrorists’ suppliers, financiers, and distant relatives; nobody even remotely connected to the group has escaped our wrath. The body count is coming up on four hundred, and the intelligence community has taken notice.

Buschekov doesn’t respond for a few tense moments, and I wonder if he’s going to call my bluff. But then he says, “All right. You’ll have her within a month.”

“No.” I hold Buschekov’s gaze as the woman translates my words. “Sooner. We’re sending a plane for her tomorrow.”

“What? No, that—”

“Should be enough time to get everything ready,” I interrupt the translator. “Remember, we expect to get herandthe files. You don’t want to disappoint us, believe me.”

And before he can voice any further protests, I disconnect from the video call.

The next morning, I train with Esguerra and the crew, as usual. Like me, he’s almost back to normal, having kicked ass with our three new recruits. Since my leg is still healing, I’m sticking to boxing and target practice, and I’m more than a little envious that he’s able to spar properly.

As we leave the training area, I fill him in on the latest developments with Peter Sokolov. Turns out the Russian somehow got his list from Esguerra, and is now going through the names and systematically eliminating them one by one.

“There was another hit in France, and two more in Germany,” I tell Esguerra, using a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. This area of Colombia, near the Amazon rainforest, is always hot and humid. “He’s not wasting any time.”

“I didn’t think he would,” Esguerra says. “How did he do it this time?”

“The French guy was found floating in a river, with marks of torture and strangulation, so I’m guessing Sokolov must’ve kidnapped him first. For the Germans, one hit was a car bomb, and the other one a sniper rifle.” I grin. “They must not have pissed him off as much.”

“Or he went for expediency.”

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