Page 3 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

“All right,” Obenko says when he calms down a little. “You’re seeing him tonight, right?”

I take a breath. Now comes the unpleasant part. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” Obenko’s voice goes dangerously quiet. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I offered, but he wasn’t interested.” It’s always best to tell the truth in these types of situations. “Said they’re leaving soon, and he was too exhausted.”

Obenko starts cursing again. I use the time to tear open a tea bag, drop it into a cup, and pour boiling water over it.

“You’re sure you’re not going to see him again?” he asks after he’s done with his cursing fit.

“Reasonably sure, yes.” I blow on my tea to cool it down. “He just wasn’t interested.”

Obenko goes silent for a few moments. “All right,” he says finally. “You fucked up, but we’ll deal with that another time. For now, we need to figure out what to do about Esguerra and the weapons that will flood our country.”

“Eliminate him?” I suggest. My tea is still a bit too hot, but I take a sip anyway, enjoying the warmth going down my throat. It’s a simple pleasure, but the best things in life are always simple. The smell of lilacs blooming in the spring, the softness of a cat’s fur, the juicy sweetness of a ripe strawberry—I’ve learned to treasure these things in recent years, to squeeze every ounce of joy out of life.

“Easier said than done.” Obenko sounds frustrated. “He’s better protected than Putin.”

“Uh-huh.” I take another sip of tea and close my eyes, savoring the taste this time. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“When did he say he was leaving?”

“He didn’t specify. He just said ‘soon.’”

“All right.” Obenko seems impatient all of a sudden. “If he contacts you, let me know immediately.”

And before I can reply, he hangs up.

Since I havethe evening off, I decide to indulge in a bath. My bathtub, like the rest of this apartment, is small and dingy, but I’ve seen worse. I spruce up the ugliness of the cramped bathroom by putting a couple of scented candles on the sink and adding bubbles to the water, and then I get in, letting out a blissful sigh at the warmth engulfing my body.

If I had my way, I’d always be warm. Whoever said hell is hot was wrong. Hell is cold.

Russian-winter cold.

I’m enjoying my soak when the doorbell rings. Instantly, my heartbeat spikes and adrenaline blasts through my veins.

I’m not expecting anyone—which means it could only be trouble.

Jumping out of the tub, I wrap a towel around myself and run out of the bathroom into the main room of my studio apartment. The clothes I took off are still lying on the bed, but I don’t have time to put them on. Instead, I throw on a robe and grab a gun from the drawer in my nightstand.

Then I take a deep breath and approach the door, aiming the weapon at it.

“Yes?” I call out, stopping a couple of feet from the apartment entrance. My door is reinforced steel, but the keyhole is not. Someone could shoot through it.

“It’s Lucas Kent.” The deep voice speaking English startles me so much, the gun wavers in my hand. My pulse jumps another notch, and a peculiar weakness seizes my knees.

Why is he here? Does Esguerra know anything? Did someone betray me? The questions blaze through my mind, making my heart race even faster, but then the most reasonable course of action comes to me.

“What is it?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice steady. There’s one explanation for Kent’s presence that doesn’t involve me getting killed: Esguerra’s changed his mind. In which case, I need to act like the innocent civilian I’m supposed to be.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Kent says, and I hear a hint of amusement in his voice. “Are you going to open the door, or are we going to continue talking through three inches of steel?”

Shit.That doesn’t sound like Esguerra’s sent him for me.

I quickly evaluate my options. I can stay locked inside the apartment and hope he won’t be able to find his way in—or get me when I come out, as I will inevitably have to—or I can take the chance that he doesn’t know who I am and play it cool.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” I ask, stalling for time. It’s a reasonable question. Any woman in this situation would be wary, not just one who has something to hide. “What do you want?”

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