Page 11 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

It takesme less than twenty minutes to pack. I’ve lived in Moscow for six years, but I’ve acquired few possessions I care about. Some makeup, a hairbrush, a change of underwear, my fake passport, my gun—that’s all that goes into my large Gucci handbag. I also make sure that the clothes I’m wearing—designer jeans tucked into knee-high flat boots, a cashmere sweater, and a thick, well-fitting parka—are both warm and stylish. In case anyone sees me leaving the apartment, I’ll look much as they’d expect: a young woman heading off to work, bundled up against the brutal cold.

After I’m done packing, I wipe down the entire apartment to erase my fingerprints and walk out, carefully locking the door behind me. I no longer care if thieves break in, but there’s no need to make it easy for them.

Nobody seems to be watching the apartment as I exit onto the street, but I still keep a wary eye on my surroundings, making sure I’m not being followed.

As I approach the metro station, thoughts of Lucas intrude again, making me shiver despite my warm clothing. I should be happy—I’ve been looking forward to exfiltration for months—but I can’t get my mind off Lucas’s fate.

Will he die fast or slowly? Is it going to be the missile that kills him, or the crash itself? Will he stay conscious long enough to realize he’s about to die?

Will he guess I had something to do with what happened?

The knot in my throat expands, making me feel like I’m choking. For one insane moment, I’m seized by an overwhelming urge to call him, to warn him not to get on that plane. I actually reach for the phone in my bag before I jerk my hand away, sticking it in my pocket instead.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, I chide myself as I walk down the stairs into the metro station. I don’t even have Kent’s number. And even if I did, warning him would mean betraying Obenko and my country.

Betraying Misha.

No, never.I take a steadying breath, ignoring the crush of Moscow commuters all around me. At this point, the operation is out of my hands. Even if I wanted to change something, I can’t. Obenko and his team are in control now, and the best I can hope for is a speedy exit from Russia.

Besides, even if Lucas Kent wasn’t affiliated with the arms dealer who just became Ukraine’s enemy, there’s no room in my life for romance of any kind. Whether Kent is dead or alive shouldn’t matter—because either way, I won’t see him again.

The approach of the train drags me out of my dark musings. The people around me press forward, pushing their way onto the crowded train, and I hurry to make sure I squeeze in before the doors close.

Thankfully, I make it. Grabbing onto a rail, I wedge myself into a space between two middle-aged women and do my best to ignore a leer from an old man sitting in front of me. Another couple of hours, and I won’t need to put up with the Moscow metro system.

I’ll be on my way to Kiev, where I belong.

I close my eyes and try to focus on that—on coming home.

On being near Misha, even if I can’t meet with him in person.

My baby brother is fourteen now. I’ve seen his photos; he’s a handsome teenage boy, his blue eyes bright and mischievous. In all the pictures, he’s always laughing, hanging out with his friends and his girlfriends. He’s social, Obenko tells me. Outgoing.

Happy with the life they’ve given him.

Each time I receive one of those pictures, I stare at it for hours, wondering if he remembers me. If he’d recognize me if I approached him on the street. It’s unlikely—he was only three when he was adopted—but I still like to imagine that some part of him would know me.

That he’d recall the way I took care of him that one brutal year in the orphanage.

A crackling announcement interrupts my musings. Opening my eyes, I realize that the train is slowing down.

“We apologize for the delay,” the conductor repeats loudly as the train comes to a complete halt. “The issue should get resolved shortly.”

The passengers around me groan in unison. The middle-aged woman to my left begins swearing, while the one to my right mutters something about corrupt officials pocketing public funds instead of fixing things. It’s not the first delay this month; the extreme temperatures this winter have taken a toll on both roads and underground metro tracks, exacerbating the commuting nightmare that is Moscow at rush hour.

I suppress my own sigh of impatience and check my phone. As expected, I have zero bars. The thick walls of the tunnel block out all cell phone reception, so I can’t notify my handlers of the delay.

Great. Just great.

I put the phone away, trying not to give in to my frustration. With any luck, this problem is something that requires a little welding, rather than something more serious. Last month, a burst pipe snarled traffic all over Moscow, causing metro delays of three hours or more. If it’s something along those lines again, I might not get to my pickup location until late this afternoon.

Against my will, my thoughts turn to Lucas again. By late afternoon, his plane will likely be flying over the Uzbekistani airspace. He might even be dead by then. My stomach churns with acid as I picture his body torn into pieces, destroyed by the explosion and the crash.

Stop it, Yulia. The churning in my stomach intensifies, turning into an empty rumble, and I realize with relief that I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I was in such a rush to pack and get going that I didn’t have so much as a bite of an apple.

No wonder I’m feeling sick. It has nothing to do with Kent and everything to do with the fact that I’m hungry.

Yes, that’s it, I tell myself. I’m just hungry. Once the train starts moving again and I get to my destination, I’ll grab some food and everything will be fine.

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