Capture Me(15)

Satisfied that everything is in good shape, I put the weapons away and glance at the radar again.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Leaning back in my seat, I stretch out my legs. I can already feel it—the beginnings of the adrenaline burn, the buzz of excitement deep in my veins.

The anticipation that grips me before every fight.

My mind and body are already preparing for it, even though we still have a few hours before we get to our destination.

This is what I was made for, what I love to do. Fighting is in my blood. That’s why I enlisted in the Navy right out of high school, why I couldn’t stand the thought of following the path my parents laid out for me. College, law school, joining my grandfather’s prestigious law firm—I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of those things. I would’ve suffocated in that kind of life, choked to death in the stuffy, elite boardrooms of Manhattan.

My family didn’t understand, of course. For them, corporate law—and the money and prestige that comes with it—is the pinnacle of success. They couldn’t comprehend why I’d want to do anything else, why I’d want to be anything other than their golden child.#p#分页标题#e#

“If you don’t want to go into law, you could try for medical school,” my father said when I expressed my concerns to him in eleventh grade. “Or if you don’t want to be in school for so long, you could go into investment banking. I can get you an internship at Goldman Sachs this summer—it would look great on your Princeton application.”

I didn’t take him up on his offer. I didn’t know at that point where I belonged, but I knew it wasn’t at Goldman Sachs, and it wasn’t at Princeton or the prep school my parents paid through the nose to have me attend. I was different from my classmates. Too restless, too full of pent-up energy. I played every sport there was, took every martial art class I could find, but it wasn’t enough.

Something was still missing.

I discovered what that something was late one night during my senior year, when I was stumbling home drunk from a party in Brooklyn. In an empty subway station, I was attacked by a group of thugs hoping to score some easy cash off a kid from the Upper East Side. They were armed with knives, and I had nothing, but I was too drunk to care. Whatever training I received in those martial art classes kicked in, and I found myself in the first real fight of my life.

A fight where I ended up knifing a man and seeing his blood spill over my hands.

A fight where I learned the extent of the violence living within me.







We’re flying over Uzbekistan, just a few hundred miles from our destination, when Esguerra comes into the pilot’s cabin.

Hearing the door open, I turn to face him. “We’re on track to get there in about an hour and a half,” I say, preempting his question. “There is some ice on the landing strip, so they’re de-icing it for us right now. The helicopters are already fueled up and ready to go.”

We need those helicopters to get to the Pamir Mountains, where we suspect the terrorist hideout to be.

“Excellent,” Esguerra says, his blue eyes gleaming. “Any unusual activities in that area?”

I shake my head. “No, everything is quiet.”

“Good.” He enters the cabin and sits down in the copilot’s seat. “How was the Russian girl last night?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.

I feel a momentary stab of jealousy, but then I remember how Yulia responded to me all night long. “Quite satisfying,” I say, smiling at the images filling my mind. “You missed out.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he says, but I can see that he’s not the least bit sorry. The man is obsessed with his young wife. I have a feeling the most beautiful woman in the world could parade naked in front of him, and he wouldn’t so much as blink. Esguerra’s been well and truly caught—and by a girl he’s been keeping captive, no less.

The thought makes me grin. “I have to say, I never expected to see you as a happily married man,” I tell him, amused by the idea.

Esguerra lifts his eyebrows. “Is that right?”

I shrug, my grin fading. I’m not exactly friends with my boss—I’ve never known Esguerra to be particularly friendly with anyone—but for some reason, he seems more approachable today.

Or maybe I’m just in a good mood, thanks to one gorgeous interpreter.

“Sure,” I say to Esguerra. “People like us aren’t generally considered good husband material.”

In fact, I can’t think of two individuals less suited to domestic life.

Esguerra chuckles. “Well, I don’t know if, strictly speaking, Nora considers me ‘good husband material.’”