Capture Me(18)

“I know.” I keep my tone level. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Make sure you do that.”

He hangs up, and I walk faster, driven by increasing anxiety. If the team leaves without me and I get caught, I’m as good as dead. The Kremlin isn’t known to be kind to spies, and the fact that our agency is completely off the books makes the matters ten times worse. The Ukrainian government won’t negotiate to get me back, because they have no idea that I exist.

I’m almost out of the park when I hear drunk male laughter and the sound of shoes crunching on snow.

Glancing behind me, I see a small group of men some hundred meters back, with bottles clutched in their gloved hands. They’re weaving all over the walking path, but their attention is unmistakably focused on me.

“Hey, young lady,” one of them yells out, slurring his words. “Wanna come party with us?”

I look away and start walking even faster. They’re just drunks, but even drunks can be dangerous when it’s six against one. I’m not afraid of them—I have my gun and my training—but I don’t need trouble this evening.

“Young lady,” the drunk yells, louder this time. “You’re being rude, you know that?”#p#分页标题#e#

His friends laugh like a pack of hyenas, and the drunk yells again, “Fuck you, bitch! If you don’t want to party, just motherfucking say so!”

I ignore them and continue on my way, snaking my left hand into my handbag to feel for my gun, just in case. As I exit the park and step onto the street, the sound of their voices fades, and I realize they’re no longer following me.

Relieved, I take my hand out of my bag and continue up the street at a slightly slower pace. My legs are aching, and I feel like a blister is forming on the side of my heel. My flat boots are way more comfortable than heels, but they’re not made for three hours of speed-walking.

I’m in a more residential area now, which is both good and bad. The traffic here is better—only a few cars pass me on the street—but the streetlights are sparse, and the area is all but deserted. Distant male laughter reaches my ears again, and I force myself to go faster, ignoring the discomfort of tired muscles.

I walk about five blocks before I see it: a cab stopping next to a curb across the street some fifty meters ahead. A short, thin man is getting out. Relieved, I yell, “Wait!” and sprint toward the car just as he begins closing the door.

I’m almost next to the cab when I see lights out of the corner of my eye and hear the roar of an engine.

Reacting in a split second, I throw myself to the side, hitting the ground as a car barrels past me. As I roll on the icy asphalt, I hear the driver hooting drunkenly, and then something hard slams into the side of my head.

My last thought as my world goes black is that I should’ve shot those drunks after all.





9





Lucas



Voices. Distant beeping. More voices.

The sounds fade in and out, as does the buzzing in my ears. My head feels thick and heavy, the pain enveloping me like a blanket of thorns.

Alive. I’m alive.

The realization seeps into me slowly, in stages. Along with it comes a sharp throbbing in my skull and a surge of nausea.

Where am I? What happened?

I strain to make out the voices.

It’s two women and a man, judging by the differences in pitch. They’re speaking in a foreign language, something I don’t recognize.

My nausea intensifies, as does the throbbing in my head. It takes all my strength to pry open my eyelids.

Above me, a fluorescent light flickers, its brightness agonizing. Unable to bear it, I close my eyes.

A female voice exclaims something, and I hear rapid footsteps.

A hand touches my face, a stranger’s fingers reaching for my eyelids. Bright light shines into my eyes again, and I tense, my hands bunching into fists as agony spears through me again. My instinct is to fight, to lash out at whoever this is, but something is preventing me from moving my arms.

“Careful now.” The male voice speaks English, albeit with a thick foreign accent. “The nurse is just checking on you.”

The hand leaves my face, and I force my eyes to remain open despite the pain in my skull. Everything looks blurry, but after I blink a few times, I’m able to focus on the man standing next to the bed.

Dressed in a military officer’s uniform, he looks to be in his early fifties, with a lean, sharp-featured face. Seeing me looking at him, he says, “I’m Colonel Sharipov. Can you please tell me your name?”

“Where am I? What happened?” I ask hoarsely, trying to move my arms once more. I can’t—and I realize it’s because I’m restrained, handcuffed to the bed. When I try to move my legs, I can move my right, but not my left. There’s something bulky and heavy keeping it still, and tugging on it makes me hiss in pain.#p#分页标题#e#