Capture Me(19)

“You’re in a hospital in Tashkent,” Sharipov says, answering my first question. “You have a broken leg and a severe concussion. I would advise you not to move.”

Tashkent. That means I’m in Uzbekistan, the country bordering our destination of Tajikistan. As I process that, some of the fogginess in my mind dissipates, and I remember what happened.

The screams. The smell of smoke.

The crash.

Fuck.

“Where are the others?” Abruptly enraged, I tug at my wrist restraints. “Esguerra and all the rest?”

“I will tell you in a moment,” Sharipov says. “First, I must know your name.”

The pounding agony in my skull isn’t letting me think. “Lucas Kent,” I grit out. There’s no point in lying. He didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Esguerra—which means he already has some idea of who we are. “I’m Esguerra’s second-in-command.”

Sharipov studies me. “I see. In that case, Mr. Kent, you’ll be pleased to know that Julian Esguerra is alive and here in the hospital as well. He has a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a head wound, which doesn’t appear to be too serious. We’re waiting for him to regain consciousness.”

My head feels like it’s about to explode, yet I’m aware of a flicker of relief. The guy is an amoral killer—some might say a psychopath—but I’ve gotten to know him over the years and I respect him. It would be a shame if he were killed by some stray missile. Which reminds me—

“What the fuck happened? Why am I restrained?”

The colonel looks at me steadily. “You’re restrained for your own safety and that of the nurses, Mr. Kent. Your occupation is such that we didn’t feel comfortable putting the staff here at risk. It’s a civilian hospital and—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I clench my teeth. “I promise not to harm the nurses, okay? Remove these fucking cuffs. Now.”

We have a stare-off contest for a few seconds. Then Sharipov makes a short, jerky motion with his head and says something to one of the nurses in a foreign language. The dark-haired woman comes over and unlocks the cuffs, giving me wary looks the whole time. I ignore her, keeping my focus on Sharipov.

“What happened?” I repeat in a somewhat calmer tone, bringing my hands together to rub at my wrists as the nurse skitters away to the other side of the room. The pounding in my head worsens from the movement, but I persist in my questioning. “Who shot down the plane, and what happened to the other men?”

“I’m afraid that the exact cause of the crash is being investigated at the moment,” Sharipov says. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s possible there was a... miscommunication.”

“A miscommunication?” I give him an incredulous glare. “Did you shoot at us? You know we were to be granted safe passage through the region, right?”

“Of course.” He looks even more uncomfortable now. “Which is why we’re currently conducting an investigation. It’s possible that an error was made—”

“An error?” The screams, the smoke... “A fucking error?” My brain feels like a drummer took up residence in my skull. “Where the fuck are the others?”

Sharipov flinches, almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid there were only three survivors besides Esguerra and yourself. They’re still unconscious. I’m hoping you can help us identify them.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. “This is the first one.”
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My guts twist. I know the man in that photo.

John “The Sandman” Sanders, a British ex-con. Handy with knives and grenades. I’ve trained with him, played pool with him. He was fun, even when he was piss-drunk.

He might not be as fun anymore. Not with half of his face cooked extra crispy.

“The plane exploded,” Sharipov says, likely in response to my expression. “He has third-degree burns over most of his body. He’ll need extensive skin grafts—if he survives at all. Do you know his name?”

“John Sanders,” I say hoarsely, reaching up to take the phone. My body protests the movement, my temples throbbing with nauseating pain again, but I need to see the others. Bringing the phone closer, I click to the next photo.

This face is nearly unrecognizable—except for the scar at the corner of his left eye. He’s a recent recruit, someone I debated bringing on this mission.

“Jorge Suarez,” I say evenly before moving on to the next picture.

This time I can’t even venture a guess. All I see is burned flesh. “He’s still alive?” I glance up at Sharipov. I can feel the churning in my guts worsening, and I know it’s only partially because of my concussion.