Capture Me(20)

The colonel nods. “He’s in a critical condition, but he might pull through. If you look at the next picture, it shows his lower body. It’s not as burned.”

Fighting my nausea, I do as he says and study the hairy legs covered by strips of torn protective suit. The explosion must’ve blasted through the protective gear; the material is meant to withstand a brief exposure to fire, not a plane blowing up. It’s hard to say who the man is from just his legs. Unless... I narrow my eyes, peering closer at the picture, and then I see it.

A tattoo of a bird behind one of the ragged pieces of the combat suit.

“Gerard Montreau,” I say with certainty. The young Frenchman is the only one with that tattoo on the team.

Lowering the phone to my chest, I look up at Sharipov. “Why am I not burned? How did I escape the explosion? And what about Esguerra? Is he—”

“No, he’s fine,” Sharipov reassures me. “Or at least, not burned. The two of you were in the pilot’s cabin, which got separated from the main body of the plane during the crash. The back of the plane exploded, but the fire didn’t reach you.”

The throbbing in my head becomes unbearable, and I close my eyes, trying to process everything.

Five men out of fifty. That’s all that remains of our group. The rest are dead. Burned or blown to bits. I can imagine their terror as the fire engulfed the back of the plane. The fact that there are any survivors is nothing short of a miracle—not that the three men in the pictures will see it that way.

An error. What fucking bullshit.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this, but first, I need to do my job.

Forcing my eyelids apart again, I squint at Sharipov, who’s cautiously reaching for the phone I’m still holding. What the fuck does the man think I’ll do? Strangle him while lying incapacitated in their hospital?

I won’t—unless I learn he’s responsible for this “error.”

“You need to get some bodyguards for Esguerra,” I say, gripping the phone tighter. “He’s not safe here.”

The colonel frowns at me. “What do you mean? The hospital is perfectly safe—”

“He has many enemies, including Al-Quadar, the terrorist group whose stronghold is right across your border. You need to arrange for protection, and you need to do it right now.”

Sharipov still looks doubtful, so I add, “Your Kremlin allies will not be pleased if he’s killed or taken while in your custody. Especially after this unfortunate ‘error.’”#p#分页标题#e#

Sharipov’s mouth tightens, but after a moment, he says, “All right. I’ll have a few soldiers brought in. They’ll make sure no one unauthorized comes near your boss.”

“Good. Use more than a few. Forty or fifty would be good. Those terrorists have a real hard-on for him.” My head is in absolute agony, and the leg that’s in the cast is beginning to ache like only a broken bone can. “Also, you need to put me in touch with Peter Sokolov—”

“We’ve already talked to him. He knows where you are, and he’s sending a plane to retrieve you and the others. Now, please.” Sharipov extends his hand palm-up. “Give me back my phone, Mr. Kent.”

I open my mouth to insist on speaking to Peter myself, but before I can say anything, I feel something sharp prick my arm. Immediately, a heavy lassitude spreads through me, dulling the pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a nurse step back, holding a syringe. “What the—” I begin, but it’s too late.

The darkness descends, and I’m not aware of anything else.





10





Yulia



“I told you, I’m fine.”

Ignoring the nurse’s squawking protests, I remove the IV needle from my wrist and stand up. I’m dizzy and my head is aching, but I need to get moving. Judging by the sunlight streaming in through the hospital window, it’s already morning or later. The exfiltration team likely left already, but on the off chance they didn’t, I need to get in touch with Obenko right away.

“Where’s my bag?” I ask the nurse, frantically scanning the room. “I need my bag.”

“What you need is to lie down.” The red-headed nurse steps in front of me, folding her arms in front of her massive chest. “You have an egg-sized lump on your head from bumping into that pole, and you’ve been out cold since you were brought in last night. The doctor said we’re to monitor you for the next twenty-four hours.”

I glare at her. My head feels like it’s splitting at the seams, but staying here means signing my death warrant. “Where is my bag?” I repeat. I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m wearing only a hospital gown, but I’ll worry about clothes—and the headache from hell—later.