Capture Me(30)

“It’s fine.” I’ve been refusing painkillers, so it actually hurts like a motherfucker, but Nora doesn’t need to know that. “I got lucky. We both did.”

“Yeah.” Her slender throat works as she swallows. “What’s the prognosis on the others?”

“They’ll live until the next surgery.” That’s about the only positive thing I can say about the three burned men. “The doctors say they’ll each need about a dozen operations.”

She nods somberly. “Of course. I hope the surgeries go well. Please give them my best wishes if you speak to them.”

I incline my head. There isn’t much chance of that, since they’re completely doped up, but I don’t see any need to tell her that. The petite young woman in front of me is already dealing with enough shit. Esguerra said she’s handling it, but I wonder. Not many nineteen-year-olds from the American suburbs blow open a terrorist’s head.

I’m about to continue on my way when Nora asks quietly, “Have you heard from Peter?” Her expression as she stares up at me is hard to decipher.

“No, I haven’t,” I tell her honestly. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Just curious. We do owe him our lives.”

“Right.” I have a feeling there’s more to this, but I don’t pry. Instead, I incline my head at her again and continue hobbling to my room.

As I fall asleep that night, the blond spy invades my thoughts again, and my cock hardens despite my lingering headache. It’s been like that every night for the past week. Random images from our night together come to me when my guard is down—when I’m too tired to fight them off. I keep recalling the tight clasp of her pussy, the cries that escaped her throat as I fucked her, the way she smelled, the way she tasted... It’s gotten so bad I’ve considered getting a hooker, but for some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal to me.

I don’t just want sex. I want sex with her.

Furious, I get up, grab my crutches, and hobble to the bathroom to jerk off again.

If all goes well, tomorrow we’ll be back in Colombia, and this chapter of my life will be over.

Maybe then I’ll forget Yulia once and for all.





III





The Prisoner





14





Lucas



My fingers hover over the keyboard of my laptop as I stare at the screen, debating the wisdom of what I’m about to do. Then I take a deep breath and start typing. My email to Buschekov is short and to the point:

Esguerra requests to have Yulia Tzakova remitted into his custody for further interrogation.

I click “send” and get up, reveling in the freedom of moving without crutches. It’s been two weeks since I’ve gotten the cast off, and I still feel exhilarated every time I stand up and walk unassisted.

Leaving my library/office, I head into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Cooking is a skill I’ve never been able to master, so my sandwich is beyond simple: ham, cheese, lettuce, and mayo between two slices of bread.

I sit down at the table to eat, so I don’t overtax my leg. Though it’s healing well, I still have to fight a tendency to limp. It’s only been two months since the break, and the bone needs longer to mend completely.

As I eat, my thoughts turn to the Russians’ probable response to my email. I can’t imagine Buschekov will be pleased to lose his prisoner, but at the same time, I don’t think he’ll push back too hard. Esguerra’s weapons are the best in the business, and with the conflict in Ukraine escalating, the Kremlin needs our covert deliveries to the rebels more than ever.#p#分页标题#e#

One way or another, they’ll honor Esguerra’s—but really, my—request. Which means that after two months of obsessing about her, I’m going to get my hands on Yulia Tzakova.

I can’t fucking wait.







Over the next two days, I exchange half a dozen emails with Buschekov. As I’d suspected, he’s not too happy, initially going so far as to say he’ll only talk to Peter Sokolov about the matter.

“Sokolov is currently unavailable,” I tell Buschekov when we get on a video call. The Russian official is once again using an interpreter—a middle-aged woman this time. “I’m the one speaking for Esguerra in all matters now, and he wants Tzakova in his custody as soon as possible, along with whatever information you’ve been able to uncover about her thus far.”

“That’s impossible,” Buschekov retorts once the translator conveys my words. “It’s a matter of national security—”

“Bullshit. All we require are the files on her background. That has nothing to do with Russian national security.”