Claim Me(Capture Me: Book 3)(18)

Fight, Yulia, fight. The words are like a desperate chant in my mind. I strike upward with my fist and manage to hit his jaw, but his eyes just glitter brighter as he catches my wrists again. I can see the rage and madness in their dark depths, and I know I won’t walk away from this alive.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he says in a low, guttural hiss, and I feel his hairy balls on my thigh as he forces my legs wider, his fingers cutting off all blood flow to my hands. His cock presses against my entrance, and I scream, bracing for the inevitable horror of violation.

Boom!

For a moment, I’m sure that he hit me again, that the deafening noise is my facial bones cracking, but the dust and plaster raining down on me dispel that impression. Kirill jumps off me with a curse, his cock sticking out of his unzipped pants, and staggers back a couple of feet as another explosion shakes the room.

Seizing the chance, I roll off the cot and scramble to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in my face and side. There is a sharp crackle of gunfire above us. Kirill freezes in place, his gaze swinging madly between me and the door. He has to realize the facility is being attacked, and I feel his hatred for me warring with his sense of duty. He should be out there, defending his colleagues, but what he really wants is to make me suffer.

The latter impulse seems to win out.

“You fucking traitor,” he grits out, the veins in his forehead bulging, and then he steps toward me, his fist raised for a blow.

Reflexively, I duck, and at that moment, another blast rattles the room, throwing Kirill off-balance and causing more plaster to rain down on us. A creaking, groaning sound seems to emanate from the depths of the building itself, and one corner of the room suddenly crumbles, bricks and plaster falling in an avalanche less than a meter from me.

Gasping, I jump to the side—and then I see it.

A brick with a rusted metal rod embedded in it.

I leap for it, sliding on my stomach across the debris-littered floor. Bits of rock and plaster scrape my bare legs and belly, but my hands close around the metal rod, and I jump up just in time to smash the brick across Kirill’s face as he rushes at me.

He staggers back, catching himself on the sink, and I again hear the furious staccato of automatic gunfire above us. This time, though, the deafening noise doesn’t stop. Whoever the attackers are, they have serious firepower. I don’t get a chance to wonder about their identity, though, because I see Kirill reach into the sink and pull out a gun.

Reacting in an instant, I let go of the heavy brick and throw myself to the side, rolling across the floor toward my attacker. I hear the shot, feel the burning sting of the bullet as it grazes my arm, and then I’m smashing into Kirill’s knees at full speed.

He must not have fully recovered from my earlier hit, because he staggers back again, and his next shot goes wide. I scramble to my feet, my ears ringing from the shot and the gunfire above, and grab his right wrist, twisting it sideways in an effort to break his hold on the gun.

In the next instant, I’m flying across the room. He backhanded me with his other hand, I comprehend hazily as I slam into a wall. Air whooshes from my lungs, and I wheeze in paralyzed agony as Kirill points the gun at me, his face twisted with manic rage.

He’s going to kill me.

The knowledge injects adrenaline straight into my brain. Without further thought, I throw myself at Kirill, my arms extended in a desperate grab, and my hand closes around the cold metal of the barrel. I feel it buck under my fingers, hear the deadly whine of the bullet, and then I’m falling.

I’m falling, but I’m not dead.

I land on top of Kirill, stunned, my hand still convulsively grasping the barrel. I can’t believe I’m alive. Instinctively, I yank at the gun, trying to pull it out of his grasp, and to my shock, I succeed. Clutching the weapon, I crawl backward off Kirill’s massive body, and it’s only when I’m a couple of feet away that I understand what happened.

A portion of the ceiling collapsed on top of him, knocking him out. There’s a thin trickle of blood on his temple, and plaster all around him.

Kirill is unconscious, maybe even dead.

Dizzily, I climb to my feet and point the weapon at him, trying to steady my violently shaking hand. My vision is blurry, and every thought seems to require inordinate effort. All I’m aware of is hatred. Black and potent, it pulses through my veins, taking away all rational thought. My finger tightens on the trigger, almost of its own volition, and I watch as the first shot rips a bloody hole in my rapist’s side.

His body jerks, and I shoot again, pointing the gun between his legs. His deflated cock and balls explode in a spray of bloody meat. My dizziness intensifies, my head swimming with pain, and I clench my teeth, determined to remain conscious long enough to finish him off.

A fresh burst of gunfire above draws my attention, and I realize suddenly that I still have no idea what’s happening or who the attackers are. Almost immediately, I recall something else.

Misha.

My brother was here earlier.

Icy terror cuts through my haze. Could Misha still be here? Could he be upstairs, in that war zone with the unknown enemies?

Before I can even process the thought, I’m already out the door, sprinting down the basement hallway.

I have to get to Misha.

If he’s still alive, I have to save him.

As I round the corner to the stairs, I collide with a person running toward me. We crash into each other, and as we tumble to the floor, I realize with shock that it’s Misha—that my brother was sprinting toward me. He lands on top of me, and before I can catch my breath, he climbs to his feet, breathing heavily.

“Misha!” Fighting my dizziness, I scramble to my feet. I’m still holding Kirill’s gun, but I manage to grab Misha’s arm before he can step away. “Are you hurt? Are you injured? What’s happening?” My questions come out in a frantic mix of Russian and Ukrainian, but Misha just shakes his head, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He seems to be in shock; under the dirt and blood covering his face, his cheeks look sickly pale.

My heart hammers as I run my free hand over him, looking for gunshot wounds or broken bones, but other than a few scratches, he seems to be in one piece. Relieved, I grab his arm again and tug him into one of the rooms off the hallway. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

“You… they…” He seems to have trouble speaking. “They just—”

“Yes, I know, come on.” I drag him into a small cell that resembles the one I was just in and look for a place to hide. There isn’t one, and my stomach sinks as the gunfire upstairs stops, and then resumes with even greater violence.

“Misha.” Gripping my gun tightly in my right hand, I raise my left hand and gently touch his cheek. My baby brother is already a couple of inches taller than me, and if his lanky frame is anything to go by, he still has quite a bit of growing to do. He’s also shaking uncontrollably, his skin icy under my touch. “Mishen’ka, do you know a way out of here?”

He swallows. “No.”

“Okay.” I’m shaking myself, but I keep my voice calm so as not to add to his terror. “Do you know what’s going on upstairs? Who’s attacking?”

“I don’t know.” His shaking intensifies. “They just… They killed Uncle Vasya and—”

“Obenko is dead?” Despite everything, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Pushing the illogical emotion aside, I lower my hand and ask, “How many are there? Did any of them say anything?”

Misha shakes his head again, his eyes brimming with tears. “They killed Uncle Vasya,” he whispers, as if unable to believe it. “And Agent Mateyenko.” His face crumples, just like it did when he was a toddler.

“Oh, Misha…” I step closer, swallowing my own tears. “I’m sorry.” More than anything, I want to hug and console him, but there’s no time, so I say, “We have to figure out a way out. There must be—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs. Misha tenses, and I see terror flash in his eyes. “They’re coming for us. They’re going to—”

“Shh.” I hold up my finger to my lips as I step back and cast a desperate look around the room. I don’t know if Kirill’s gun was fully loaded when he got to my cell, but even if it was, there can’t be more than a couple of bullets left. Still, I could potentially use those bullets as a distraction so Misha can get away.

“Come,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. “The minute you see a chance to run, you run. Understand?”

“But they’re—”

“Quiet,” I hiss, towing him down the hallway. When we reach the next room, I shove my brother in there and whisper, “Don’t make a sound.”

And gripping the gun with both hands, I turn back toward the stairs, ready to meet my fate.





24





Lucas



Yulia.

I have to get to Yulia.

The thought hammers in my brain as I run down the stairs, ignoring the blood dripping down my arm. A bullet had grazed my shoulder and my ribs ache from all the movement, but I’m barely cognizant of the pain. The fight turned out to be lengthy and brutal; even caught off-guard and dazed by the bombs we set, the UUR operatives weren’t easy to take down. Being forced to exchange fire with them while Yulia was getting assaulted downstairs nearly drove me mad. As soon as we took out two of the three agents defending the house on the first floor, I sprinted to the basement stairs, leaving Diego and Eduardo to deal with the remaining shooter. I hope they’re able to capture him instead of killing him like we did the other two, but either way, it’s not worth me sticking around.