Free Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales

exit, and I see a cab pull up next to the curb.
    Yes! I’m due for a little luck.
    Leaving the man behind without a second glance, I hurry to the cab and get in just as the woman inside climbs out. “The Lubyanka station, please,” I tell the driver as the door is closing. I say it in case the woman is paying attention. That way, if she’s questioned later, she’ll tell them my supposed destination and, hopefully, muddy the trail a bit.
    The driver nods and pulls away from the curb. As soon as we’re on the street, I say, “Oh, actually, I forgot. I’m supposed to pick up something at the Azimut Moscow Olympic Hotel. Can you please drop me off there instead?”
    He shrugs. “Sure, no problem. You pay, I take you wherever you want.”
    “Thank you.” I lean back against the seat. I’m too anxious to relax fully, but the worst of the tension drains out of me. I’m safe for the moment. I bought myself some time. There’s a car rental near that hotel. Once I get there, I’ll find myself a disguise and get a car. They’ll be watching airports, trains, and public transportation, but there’s a small chance I can make it to the Ukrainian border via some less popular roads.
    The drive seems to take forever. The traffic is bad, but not nearly as horrible as yesterday. Still, with the driver braking and accelerating every couple of minutes—and the numbing effect of adrenaline wearing off—my headache comes back in full force, as does the pain from all the bruises and scrapes. On top of everything, I become aware of a gnawing emptiness in my stomach and a cottony dryness in my mouth.
    Of course. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday afternoon.
    To distract myself from my misery, I think of Misha as he was in the last picture Obenko sent me. My baby brother had his arm around a pretty brunette girl—his current girlfriend, according to Obenko. The girl was smiling up at Misha with adoration that bordered on worship, and he looked as proud as only a teenage boy can.
    For you, Misha. I close my eyes to hold on to the picture in my mind. You’re worth it.
    “Well, that’s not good,” the driver mutters, and I open my eyes to see the cars coming to a complete stop ahead of us. “Wonder if there was an accident or something.” He rolls down the window and sticks his head out, peering into the distance.
    “Is it an accident?” I ask, resigned. It’s like the fates are conspiring to keep me in Moscow. It’s not enough that Russia has winters brutal enough to decimate its enemies’ armies; now it has spy-detaining traffic, too.
    “No,” the driver says, pulling his head back inside the car. “Doesn’t look like it. I mean, there are a bunch of police cars and all, but I don’t see any ambulances. Could be a blockade, or they caught someone—”
    I’m out of the car before he finishes speaking.
    “Hey!” he yells, but I’m already running, weaving my way through the stopped cars. Whatever discomfort I was feeling earlier is gone, chased away by a sharp surge of fear.
    A police blockade. Somehow they triangulated my location—or maybe they just blocked all the major roads in the hopes of catching me. Either way, I’m screwed, unless I can get out of this city.
    My heart pounds in a heavy staccato rhythm as I sprint for the street, heading toward a narrow alley I spotted earlier. They’ll have trouble following me there in a car, and if I’m lucky, I may be able to evade them long enough to find another cab.
    Anything to buy myself more time.
    Behind me, I hear shouts and the sound of running footsteps. “Stop!” a male voice yells. “Stop now! You’re under arrest!”
    I ignore the order, picking up my pace instead. The cold air hurts my lungs as I push my leg muscles to their limits. The alley looms ahead of me, narrow and dark, and I force myself to keep running at the same speed, to keep going without so much as a glance back.
    “Stop, or I will shoot!” The voice sounds more