Free Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales Page B

my knees when the second cop throws himself at me, his hand brutally squeezing my wrist.
    “Drop the weapon, bitch,” he hisses, and at that moment, I hear more footsteps.
    “You got her, Sergey?” one man yells, and I see five more cops show up, their weapons drawn.
    There’s no point in fighting anymore, so I let my grip on the gun slacken. It falls to the roof with a dull thud as Sergey spins me around and handcuffs my wrists behind my back.
    I’m caught.
    Now I can give up hope.

11
    L ucas

    “ T hey did what ?”
    My voice is a low hiss as I sit up, ignoring the nurse’s hands fluttering around me in an attempt to get me to lie still. The rage blasting through me chases away all remnants of wooziness from the drug she gave me earlier. I have no idea how long I was out, but it was clearly too fucking long.
    “The terrorists attacked the hospital a few hours ago,” Sharipov repeats, his face tense and tired. “It seems we underestimated their capabilities—and their desire to get at your boss. As we didn’t find his body among the dead, we can only assume that they took him.”
    “They took Esguerra?” It takes everything I have not to leap out of bed and strangle the colonel with my bare hands—which are still unrestrained, I note with some corner of my brain. “You fucking let them take him? I told you to put security around him—”
    “We did. We had several of our best soldiers standing guard—”
    “Several? It should’ve been several dozen, you fucking idiots!”
    The nurse flinches at my roar and jumps well out of my reach. Smart woman. At this moment, I’d gladly strangle her too.
    Sharipov’s jaw tightens. “As I said, we underestimated this particular terrorist organization. We won’t make this mistake again. It was a bloodbath. They wounded dozens of patients and hospital staff on the way out and killed all the soldiers assigned to guard duty.”
    “Fuck.” I punch the mattress so hard, the pillow bounces. “Were you at least able to follow them?” Majid wouldn’t be stupid enough to take Esguerra to the Al-Quadar compound in the Pamir Mountains; he must know by now that we’ve sniffed out its location.
    Sharipov prudently steps back. “No. The police were notified right away, and we sent for more soldiers, but the terrorists got away before we could get to the hospital.”
    “Son of a bitch.” If it weren’t for the cast immobilizing my leg, I’d be out of bed and punching the colonel’s weary face. As is, I have to settle for slamming my fist into the cheap mattress again. My head throbs with the violent movement, but I don’t give a fuck.
    Esguerra was taken while I lay here, drugged and oblivious.
    I failed at my job, and I failed badly.
    “Give me the phone,” I say when I’m calm enough to speak. “I need to talk to Peter Sokolov.”
    Sharipov nods and takes the phone out of his pocket. “Here you go.” He offers it to me cautiously. “We already spoke to him, but you’re welcome to do so as well.”
    Fighting the urge to grab Sharipov’s hand and break his arm, I take the phone and punch in the numbers for a secure connection that takes me through a number of relays. To my annoyance, Peter doesn’t pick up.
    Sharipov is watching me, so I conceal my frustration as I try again. And again. And again.
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sharipov says on my fifth attempt. “Feel free to contact whomever you need.”
    He departs, and I resume trying Peter’s number, driven by increasing anger and worry. Esguerra’s Russian security consultant always carries his phone with him, and I have no idea why he’s suddenly out of reach. Could there have been an attack on Esguerra’s estate in Colombia? The mere possibility makes me see red.
    Just when I’m about to give up, the call connects. “Yes?” The faintly accented voice is unmistakably Peter Sokolov’s.
    “It’s Kent.”
    “Lucas?” The Russian sounds surprised. “You’re awake?”
    “Fuck,