Capture Me: The Complete Trilogy

Chapter 7

7Lucas

By the time I get to the plane, the whole team, including Esguerra, is already on board and dressed in combat gear. The suits are bulletproof and flame-retardant—which makes them ridiculously expensive. I’m grateful Esguerra insists on them for every mission; they help minimize casualties among our men.

I’m the last one on board, and I’m piloting the plane, so as soon as I get suited up, we take off for Tajikistan, where the terrorist organization of Al-Quadar has its latest stronghold. Esguerra sniffed it out recently, and since the idiots f****d with him by kidnapping his wife a few months back, he’s determined to wipe them off the map. The Russians granted us safe passage—that’s what that meeting with Buschekov was about—so I’m not expecting any trouble. Still, I keep an eye on the radar as we get farther away from Moscow and closer to Central Asia.

In this part of the world, one can never be too careful.

Once we’re at our cruising altitude, I put the plane on autopilot and check all of my weapons, taking each one apart to clean it before putting it back together. It’s one of the first things I learned in the Navy: make sure your guns are good to go before every battle. Esguerra’s equipment is top notch, and I’ve never had it malfunction on me, but there’s always a first time.

Satisfied that everything is in good shape, I put the weapons away and glance at the radar again.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Leaning back in my seat, I stretch out my legs. I can already feel it—the beginnings of the adrenaline burn, the buzz of excitement deep in my veins.

The anticipation that grips me before every fight.

My mind and body are already preparing for it, even though we still have a few hours before we get to our destination.

This is what I was made for, what I love to do. Fighting is in my blood. That’s why I enlisted in the Navy right out of high school, why I couldn’t stand the thought of following the path my parents laid out for me. College, law school, joining my grandfather’s prestigious law firm—I couldn’t imagine myself doing any of those things. I would’ve suffocated in that kind of life, choked to death in the stuffy, elite boardrooms of Manhattan.

My family didn’t understand, of course. For them, corporate law—and the money and prestige that comes with it—is the pinnacle of success. They couldn’t comprehend why I’d want to do anything else, why I’d want to be anything other than their golden child.

“If you don’t want to go into law, you could try for medical school,” my father said when I expressed my concerns to him in eleventh grade. “Or if you don’t want to be in school for so long, you could go into investment banking. I can get you an internship at Goldman Sachs this summer—it would look great on your Princeton application.”

I didn’t take him up on his offer. I didn’t know at that point where I belonged, but I knew it wasn’t at Goldman Sachs, and it wasn’t at Princeton or the prep school my parents paid through the nose to have me attend. I was different from my classmates. Too restless, too full of pent-up energy. I played every sport there was, took every martial art class I could find, but it wasn’t enough.

Something was still missing.

I discovered what that something was late one night during my senior year, when I was stumbling home drunk from a party in Brooklyn. In an empty subway station, I was attacked by a group of thugs hoping to score some easy cash off a kid from the Upper East Side. They were armed with knives, and I had nothing, but I was too drunk to care. Whatever training I received in those martial art classes kicked in, and I found myself in the first real fight of my life.

A fight where I ended up knifing a man and seeing his blood spill over my hands.

A fight where I learned the extent of the violence living within me.

We’re flying over Uzbekistan, just a few hundred miles from our destination, when Esguerra comes into the pilot’s cabin.

Hearing the door open, I turn to face him. “We’re on track to get there in about an hour and a half,” I say, preempting his question. “There is some ice on the landing strip, so they’re de-icing it for us right now. The helicopters are already fueled up and ready to go.”

We need those helicopters to get to the Pamir Mountains, where we suspect the terrorist hideout to be.

“Excellent,” Esguerra says, his blue eyes gleaming. “Any unusual activities in that area?”

I shake my head. “No, everything is quiet.”

“Good.” He enters the cabin and sits down in the copilot’s seat. “How was the Russian girl last night?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.

I feel a momentary stab of jealousy, but then I remember how Yulia responded to me all night long. “Quite satisfying,” I say, smiling at the images filling my mind. “You missed out.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he says, but I can see that he’s not the least bit sorry. The man is obsessed with his young wife. I have a feeling the most beautiful woman in the world could parade naked in front of him, and he wouldn’t so much as blink. Esguerra’s been well and truly caught—and by a girl he’s been keeping captive, no less.

The thought makes me grin. “I have to say, I never expected to see you as a happily married man,” I tell him, amused by the idea.

Esguerra lifts his eyebrows. “Is that right?”

I shrug, my grin fading. I’m not exactly friends with my boss—I’ve never known Esguerra to be particularly friendly with anyone—but for some reason, he seems more approachable today.

Or maybe I’m just in a good mood, thanks to one gorgeous interpreter.

“Sure,” I say to Esguerra. “People like us aren’t generally considered good husband material.”

In fact, I can’t think of two individuals less suited to domestic life.

Esguerra chuckles. “Well, I don’t know if, strictly speaking, Nora considers me ‘good husband material.’”

“Well, if she doesn’t, then she should.” I turn back to the controls. “You don’t cheat, you take good care of her, and you’ve risked your life to save her before. If that’s not being a good husband, then I don’t know what is.” As I speak, I notice a flicker of movement on the radar screen.

Frowning, I peer at it closer.

“What is it?” Esguerra’s tone sharpens.

“I’m not sure,” I begin saying, and at that moment, a violent jolt rocks the plane, nearly throwing me out of my seat. The plane tilts, angling down sharply, and adrenaline explodes in my veins as I hear the frantic beeping of controls gone haywire.

We’ve been hit.

The thought is crystal clear in my mind.

Grabbing the controls, I try to right the plane as we plunge through a thick layer of clouds. My heartbeat is rocket fast, its pounding audible in my ears. “s**t, f**k, s**t, s**t, motherfucking s**t—”

“What hit us?” Esguerra sounds calm, almost disinterested. I can hear the engines grinding and sputtering, and then the smell of smoke reaches me, along with the sound of screams.

We’re on fire.

Fucking f**k.

“I’m not sure,” I manage to say. The plane is nosediving, and I can’t get it to straighten out for longer than a second. “Does it f*****g matter?”

The plane shakes, the engines emitting a terrifying sputtering noise as we head straight for the ground below. The peaks of Pamir Mountains are already visible in the distance, but we’re too far to make it there.

We’re going to crash before we reach our goal.

Fuck, no. I’m not ready to die.

Cursing, I resume wrestling with the controls, ignoring the readouts that inform me of the futility of my efforts. The plane evens out under my guidance, the engines kicking in for a brief moment, but then we nosedive again. I repeat the maneuver, calling on all my years of piloting experience, but it’s futile.

All I manage to do is slow our descent by a few seconds.

They say your life flashes in front of your eyes before your death. They say you think of all the things you could’ve done differently, all the things you haven’t had a chance to do.

I don’t think about any of that.

I’m too consumed with surviving for as long as I can.

Beside me Esguerra is silent, his hands gripping the edge of his seat as the ground rushes toward us, the small objects below looming ever larger. I can make out the trees—we’re over a forest now—and then I see individual branches, stripped of leaves and covered with snow.

We’re close now, so close, and I make one last attempt to guide the plane, directing it to a cluster of smaller trees and bushes a hundred yards away.

And then we’re there, crashing through the trees with bone-shattering force.

Strangely, my last thought is of her.

The Russian girl I’ll never see again.