Capture Me: The Complete Trilogy

Chapter 2

2Yulia

The first thing I do upon arriving home is call my boss and convey everything I’ve learned.

“So it’s as I suspected,” Vasiliy Obenko says when I’m done. “They’re going to use Esguerra to arm those f*****g rebels in Donetsk.”

“Yes.” I kick off my shoes and walk into the kitchen to make myself tea. “And Buschekov demanded exclusivity, so Esguerra’s now fully allied with the Russians.”

Obenko lets out a string of curses, most of which involve some combination of f*****g, sluts, and mothers. I tune him out as I pour water into an electronic kettle and turn it on.

“All right,” Obenko says when he calms down a little. “You’re seeing him tonight, right?”

I take a breath. Now comes the unpleasant part. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” Obenko’s voice goes dangerously quiet. “What the f**k is that supposed to mean?”

“I offered, but he wasn’t interested.” It’s always best to tell the truth in these types of situations. “Said they’re leaving soon, and he was too exhausted.”

Obenko starts cursing again. I use the time to tear open a tea bag, drop it into a cup, and pour boiling water over it.

“You’re sure you’re not going to see him again?” he asks after he’s done with his cursing fit.

“Reasonably sure, yes.” I blow on my tea to cool it down. “He just wasn’t interested.”

Obenko goes silent for a few moments. “All right,” he says finally. “You f****d up, but we’ll deal with that another time. For now, we need to figure out what to do about Esguerra and the weapons that will flood our country.”

“Eliminate him?” I suggest. My tea is still a bit too hot, but I take a sip anyway, enjoying the warmth going down my throat. It’s a simple pleasure, but the best things in life are always simple. The smell of lilacs blooming in the spring, the softness of a cat’s fur, the juicy sweetness of a ripe strawberry—I’ve learned to treasure these things in recent years, to squeeze every ounce of joy out of life.

“Easier said than done.” Obenko sounds frustrated. “He’s better protected than Putin.”

“Uh-huh.” I take another sip of tea and close my eyes, savoring the taste this time. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“When did he say he was leaving?”

“He didn’t specify. He just said ‘soon.’”

“All right.” Obenko seems impatient all of a sudden. “If he contacts you, let me know immediately.”

And before I can reply, he hangs up.

Since I have the evening off, I decide to indulge in a bath. My bathtub, like the rest of this apartment, is small and dingy, but I’ve seen worse. I spruce up the ugliness of the cramped bathroom by putting a couple of scented candles on the sink and adding bubbles to the water, and then I get in, letting out a blissful sigh at the warmth engulfing my body.

If I had my way, I’d always be warm. Whoever said hell is hot was wrong. Hell is cold.

Russian-winter cold.

I’m enjoying my soak when the doorbell rings. Instantly, my heartbeat spikes and adrenaline blasts through my veins.

I’m not expecting anyone—which means it could only be trouble.

Jumping out of the tub, I wrap a towel around myself and run out of the bathroom into the main room of my studio apartment. The clothes I took off are still lying on the bed, but I don’t have time to put them on. Instead, I throw on a robe and grab a gun from the drawer in my nightstand.

Then I take a deep breath and approach the door, aiming the weapon at it.

“Yes?” I call out, stopping a couple of feet from the apartment entrance. My door is reinforced steel, but the keyhole is not. Someone could shoot through it.

“It’s Lucas Kent.” The deep voice speaking English startles me so much, the gun wavers in my hand. My pulse jumps another notch, and a peculiar weakness seizes my knees.

Why is he here? Does Esguerra know anything? Did someone betray me? The questions blaze through my mind, making my heart race even faster, but then the most reasonable course of action comes to me.

“What is it?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice steady. There’s one explanation for Kent’s presence that doesn’t involve me getting killed: Esguerra’s changed his mind. In which case, I need to act like the innocent civilian I’m supposed to be.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Kent says, and I hear a hint of amusement in his voice. “Are you going to open the door, or are we going to continue talking through three inches of steel?”

Shit. That doesn’t sound like Esguerra’s sent him for me.

I quickly evaluate my options. I can stay locked inside the apartment and hope he won’t be able to find his way in—or get me when I come out, as I will inevitably have to—or I can take the chance that he doesn’t know who I am and play it cool.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” I ask, stalling for time. It’s a reasonable question. Any woman in this situation would be wary, not just one who has something to hide. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The one word, uttered in his deep voice, hits me like a fist. My lungs stop working, and I stare at the door, seized by irrational panic. I wasn’t wrong then, when I wondered whether he might be attracted to me—whether the reason he kept looking at me might be as simple as human biology in action.

Yes, of course. He wants me.

I force myself to start breathing again. This should be a relief. There’s no reason to panic. Men have wanted me since I was fifteen, and I’ve learned to cope with it. To turn their lust to my advantage. This is no different.

Except Kent is harder, more dangerous than most.

No. I silence that small voice and take a deep breath, lowering my weapon. As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My blue eyes are wide in my pale face, and my hair is messily pinned up, wet tendrils trailing down my neck. With the terrycloth robe wrapped carelessly around me and the gun in my hands, I look nothing like the fashionable young woman who tried to seduce Kent’s boss.

Reaching a decision, I call out, “Just a minute.” I could try to deny Lucas Kent entry to my apartment—it wouldn’t be that suspicious for a woman alone—but the smarter thing would be to use this opportunity to get some information.

At the very least, I can try to find out when Esguerra’s leaving and tell Obenko, partially making up for my earlier failure.

Moving quickly, I hide the gun in a drawer underneath the hallway mirror and unpin my hair, letting the thick blond strands stream down my back. I’ve already washed off my makeup, but I have clear skin and my eyelashes are naturally brown, so it’s not too bad. If anything, I look younger, more innocent this way.

More like “the girl next door,” as Americans like to say.

Confident that I’m reasonably presentable, I approach the door and unlock it, trying to ignore the heavy, frantic beating of my heart.