Capture Me: The Complete Trilogy

Chapter 15-3

I don’t know at what point I start fighting—whether it’s once we’re beyond the prison gate or when we approach the black van. All I know is that a beast wakes up inside me, and I lash out at the man holding me with all my remaining strength.

I have no idea how the arms dealer could be alive, and at this moment, I don’t care. The panicked animal inside me cares only about avoiding the terrible torment that awaits at the end of this journey. I’ve read the file on Esguerra, and I’ve heard the rumors. He’s not only a ruthless businessman.

He’s also a sadist.

My hands are cuffed, so I use my feet, kicking out at the leader’s knee at the same time as I crouch and twist, breaking his hold on my arm. He cries out, cursing, but I’m already rolling on the ground, away from the five men. I don’t get far, of course. Within a second, they’re on me, two big men pinning me to the ground and then jerking me up to my feet. I continue to fight them, kicking and biting and screaming as they shove me into the back of the van. It’s only when the doors close and the van starts moving that I stop struggling, exhausted and shaking all over. My breathing is harsh and loud, and my heart slams against my ribcage in a terrified tempo.

“Hijo de puta, she stinks,” the man holding me mutters, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment, as if it’s my fault I’ve been reduced to this disgusting creature.

They gag me then, probably to stop me from screaming again, and cuff my wrists to my ankles before throwing me in the corner of the van and sitting down a couple of feet away. They don’t touch me beyond that, and after a few minutes, some of my blind panic recedes and I begin thinking again.

Julian Esguerra wants me delivered to him. That means he didn’t die from the missile strike. How is that possible? Did Obenko lie to me, or did Esguerra somehow get lucky? And if the arms dealer survived, what about the rest of his crew?

What about Lucas Kent?

A familiar ache pierces my chest as I think his name. I’d only known him for that one night, but I’ve grieved for him, cried for him in the cold confines of my cell. Could he possibly be alive? And if he’s alive, am I going to see him again?

Will he be the one who tortures me?

No. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think of that right now. I need to take it one minute at a time, same as I did in that interrogation room. It’s likely that the next several hours are my last ones without extreme pain—if not my last ones overall—and I can’t spend that precious time worrying about the future.

I can’t spend it thinking about a man who’s most likely dead.

So instead of Lucas Kent, I think of my brother again, of his sunny smile and the way his small, pudgy arms embraced me when he was little. I was eight years old when he was born, and our parents were afraid I would resent the intrusion of a new baby into our close-knit family. But I didn’t. I fell in love with Misha from the moment I met him in the hospital, and when I held him for the first time and felt how tiny he was, I knew it would be my job to protect him.

“It’s wonderful that Yulia loves her brother so much,” my parents’ friends would tell them. “Look how well she takes care of him. She’ll make a wonderful mother one day.”

My parents would nod, beaming at me, and I would redouble my efforts to be a good sister, to do whatever I could to ensure my baby brother was happy, healthy, and safe.

The van comes to a halt, bringing me out of my thoughts, and I realize with a jolt of panic that we’ve arrived.

“Let’s go,” the group leader says when the van doors open, and I see that we’re on a landing strip in front of a Gulfstream private jet. I can’t walk with my wrists cuffed to my ankles, so the man who complained about my smell earlier carries me out of the van and onto the plane, the interior of which is as luxurious as anything I’ve seen.

“Where do you want her?” he asks the leader, and I see his dilemma. The wide seats in the cabin are upholstered with cream-colored leather, as is the couch next to the coffee table. Everything here is clean and nice, whereas I’m filthy.

“There,” the leader says, pointing to a seat by the window. “Diego, cover it with a sheet.”

A dark-haired man nods and disappears into the back of the plane. He returns a minute later with what appears to be a bed sheet. He drapes it over the seat, and the man holding me deposits me there.

“Do you want the gag removed and her ankles uncuffed?” he asks the leader, and the thin man shakes his head.

“No. Let the b***h sit like this. It’ll teach her a lesson.”

And with that, they turn away, leaving me to stare out the window and try to keep my mind off what awaits me when the plane lands.