Chapter 11-1
1178 Words
11Lucas
“They 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 f*****g 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 f*****g 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 f*****g 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 f**k.
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?”
“f**k, yeah, I’m awake. Where are you? Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a short pause on the line. “I just landed in Chicago.”
“What?” That’s the last thing I expected to hear. “Why?”
“Esguerra’s wife. She wants to be Al-Quadar bait.”
“What?” I almost jump off the bed, the cast be damned.
“Yeah, I know. That was my reaction too. Turns out Esguerra, that obsessive bastard, implanted some trackers in her. If they take her to use as leverage against Esguerra, we’ll have a fix on their location.”
“Fuck.” The plan is brilliant, and dangerous as hell. If the terrorists find those trackers in her, Esguerra’s pretty little wife will pray for death. And if Esguerra somehow survives, he’ll dismember Peter—slowly—for using the girl like that. “Nora came up with this?”
“She did.” There’s a hint of admiration in the Russian’s cool voice. “I don’t know what hold he’s got over her, but she’s pretty determined. I was against it at first, but she convinced me.”
I inhale and let the air out slowly. I should be surprised—Esguerra did kidnap the girl, after all—but I’m not. However their relationship started, it’s obvious that whatever’s between them now is mutual. I’m tempted to rip into Peter for going against Esguerra’s orders, but that would be a waste of time and energy. What he’s set in motion can’t be undone. “So what’s the exact plan?” I ask instead. “Are you going to hang out in Chicago to make sure they take the bait?”
“No. I’m heading to Tajikistan right away. The rescue team is already on the way there. As soon as Majid’s men bring her over, we’ll come for her—and for Esguerra.”
“You know they might not bring her to him. A video of her getting tortured would be just as effective as the real thing.”
“I know.”
Of course he does. Like me, he’s used to life-and-death gambles. I could point out the risks from now ’til eternity, and it wouldn’t change anything. The plan will either work or it won’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Did you figure out what happened?” I ask, changing the topic. “Sharipov said it may have been some kind of error on their part.”
“An error?” I can hear Peter’s derisive snort over the phone. “More like lax security. One of their officers has been in the Ukrainians’ pocket for years, and the idiots had no clue until he fired a missile at your plane.”
“Ukraine?” It makes sense; now that Esguerra’s sided with the Russians, the Ukrainians would want to eliminate him. Except... how could they have found out about our conversation so quickly? Was the restaurant in Moscow bugged? Did Buschekov play for both sides? Or did—
“It was the interpreter,” Peter says, voicing my next guess. “I had her detained in Moscow as soon as I learned what happened.”
A loud beep sounds in my ear, and I realize I squeezed the phone so hard I nearly crushed one of the volume buttons.
“What the f**k—”
“Sorry. Pressed the wrong button.” My voice is cold and steady, even as burning lava moves through my veins. “The interpreter is a Ukrainian spy?”
“It appears that way. We’re still digging into her background, but so far at least half of her story appears to have been fabricated.”
“I see.” I force myself to unclench my fingers before I crush the phone completely. “That’s how they were able to act so quickly.”
“Yes. They somehow figured out exactly when you’d be passing through the Uzbekistani airspace and activated their agent there.”
The phone emits another angry beep as my hand tightens involuntarily. I know exactly how they figured out the timing: I all but told the spying b***h our departure time.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so furious. Yulia Tzakova—if that’s even her real name—had played me for a fool. Her initial reluctance, her peculiar air of innocence—it had all been an act. She had probably been hoping to get close to Esguerra, and when she couldn’t get him, she settled for me.
“I have to go now,” Peter says. “I’ll contact you again when we land. Get some rest and heal up; there’s nothing else for you to do right now. I’ll keep you apprised of any new developments.”
He disconnects, and I force myself to lie down, my headache worsened by my burning rage.
If Yulia Tzakova ever crosses my path again, she will pay.
She will pay for everything.
- Writer
