Chapter Nine
Lucas
Voices. Distant beeping. More voices.
The sounds fade in and out, as does the buzzing in my ears. My head feels thick and heavy, the pain enveloping me like a blanket of thorns.
Alive. I’m alive.
The realization seeps into me slowly, in stages. Along with it comes a sharp throbbing in my skull and a surge of nausea.
Where am I? What happened?
I strain to make out the voices.
It’s two women and a man, judging by the differences in pitch. They’re speaking in a foreign language, something I don’t recognize.
My nausea intensifies, as does the throbbing in my head. It takes all my strength to pry open my eyelids.
Above me, a fluorescent light flickers, its brightness agonizing. Unable to bear it, I close my eyes.
A female voice exclaims something, and I hear rapid footsteps.
A hand touches my face, a stranger’s fingers reaching for my eyelids. Bright light shines into my eyes again, and I tense, my hands bunching into fists as agony spears through me again. My instinct is to fight, to lash out at whoever this is, but something is preventing me from moving my arms.
“Careful now.” The male voice speaks English, albeit with a thick foreign accent. “The nurse is just checking on you.”
The hand leaves my face, and I force my eyes to remain open despite the pain in my skull. Everything looks blurry, but after I blink a few times, I’m able to focus on the man standing next to the bed.
Dressed in a military officer’s uniform, he looks to be in his early fifties, with a lean, sharp-featured face. Seeing me looking at him, he says, “I’m Colonel Sharipov. Can you please tell me your name?”
“Where am I? What happened?” I ask hoarsely, trying to move my arms once more. I can’t—and I realize it’s because I’m restrained, handcuffed to the bed. When I try to move my legs, I can move my right, but not my left. There’s something bulky and heavy keeping it still, and tugging on it makes me hiss in pain.
“You’re in a hospital in Tashkent,” Sharipov says, answering my first question. “You have a broken leg and a severe concussion. I would advise you not to move.”
Tashkent. That means I’m in Uzbekistan, the country bordering our destination of Tajikistan. As I process that, some of the fogginess in my mind dissipates, and I remember what happened.
The screams. The smell of smoke.
The crash.
Fuck.
“Where are the others?” Abruptly enraged, I tug at my wrist restraints. “Esguerra and all the rest?”
“I will tell you in a moment,” Sharipov says. “First, I must know your name.”
The pounding agony in my skull isn’t letting me think. “Lucas Kent,” I grit out. There’s no point in lying. He didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Esguerra—which means he already has some idea of who we are. “I’m Esguerra’s second-in-command.”
Sharipov studies me. “I see. In that case, Mr. Kent, you’ll be pleased to know that Julian Esguerra is alive and here in the hospital as well. He has a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a head wound, which doesn’t appear to be too serious. We’re waiting for him to regain consciousness.”
My head feels like it’s about to explode, yet I’m aware of a flicker of relief. The guy is an amoral killer—some might say a psychopath—but I’ve gotten to know him over the years and I respect him. It would be a shame if he were killed by some stray missile. Which reminds me—
“What the fuck happened? Why am I restrained?”
The colonel looks at me steadily. “You’re restrained for your own safety and that of the nurses, Mr. Kent. Your occupation is such that we didn’t feel comfortable putting the staff here at risk. It’s a civilian hospital and—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I clench my teeth. “I promise not to harm the nurses, okay? Remove these fucking cuffs. Now.”
We have a stare-off contest for a few seconds. Then Sharipov makes a short, jerky motion with his head and says something to one of the nurses in a foreign language. The dark-haired woman comes over and unlocks the cuffs, giving me wary looks the whole time. I ignore her, keeping my focus on Sharipov.
“What happened?” I repeat in a somewhat calmer tone, bringing my hands together to rub at my wrists as the nurse skitters away to the other side of the room. The pounding in my head worsens from the movement, but I persist in my questioning. “Who shot down the plane, and what happened to the other men?”
“I’m afraid that the exact cause of the crash is being investigated at the moment,” Sharipov says. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s possible there was a… miscommunication.”
“A miscommunication?” I give him an incredulous glare. “Did you shoot at us? You know we were to be granted safe passage through the region, right?”
“Of course.” He looks even more uncomfortable now. “Which is why we’re currently conducting an investigation. It’s possible that an error was made—”
“An error?” The screams, the smoke… “A fucking error?” My brain feels like a drummer took up residence in my skull. “Where the fuck are the others?”
Sharipov flinches, almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid there were only three survivors besides Esguerra and yourself. They’re still unconscious. I’m hoping you can help us identify them.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. “This is the first one.”
My guts twist. I know the man in that photo.
John “The Sandman” Sanders, a British ex-con. Handy with knives and grenades. I’ve trained with him, played pool with him. He was fun, even when he was piss-drunk.
He might not be as fun anymore. Not with half of his face cooked extra crispy.
“The plane exploded,” Sharipov says, likely in response to my expression. “He has third-degree burns over most of his body. He’ll need extensive skin grafts—if he survives at all. Do you know his name?”
“John Sanders,” I say hoarsely, reaching up to take the phone. My body protests the movement, my temples throbbing with nauseating pain again, but I need to see the others. Bringing the phone closer, I click to the next photo.
This face is nearly unrecognizable—except for the scar at the corner of his left eye. He’s a recent recruit, someone I debated bringing on this mission.
“Jorge Suarez,” I say evenly before moving on to the next picture.
This time I can’t even venture a guess. All I see is burned flesh. “He’s still alive?” I glance up at Sharipov. I can feel the churning in my guts worsening, and I know it’s only partially because of my concussion.
The colonel nods. “He’s in a critical condition, but he might pull through. If you look at the next picture, it shows his lower body. It’s not as burned.”
Fighting my nausea, I do as he says and study the hairy legs covered by strips of torn protective suit. The explosion must’ve blasted through the protective gear; the material is meant to withstand a brief exposure to fire, not a plane blowing up. It’s hard to say who the man is from just his legs. Unless… I narrow my eyes, peering closer at the picture, and then I see it.
A tattoo of a bird behind one of the ragged pieces of the combat suit.
“Gerard Montreau,” I say with certainty. The young Frenchman is the only one with that tattoo on the team.
Lowering the phone to my chest, I look up at Sharipov. “Why am I not burned? How did I escape the explosion? And what about Esguerra? Is he—”
“No, he’s fine,” Sharipov reassures me. “Or at least, not burned. The two of you were in the pilot’s cabin, which got separated from the main body of the plane during the crash. The back of the plane exploded, but the fire didn’t reach you.”
The throbbing in my head becomes unbearable, and I close my eyes, trying to process everything.
Five men out of fifty. That’s all that remains of our group. The rest are dead. Burned or blown to bits. I can imagine their terror as the fire engulfed the back of the plane. The fact that there are any survivors is nothing short of a miracle—not that the three men in the pictures will see it that way.
An error. What fucking bullshit.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this, but first, I need to do my job.
Forcing my eyelids apart again, I squint at Sharipov, who’s cautiously reaching for the phone I’m still holding. What the fuck does the man think I’ll do? Strangle him while lying incapacitated in their hospital?
I won’t—unless I learn he’s responsible for this “error.”
“You need to get some bodyguards for Esguerra,” I say, gripping the phone tighter. “He’s not safe here.”
The colonel frowns at me. “What do you mean? The hospital is perfectly safe—”
“He has many enemies, including Al-Quadar, the terrorist group whose stronghold is right across your border. You need to arrange for protection, and you need to do it right now.”
Sharipov still looks doubtful, so I add, “Your Kremlin allies will not be pleased if he’s killed or taken while in your custody. Especially after this unfortunate ‘error.’”
Sharipov’s mouth tightens, but after a moment, he says, “All right. I’ll have a few soldiers brought in. They’ll make sure no one unauthorized comes near your boss.”
“Good. Use more than a few. Forty or fifty would be good. Those terrorists have a real hard-on for him.” My head is in absolute agony, and the leg that’s in the cast is beginning to ache like only a broken bone can. “Also, you need to put me in touch with Peter Sokolov—”
“We’ve already talked to him. He knows where you are, and he’s sending a plane to retrieve you and the others. Now, please.” Sharipov extends his hand palm-up. “Give me back my phone, Mr. Kent.”
I open my mouth to insist on speaking to Peter myself, but before I can say anything, I feel something sharp prick my arm. Immediately, a heavy lassitude spreads through me, dulling the pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a nurse step back, holding a syringe. “What the—” I begin, but it’s too late.
The darkness descends, and I’m not aware of anything else.