Chapter Thirteen
Lucas
After my interrogation of Karimov, Sharipov assigns ten armed soldiers to stand guard over me and accompany the nurses when they take care of me. I know he’s tempted to do more, like throw me in prison, but he doesn’t dare. Peter’s already worked some magic with his Russian connections, so everyone at this hospital is on their best behavior, the minor matter of armed guards excluded.
I don’t mind my entourage. Now that I’ve had a chance to release some of my rage, I’m a tiny bit calmer, and I spend the time between Karimov’s death and Esguerra’s rescue learning how to move around on crutches. According to the doctors, it’s a clean tibial break, so the cast should come off in six to eight weeks. That gives me a small measure of comfort, lessening my anger and frustration at being stuck in the hospital while others are doing my job.
Peter keeps me updated, so I know Al-Quadar took the bait. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for Nora to be brought to wherever the terrorist cell is hiding Esguerra. Feeling cautiously optimistic, I make arrangements for the two of them to be brought to a private clinic in Switzerland after the rescue. I have a feeling they’ll need it. I also strategize with Peter about the best way to extract Esguerra out of whatever hole they’re keeping him in, and regularly check on the burned men, who are at this point stable but drugged unconscious to ease their suffering. They’ll need multiple skin grafts—an expense Esguerra needs to authorize when he returns.
With all that activity, I don’t spend much time resting in bed, which upsets the doctors taking care of me. They claim I need to lie still and not stress in order to let my concussion heal. I ignore them. They don’t understand that I need to keep busy, that even the worst headache is better than lying there and thinking about her.
The Russian interpreter / Ukrainian spy.
Yulia.
Just thinking her name makes my blood pressure spike. I don’t know why I can’t put her betrayal out of my mind. It’s not even a betrayal as such. Rationally, I understand she didn’t owe me any loyalty. I came to her apartment to use her body, and she ended up using me instead. That makes her my enemy, someone I should want to kill, but it doesn’t mean she betrayed me. I shouldn’t give her any more thought than I give Al-Quadar.
I shouldn’t, but I do.
I think about her constantly, remembering the way she looked at me and how her breath caught when I first touched her. How she clung to me as I drove into her, her pussy tight and slick around my cock. She wanted me—that much I’m sure of—and sex with her had been the hottest thing I’d experienced in years.
Maybe ever.
Fuck.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I need to forget the girl. She’s in the hands of the Russian government, which means she’s no longer my problem. One way or another, she’ll pay for what she’s done.
It’s a thought that should comfort me, but it enrages me more instead.
* * *
“We got them.”
At the sound of Peter’s voice, I get up, too tense to sit still. “How are they?” It’s a struggle to hold on to the phone while balancing on crutches, but I manage.
“Esguerra’s pretty fucked up. They did a number on his face—I think he lost an eye. Nora seems okay. She took out Majid. Blew his brains out before we got there.” Peter sounds admiring. “Gunned him down cold, if you can believe that.”
“Damn.” I can’t form that picture in my mind, so I don’t even try. Instead, I focus on the first part of his statement. “Esguerra’s lost an eye?”
“Seems like it. I’m not a doctor, but it looks bad. Hopefully, they can fix it in that Swiss place.”
“Yeah.” If they can do it anywhere, the clinic in Switzerland would be it. It’s known for treating celebrities and the obscenely wealthy of all persuasions, from Russian oil tycoons to Mexican drug lords. A stay there begins at thirty thousand Swiss francs a night, but Julian Esguerra can easily afford it.
“He wants you and the others transferred to that clinic, by the way,” Peter says. “We’ll send a plane for you shortly.”
“Ah.” I’d expected nothing less, but it’s still nice to hear that. Recuperating at the ritzy Swiss clinic should be much better than being stuck in this shit hole. “He didn’t rip into you for letting Nora get taken?”
“I didn’t really talk to him. I’m keeping my distance.”
“Peter…” I hesitate for a second, then decide the guy deserves a fair warning. “Esguerra’s not very rational when it comes to his wife. There’s a chance he’ll—”
“Rip out my liver barehanded? Yeah, I know.” The Russian sounds more amused than concerned. “Which is why I’m dropping them off at the clinic and leaving. They’re all yours now.”
“Leaving? What about your list?” It’s no secret that in exchange for three years of service, Esguerra promised to get Peter the names of people responsible for what happened to his family.
“Don’t worry about that.” Peter’s voice cools to arctic levels. “They’ll get what’s coming to them.”
“All right, man.” This is probably my cue to message the guards to detain Peter. Esguerra would undoubtedly praise me for that, but I can’t bring myself to betray the Russian like that. Though we haven’t been working together that long, I’ve grown to admire the man. He’s a cold-blooded motherfucker, and that makes him excellent at what he does. And frankly, he’s dangerous enough that I don’t want to risk the lives of any more of our men. “Good luck,” I say, and mean it.
“Thanks, Lucas. You too. Hope you and Esguerra heal up soon.”
And with that, he hangs up, leaving me to wait for the plane and try not to think about Yulia.
* * *
We stay at the Swiss clinic for almost a week. During that time, Esguerra undergoes two surgeries—one to fix his cut-up face and the other to put a prosthetic eye into his left eye socket.
“They said the scars will be barely visible after a while,” his wife tells me when I run into her in the hallway. “And the eye implant should look very natural. In a few months, he’ll be almost back to normal.” She pauses, studying me with her large dark eyes. “How are you, Lucas? How’s your leg feeling?”
“It’s fine.” I’ve been refusing painkillers, so it actually hurts like a motherfucker, but Nora doesn’t need to know that. “I got lucky. We both did.”
“Yeah.” Her slender throat works as she swallows. “What’s the prognosis on the others?”
“They’ll live until the next surgery.” That’s about the only positive thing I can say about the three burned men. “The doctors say they’ll each need about a dozen operations.”
She nods somberly. “Of course. I hope the surgeries go well. Please give them my best wishes if you speak to them.”
I incline my head. There isn’t much chance of that, since they’re completely doped up, but I don’t see any need to tell her that. The petite young woman in front of me is already dealing with enough shit. Esguerra said she’s handling it, but I wonder. Not many nineteen-year-olds from the American suburbs blow open a terrorist’s head.
I’m about to continue on my way when Nora asks quietly, “Have you heard from Peter?” Her expression as she stares up at me is hard to decipher.
“No, I haven’t,” I tell her honestly. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Just curious. We do owe him our lives.”
“Right.” I have a feeling there’s more to this, but I don’t pry. Instead, I incline my head at her again and continue hobbling to my room.
As I fall asleep that night, the blond spy invades my thoughts again, and my cock hardens despite my lingering headache. It’s been like that every night for the past week. Random images from our night together come to me when my guard is down—when I’m too tired to fight them off. I keep recalling the tight clasp of her pussy, the cries that escaped her throat as I fucked her, the way she smelled, the way she tasted… It’s gotten so bad I’ve considered getting a hooker, but for some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal to me.
I don’t just want sex. I want sex with her.
Furious, I get up, grab my crutches, and hobble to the bathroom to jerk off again.
If all goes well, tomorrow we’ll be back in Colombia, and this chapter of my life will be over.
Maybe then I’ll forget Yulia once and for all.