Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales Page A

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.
----
    I ’m still livid with fury when Sharipov returns to reclaim his phone. As he approaches my bed, I sit up and glare at him. “A fucking error, huh?”
    Raising his hand, the colonel rubs the bridge of his nose. “We’re questioning the officer responsible right now. It’s not yet clear whether—”
    “Take me to him.”
    Looking taken aback, Sharipov lowers his hand. “I can’t do that,” he says. “This is a matter for our military.”
    “Your military fucked up big time. You had a traitor in charge of your missile defense system.”
    The colonel opens his mouth, but I forestall his objections. “Take me to him,” I demand again. “I need to question him myself. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to assume that others in your military or your government were involved in the missile strike.” I pause. “And maybe even in this terrorist attack on the hospital.”
    Sharipov’s eyes widen at my implied threat. If the Uzbekistani government is found to have ties to a terrorist organization like Al-Quadar, that could be disastrous for the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if the colonel is aware of our connections in the US and Israel. By denying me a chance to interrogate one treasonous officer, the Uzbekistani government might be making an enemy of the powerful Esguerra organization and getting a worldwide reputation for associating with terrorists.
    “I have to discuss this with my superiors,” Sharipov says after a second. “Please, let me have my phone.”
    I hand it to him and watch as he leaves the room, already dialing someone. I wait, confident of the outcome, and sure enough, he returns a few minutes later, saying, “All right, Mr. Kent. We’ll have our officer brought here within the next hour. You can talk to him, but that’s all. Our military will handle it from there.”
    I give him a grim look. The only thing their military will handle is the traitor’s body, but Sharipov doesn’t need to know that yet. “Bring him,” is all I say, and then I lie back and close my eyes, hoping the throbbing pain in my skull subsides in the next hour.
    I may not be able to lay my hands on the interpreter right now, but I can certainly get my pound of flesh here.
----
    W hen the traitor arrives , the nurses give me crutches and lead me to another hospital room. It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of walking with the crutches—the fucking headache certainly doesn’t help—and by the time I get there, they have the guy sitting on a bed, with Colonel Sharipov and an M16-toting soldier flanking his sides.
    “This is Anton Karimov, the officer responsible for the unfortunate incident with your plane,” Sharipov says as I hobble toward them. “You are welcome to ask him whatever questions you have. His English is not as good as mine, but he should understand you.”
    One of the nurses drags a chair over, and I sit down on it, studying the profusely sweating man in front of me. In his early forties, Karimov is on the plump side, with a thick black mustache and a receding hairline. He’s still in his army uniform, and I can see circles of sweat staining his underarms.
    He’s nervous. No, more than that.
    He’s terrified.
    “Who are the people who paid you?” I ask when the nurses leave the room. I decide to start off easy, as it might not take much to crack this man. “Who gave the order to shoot down our plane?”
    Karimov visibly cringes. “N-nobody. Just a