Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales Page B

mistake. I clean the controls—”
    I cut him off by lifting one of my crutches and putting the far end against his groin. Though I apply the lightest pressure to his balls, the man turns sickly pale.
    “Who gave the order to shoot down our plane?” I repeat, looking at him. I can see that Sharipov is uneasy with my method of questioning, but I ignore him. Instead, I push the wooden stick forward, applying greater pressure to Karimov’s crotch.
    “N-nobody,” Karimov gasps, scooting back to get out of the stick’s reach. “I clean the—”
    I lunge forward. He lets out a high-pitched squeal as I pin his balls to the mattress with the stick. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Who paid you?”
    “Mr. Kent, this is not acceptable,” Sharipov says, stepping between me and the prisoner. “We told you, questions only. If you do not stop—”
    Before he finishes speaking, I’m already on my feet, propping myself up on one crutch as I lash out at the armed soldier with another. He doesn’t so much as lift his M16 before I hit him in the knee and he pitches forward, enabling me to grab his weapon. In the next second, I have the assault rifle pointed at Sharipov.
    “Get out,” I say, jerking my chin toward the door. “You and the soldier both. Get the fuck out.”
    Sharipov steps back, his face turning red. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”
    “Out.” I lift the weapon to point it between his eyes. “Now.”
    Sharipov’s jaw clenches, but he does as I say. The soldier limps out behind him, shooting me a venomous look behind his shoulder. I have no doubt they’ll come back with reinforcements, but it will be too late by then.
    As soon as the door closes behind them, I turn my attention to Karimov. “Now,” I say, my tone almost pleasant as I point the gun at the traitor. “Where were we?”
    The man’s eyes are wild with fear. “It—it was mistake. I said it before. Nobody pay me. Nobody—”
    I squeeze the trigger and watch the bullets tear through his knee. The gunshots and the resulting screaming aggravate my headache, which adds to my rage. “I told you not to lie to me,” I roar when the man’s screams die down a notch. “Now, who paid you?”
    “I d-don’t know!” He’s sobbing and clutching his knee as his blood soaks the hospital bed. “It was all email! All email!”
    “What email?”
    “M-my Yahoo! They transfer money to my bank for years and then they ask favors. S-small favors. I not meet them. Never meet them—”
    “You don’t know who they are?”
    “N-no,” he sobs out, trying to stop the bleeding with his pudgy hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know...”
    Shit. I’m inclined to believe him. He’s too much of a coward not to give them up to save his skin, and they probably knew better than to trust him. We’ll hack into his email, but I doubt there’ll be many clues there.
    Hearing shouts and running footsteps in the hallway, I press the gun to Karimov’s sweaty forehead. “Last chance,” I say grimly. “Who are they?”
    “I don’t know!” His wail is full of desperation, and I know he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know anything, which makes him useless. I’m tempted to save him for Esguerra or Peter’s amusement, but it’ll take too much effort to get him out of the country.
    That means there’s only one thing left for me to do.
    Squeezing the trigger, I pepper Karimov with bullets and watch his body slam against the wall, blood and bits of brains spraying everywhere. Then I lower the weapon and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding pain in my head.
    When Sharipov’s troops burst into the room a few seconds later, I’m sitting in the chair, the empty weapon lying at my feet.
    “I apologize about the mess,” I say, leaning on the crutches to stand up. “We’ll pay for the clean-up of this room.”
    And ignoring the horror on everyone’s faces, I start hobbling toward the door.

12
    Y ulia

    “ W hich