Read Online Capture Me by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales - Free Book Online

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