Going Once, Taken Twice: A Dark Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  “Yes, honey—we have the best team assigned.” Her father squeezed her hand, but he couldn’t know the real fear behind the question. She’d never admit that she’d fallen for her father’s hired hitman; or that she continued to think about him day and night.

  After almost a week, she thought maybe some of the intrigue and breathiness of Boris would have worn off. Instead, it was quite the opposite.

  Something in their parting made her sure that he wouldn’t complete the mission. But that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. If his organization hired Boris, they’d hire someone else to do the job. Every time her father left the townhouse, she fought to control her anxiety. Their front-and-center parade didn’t bode well for flying under the radar, either.

  “I kind of just want this to be over,” Claudia murmured, resting her head against the cool window. “I just want to put all this behind me.”

  “We need to make the formal statement to the public,” her father said. “After today, we can start putting this behind us. Safe and sound. We won’t even talk about it for a month—how’s that sound?”

  She cracked a grin. “Sounds like a start.”

  But anxiety still made sick swirls in her belly. What if her father’s best security team didn’t hold up against the FSB?

  And an equally as terrifying thought—what if Boris showed up after all, to finish the job?

  The thought occurred to her the evening before, as she was reading over the script of her statement. It arrived like a punch to the gut, swift and solid, leaving her gasping in its wake. Boris can’t be in the US. He won’t do that to me. Not after what we went through.

  Something deep inside her knew this. Yet the nerves churned anyway. Because what did she really know?

  You can’t even find a footprint for Boris. He’s a ghost. Give him up.

  Claudia wiped away a tiny tear from her face as she studied the sights of D.C. passing through the window. Today would be a laying to rest of Boris, as well. If she wanted to ever truly put this behind her, she’d have to move on from him, too.

  She’d have to stop looking for him around every corner; stop expecting his warmth and weight beside her when she rolled over in bed in the morning.

  Stop wishing for the reassurance of his lips, or the way his arms could squeeze out any last lingering doubt from her body.

  “Are you nervous?” Her father smiled over at her.

  “A little.” She fiddled with the clasp on her handbag. A little was an understatement. She’d fussed over her makeup for a full two hours, which was entirely unlike her. This was the ending of a chapter. And the beginning of a new sort of life for her.

  Because that was one of the unexpected perks of becoming an overnight sensation. Offers to give speeches, tour elementary schools, even teach her own course load at an online university. She’d never seen that benefit coming. A production company contacted her about the idea of starting a reality TV show, featuring her life post-kidnapping. She bit her tongue before she could respond with the stranger-than-fiction truth: what if you found my technically-deceased former lover who was a Russian hitman hired to kill my father, reunited us, and then filmed the results of THAT? The result would be better television than anything they could conceive of.

  Traffic grew denser the nearer they got to the White House. She zoned out, and then suddenly they were in a processional—part of the plan, her father assured her—and after a stunned stop-and-go drive through downtown D.C., they arrived.

  Swarms of people awaited them behind barricades. A makeshift stage sat in front of an equestrian statue overlooking half of the square. Leafy trees provided some shaded areas for the waiting crowd. She didn’t recognize a single face—not that she expected to—and cameras flashed so fast that it formed a disjointed rhythm. The swell of applause and voices bled together; everything turned into an indecipherable swirl the second she stepped out of the car.

  And the first thing she could even focus on were the trees. Scanning for weaknesses; maybe someone perched on a branch, scope aligned on them. Trying to spot the guards, the purported best security team.

  To see if any barrels of any guns were aimed at her father, now that they were out in the open.

  Claudia finally mustered a smile and waved at the crowd, forcing herself to focus on the left foot, right foot of following him, of not tripping over the small red rug laid out for them, of making it up the makeshift staircase.

  At the stage, they waited off to the side while an announcer presented them.

  “Ladies and gentleman, after a harrowing twelve days in captivity, I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to the world our own new hero, Claudia Zvonimira: the resilient, headstrong, intelligent Princess of Slavonia!”

  Applause swelled and receded in time with his words, but the more he talked, the less Claudia could focus. Pride mixed with tension; joy mingled with fear. This crowd was too big to properly scan, and standing on this stage felt too exposed. She wanted to stand in front of her father, cross her own body in front of his. Create a ring of guards around them, reinforced with bullet-proof vests and riot shields.

  Because if there was any place for an assassination attempt, it would be at the joyful homecoming of the kidnapped daughter.

  Calm down Claudia. They’ve got a handle on this. It’ll be okay.

  Her father made a brief announcement, thanking his followers and the American government for their help and concern. He mentioned the stress and sadness experienced as a father; the rampant speculations with regard to Russian meddling in Slavonian affairs. His voice sounded as though he were speaking from within a dream; at any moment she feared her feet would lift up from the ground and she would float up into the clear blue sky.

  Claudia scanned the crowd again, trying to make special note of each face turned toward the podium watching her father. Half hoping that she might see Boris’s face out there in the mix.

  Applause swelled again and her father turned to her from the podium, sweeping his arm out. She smiled as wide as she could, so hard that her cheeks quivered, fingers leaving damp marks on the paper in her grip. She hurried over to him, pressing a quick kiss onto his cheek before stepping behind the podium. She cleared her throat, adjusting the mic so it came to her level. She beamed out at the crowd, keeping a slow count inside her head to still the nerves before she spoke.

  “Thank you all.” She paused, waiting for the applause to die down. Smiling sweetly, she looked down at the first row of people pressed up against the barricade. Her gaze snagged on a man there; overdressed for the occasion, a heavy black jacket, shifty eyes that reminded her of something. Someone.

  She swallowed hard, unable to rip her gaze from the man. How do I recognize him? “Thank you all for joining us, as I truly appreciate the warm fanfare. There were moments during my kidnapping that I thought I’d never again see my father, my friends, or my home.”

  She powered through the rest of the script, making eye contact with the audience, careful to enunciate her words with sing-song reinforcement. She was a great public speaker—this was the oddest application of her Public Relations degree, yet reminded her of her love for event planning, creating buzz and delivering outcomes, addressing crowds of waiting people. Even though today, on the day of her own outcome and address, she was as disconnected as a balloon set loose in the atmosphere.

  Once she wrapped up the short speech, she waved and smiled, applause filling the air. Her gaze went back to the man in the front row. His beady eyes met her gaze, waiting for her to look again.

  The corner of his mouth turned up and the memory flooded her: the cement cell in the warehouse, the pacing, the interested lift of his eyebrow once she’d taken off her clothes. He was the Croatian guard she had seduced and then knocked out in the warehouse.

  Her voice shriveled in her throat, the realization making her stumble. If he was here, then something was definitely happening.

  And her father was still at risk; possibly more now than ever before.


  ***

  Boris still couldn’t quite get the hang of the U.S. The English language even sounded strange after so much time away from it—especially after his romantic dalliance by the Adriatic Sea, surrounded by the rustic vowels of the Croatian language.

  Only two days in the U.S. yet it felt like an eternity. Maybe it was because he knew Claudia inhabited the same city, tucked away somewhere in D.C., her lilting laugh and warming smile so near it made him crazy with longing.

  How could one week away from someone hurt so badly? Like a piece of his body had been excised and hidden from him. Without her around there was a noticeable lack. A painful desire that thrummed inside him, urging him to new levels of wishful thinking.

  Claudia’s father had scheduled a press conference to address the curious crowds. Pavlichenko expected him to attend, to finish the mission. But that was the farthest thing from his mind. The excitement at seeing Claudia again—glimpsing her, just breathing the same air—made it hard for him to sleep the past couple of nights. It was like waiting for Christmas morning as a kid. Christmas morning where the eager child turned the tables, got to surprise Dedya Morozh instead.

  Every minute since Claudia’s departure from Croatia had been consumed with planning. Brainstorming his exit strategy. Finding a way out. Imagining what life would be like afterward. If all went according to plan—which was tenuous, at best—the pieces would fall somewhere between defecting and being fired.

  And the only path from there was to try like hell to get Claudia back in his life.

  Boris knocked on the black steel door of a downtown D.C. warehouse, the two-three-two pattern they’d established for his arrival. It was mafia-approved but not mafia-run; more of an underground safe house in the east coast network, where he could show up for necessary equipment, like the sniper rifle he’d be using for the press conference.

  The door creaked open and a set of steely eyes assessed him. Without a word, the doorman let him inside, nodding toward the dimly lit staircase in the corner. Boris took the steps two at a time, the air a mixture of leather cleaner and the distant lick of humid, summer fragrance. Upstairs, a small group of men crowded around a utility table in what was otherwise a sparsely furnished, open air second story. Strange, disjoined electronic music pulsed low, like the background track at a goth club.

  “You Boris?” One of the guys nodded at him, waving him toward the table.

  “Number please,” another one joked, his voice raspy and betraying a New York accent.

  Boris approached the table, receiving the outstretched sniper rifle. He cocked a smile. “Looks good. I appreciate you taking care of this.”

  “It comes with the membership,” the first guy cracked. He pointed toward a door at the back wall. “That leads to the roof.”

  “You come in the front, leave from the roof,” the other guy said.

  Boris slung the sniper over his shoulder, saluting the men. “Thanks for the help.”

  He hurried toward the back wall, checking his phone. 12:10p.m. Another twenty minutes until the press conference began. Plenty of time to get set up and scope the scene.

  After another five flights of stairs, two steps at a time, he pushed through to the roof. Sunlight greeted him, reflecting off the white cement of the rooftop. He jogged to the edge of the building, setting the rifle down against the low wall. Bulky boxes and other prominences dotted the rooftop—hidden air conditioners and other necessary equipment for the building.

  The buildings on either side of the safe house were about the same height as this building—luckily no office or apartment windows looking directly onto the roof. He might be able to get the shot without being identified. But there was never any guarantee.

  Like it matters if they identify you. Thanks to the organization, they’d killed him years ago, at least according to the government. So any eyewitnesses or DNA left behind led them straight to a ghost. Creating new streams of throw-away identities was no difficult task with this org, either. According to the passport he’d flown in on, he was Dennis Bird. Next week, he would be someone else entirely.

  The rooftop overlooked the square where the press release would be. Full trees partially obscured the stage area; people filled the grassy areas, pressed up against barricades, spilling out onto K Street. Cameras in hands, press passes dangling from necks, this place was crawling with journalists and reporters. Any number of these people could take a panoramic photo and capture him in the background by mistake. And once they heard the shots, he’d have to be extra careful to escape without being identified.

  He crouched and watched, desperate to catch a glimpse of Claudia. The sniper had a scope but he wouldn’t bust that out until necessary. The event was swarming with guards too—burly men, hands hovering over holsters, posted nearly every five feet around the perimeter.

  Claudia, where are you? He checked his watch: 12:20. Murmurs from the crowd snagged his attention, a few whoops and hollers. Down the road, a black sedan with tiny Slavonian flags at either side of the hood rolled up; it was them. The back door open and cheering swelled. Golden hair visible over the top of the back door, smoothed back into an elegant bun at the back of her neck.

  Claudia stepped forward, waving at the crowd, a big smile on her face. Smartly dressed in a tailored two-piece dress, she was a cross between a politician and a movie star. He gripped at the cement embankment, breath evaporating in his throat. Claudia, I’m here. A smile ghosted across his face as he studied her, as much as he could, as she and another man—probably her father—stepped up onto the stage.

  Now that they were in the open air, it was time to work. He reached for the sniper rifle, propping it up on the wall. He peered through the scope, settling first on Claudia. Just one more look. Her face shone bright but nervous. With makeup and neatly pressed clothes, she almost looked like a stranger. The society-ready version of the lap-dancing, street ready, whip smart Claudia he found out there on the ocean. He cracked a grin, lingering just a moment longer.

  Then he swooped his scope over to the far right of the square, starting a slow scan of the eastern edge of buildings. Filitov’s retirement included plenty of intel from other defectors—there was a healthy network spanning western Europe—and one of the most relevant pieces of recent information was that Pavlichenko planned to attend this speech today.

  Probably to take care of the job himself; and after what happened in Dubrovnik, Pavlichenko had every right to be unsure whether Boris would pull the trigger or not. Maybe he’d come to hurt Claudia, too. At this point, Pavlichenko’s plan didn’t even matter.

  Because Boris would be putting a stop to it. As soon as he could get him in his scope.

  Come on, Pavlichenko. Come on. Where are you?

  Filitov’s intel had served as a window; a small, unstable window leading into a new world. All it took was the clear shot to end his alliance with organization. And then he’d be army crawling through that window; working his damndest to at least talk to Claudia one more time.

  An announcer introduced Claudia and her father. Applause. Boris squinted harder, sweat prickling at his temples. No sign of Pavlichenko. Where are you, you bastard? Anxiety streaked through him, but he used his breath to calm his sensory nervous system, the only tactic he had in the face of so much adrenaline when sent on a kill.

  His heart throbbed in his ears. He resituated the rifle on his shoulder and then scanned the area again. And again.

  No Pavlichenko.

  Claudia’s father took the stand, launching into a speech in a smooth, professional voice. His voice filled the square, echoing slightly on the buildings. Only a few words broke through the veneer of his concentration—relief, harrowing, courage—while he continued the hunt.

  A droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his face. The sun bathed him in mid-day heat, made worse by the heavy black jacket he’d chosen.

  Come on.

  A little ledge on a squat building on the east side of the square; tucked betwee
n tall buildings. Facing the side of the stage area. He had to be there. Every other spot was clear. Unless he was planning on swooping in via helicopter or magic carpet, the guy didn’t have too many other options.

  On the final sweep, Boris caught the glint; that was it. The sunlight reflecting off the barrel of the sniper. Propped against the ledge, like he’d merely set it down for a second. Boris’s breath hitched and he stilled, body rigid as he waited.

  And waited.

  Pavlichenko appeared then, head popping up from behind the ledge, eyes shifty as he scanned the area. Propping the rifle over his shoulder, Pavlichenko peered through his own scope, sniper pointed at the podium.

  Boris’s breath came out in short puffs as he struggled to align the scope. Why aren’t you taking the shot? Pavlichenko could have shot Claudia’s father twelve times over by now. Unless of course the goal wasn’t the King at all.