Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

Silence settled between them, the radio murmuring quietly. After a bit, Boris straightened. “After we get back to the safe house, I think I’ll head out.”

  Filitov nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “I’ve gotta call Pavlichenko. And I need to buy a new cell phone.”

  “So you’re going through with the mission?” Filitov looked over at him, and he swore there was a sadness there. Maybe he was a secret fan of what had bloomed between him and Claudia. Like a father wanting for his son what he’d never managed to obtain in his own life.

  Boris heaved a sigh. “Like I said, I’m working on the plan.”

  “All right. At least have lunch with us first. Then I’ll release you back into the wild.”

  Boris nodded, squeezing his fist as his mind worked over what the next few days might look like. “I think I can manage that.”

  ***

  Claudia took a shaky breath, alone on the bustling Dubrovnik sidewalk. Boris and Filitov had dropped her off ten minutes ago, but she hadn’t found the strength to enter the embassy yet.

  She hadn’t expected this onslaught of emotion. Of the trepidation, of the sadness that hit her like a sack of bricks as she watched Boris drive away in that car. She drew another deep breath. You’ll be on your way home now. Back to the US. Back to Dad, your home in America.

  After so much adventure and action, those things seemed like fantasies. As remote as the concept of kidnapping had been to her a mere two weeks ago.

  She redid her bun, staring up at the fortress of the embassy. Imposing stone façade, sprawling green gardens. A little slice of home territory here in Croatia.

  Looking back once more at the street—like a final confirmation that Boris was in fact not returning to grab her, to kiss her, to insist he come with—and headed up the long sidewalk leading to the Embassy.

  A guard stood posted outside the door, and some people milled around. She tried to pull open the door but the guard stopped her.

  “Do you have an appointment?” He narrowed his eyes.

  She shook her head. “No, but I need to speak with someone. My name is Claudia Zvonimira and I’ve—”

  “You can’t get in without an appointment,” the guard said, stiffening.

  She paused. “I understand that. But sir, I haven’t been able to make an appointment.” She gulped, looking around. “I was kidnapped.”

  When the guard looked dubious, she added, “My father is Stjepanory Fellows, the King-in-exile of Slavonia. I was kidnapped while backpacking in a different part of Croatia nearly two weeks ago. I was taken to a sex cruise, and then rescued, and then taken hostage, and…” Her breath hitched with emotion and she clutched at her chest. Dear God, what if this man didn’t let her in and help her? What if he thought she was a crackpot? “I finally found my way here and I need your help.”

  The people in the periphery turned to look at her with wide eyes.

  “I recognize you,” one of them said, a sandy-haired man. His accent placed him as American. “I read about you in the news! You were the Princess that was kidnapped!”

  A frightening cocktail of emotion streaked through her—surprise, dismay, and the most pervasive sense of relief she’d ever felt in her life. They’ve been looking for me. The news traveled the world. She stumbled a bit and the guard grabbed her arm, steadying her.

  “Give me a minute,” the guard said, pulling out a phone. He made a quick call to someone, speaking in stilted Croatian.

  “Are you okay?” The sandy-haired man asked.

  Claudia jerked her head into a nod. “I am. I’ve just… had a rough time.”

  The guard jerked his head toward the embassy. “You should come with me.”

  She followed him into the main foyer, stumbling behind him like she’d just woken up. The marble tiles of the embassy gleamed up at her; inside, there was a hush of official orderliness. The quiet hum of bureaucracy. Gazes flicked her way as he led her through the lines of people waiting to be attended at the line of counters. He pushed through an unmarked door, holding it open for her.

  The hallway they entered was dimly lit but opulent. Wood paneling betrayed an older elegance; occasional oil paintings featured portraits of people she didn’t recognize. He rounded a corner, then another, and brought her to an office. He knocked twice and then pushed it open.

  “Speak with him,” he commanded. She walked through the door, finding a middle-aged man behind a large, wooden desk. He glanced up at her, gesturing for her to sit down.

  “Are you Claudia Zvonimira?”

  She nodded, easing into the chair. “I am. I was kidnapped while backpacking about two weeks ago.”

  “And why are you only appearing now?” His brows were set in a line while he typed on his keyboard.

  Emotion tightened her throat. “What? Are you serious? I just finally escaped. I was—“

  “I’m sorry.” He tore his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. “I just have to make sure you are who you say you are. There have been reports of this kidnapping for weeks. It’s gaining more and more international exposure.” He paused. “I have to makes sure you aren’t an imposter.”

  She creased a brow, heart racing. “An imposter? Why would anyone pose as me?”

  “Bureaucratic hiccups are the favorite pastime of some people.” He clicked around, squinting at his computer screen. He looked between her and the screen several times. “But you look exactly like her, you do.”

  “Because I am her.” She tutted. “Can’t I call my father? Please? Let him hear my voice. He’ll identify me immediately. Take my fingerprint. Whatever.”

  “Oh, we’ll be doing all of that.” He slipped his glasses back on. “After a few questions first.”

  He grilled her on her birthday, birthplace, social security number and family history. After that, which seemed like it should have been satisfactory, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. The silence hung tense and bloated in his office. She squeezed her knees, desperate for him to believe her, desperate to talk to her father, desperate to hug Boris just one last time.

  Finally, he passed the phone to her.

  “This is your father,” he said, a small smile ghosting his face.

  She pressed the phone to her eyes, eyes wide. “Dad?”

  “Claudia, is that you?” The familiar baritone rumbled through the phone; she could practically see his bright green eyes lighting up, halfway across the world.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s me, Dad. I’m here. I’m safe.”

  There was a gruff sigh. “Dear lord, I’ve been so worried about you.” He paused, made a sound like he might be crying. “Oh, Claudia, this is such a relief. Where have you been? What have they done?”

  She swallowed a knot of emotion. “Dad, it was awful. But I’m fine. I promise you. I want to come home.”

  “Immediately,” he promised. “You’ll be on a plane tonight. We’ll work out all the details.”

  “My phone was lost. My passport. All of my belongings.” Her breath hitched; a sob escaped. “They took me onto a yacht and tried to sell me.”

  There was a muffled cry from the other end of the phone. Claudia wiped away some tears that had fallen; all the pain and confusion of the past few weeks flooded forward, like water through a broken dam. She’d tried so hard to play the part, to keep her wits about her, to go with the flow on that cruise ship. And everything that happened afterward had been a blur, leaving her no time to process the depths of what she’d survived. What she’d sidestepped, because of Boris. Nearly every day, the thought rang through her body, shrill like a tornado siren: What if Boris hadn’t come? What would those men have done to you? Where would you be now?

  And now, in the first moment where she could relax—the first respite from the whirlwind—the unknowns crashed down around her. Once the danger was gone, the unraveling began.

  “Honey, we’re bringing you home.” Her father’s voice was strained, raw. “You’ll be home safe and sound. We’re gonna find the bastards tha
t did this to you, and we’ll take care of them.”

  Boris flashed through her mind—he would take care of them, if she asked him to. He already had taken care of one of them. A strange cocktail of desperation and longing flashed through her, hot as lava. I need to see Boris again.

  Boris Andreivich Druganov. The second she had a phone or laptop within reach, she’d search high and low for him. At least she had this to go on. It was unique enough to snag some potential leads; and his face was burned into her memory, so she’d be able to identify him no matter what.

  Hope sparked deep inside. Not only was she safe, she was going home. But the real cherry on top was the fact that she might be able to someday, somehow, see her beloved protector just one more time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Claudia sighed with contentment, burrowing even deeper into her favorite blanket. After a shower at her father’s house and a perfectly-singed grilled cheese sandwich, there were few ways this homecoming could improve.

  Except, of course, the one major way it could improve, which would be if Boris magically appeared with a bouquet of flowers. “Surprise!” he’d say. “Your father and I have been planning this all along!”

  But no. Her father smiled down at her, squeezing her shoulder. No Boris behind him, or knocking on the door. No matter how much she hoped with bated breath that somehow he might have been trailing her all along.

  The plan was to veg on the couch and watch Netflix, which seemed the only appropriate way to reintegrate into her normal life. Besides, the world beyond was a media shit show. Camera crews and journalists had swarmed them at the airport when they left baggage claim, rendering it almost impossible to get into their car. Her father’s phone rang relentlessly, too; after the twentieth call, he moved it to Do Not Disturb mode.

  “You must be exhausted,” he said. “Do you need anything else honey?”

  “No, dad, I’m good. I think I’ll just lay here and nap.” Her laptop sat unopened on the ottoman in front of the couch; between Netflix and catching up on emails, she had plenty to keep her occupied for the next week if she so chose.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he said, kissing his fingertips and pressing them to her nose. “You rest up.”

  She snuggled into the blanket, scrolling through the Netflix options. Action and adventure movies were out—she’d had enough of that the past few weeks—and rom-com’s seemed too soon. But really, the past weeks had been a strange, unforgettable combination of the two categories. Maybe someday they’ll make a movie about what you lived through. Falling in love with the man hired to kill your father. With a grimace, she finally settled on a Disney pick.

  About fifteen minutes into the movie, curiosity gnawed at her. She had to know more about the mysterious Boris Andreivich Druganov. Launching the search might help her really begin to settle down.

  She reached for her laptop, half-heartedly watching the movie while it booted up. After her browser popped open, all the regular saved tabs appeared—exactly where she’d left off before beginning her backpacking trip. Like a strange memorial to her life, pre-kidnapping. One tab for her favorite clothing store, another one for a search she’d started on late summer festivals in the east coast region. Tinder was open in another tab—like she’d ever be able to find a more interesting match than Boris?—which had been a reminder to herself to investigate the possibility of trying it out. She’d been admittedly curious about the dating world before her backpacking trip, unsure if she really wanted to take the plunge. Boris sure cleared that up for you.

  She sighed, closing all the tabs, opening a secret browsing window instead. Typing in ‘Boris Andreivich Druganov’ yielded a hodgepodge of disparate results. The name was linked to European soccer players, some Croatian banking establishment, a Wikipedia article and also a slew of coding resources that were probably the farthest thing away from Boris in the world.

  After a few frustrating modifications on the search, she realized Google would lead her nowhere. He didn’t exist in search results like that—but what about social media?

  She scoured Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and more, typing in his name and every combination of details she could muster: pizza, Croatia, Boris, age range 23-30. And each time, instead of the chiseled, handsome man she’d come to love, she found every variation on the theme: pimply adolescents. Dark-skinned business men. Sharply dressed partiers, arms slung around friends and ladies.

  The movie was over by the time she exhausted her research. With a sigh, she collapsed onto the couch during the credits, eyes stinging from so much screen time.

  Boris, how can I find you?

  Maybe he’d given her a fake name. Or maybe it was one he no longer used. Clearly if he went by Boris, he’d made a choice to disassociate from Boris for some reason. The reasons could spiral on into eternity. In his line of work, there might be layers upon layers of fake information before she could burrow down to the truth.

  It’s hopeless. Just accept it. You’ll never see him again.

  She turned onto her side, burying her face into the side of the couch. At just over 24 hours since she’d last seen him, maybe her only saving grace was the fact that it would get easier with time. Wasn’t that the age-old advice? Surely, weeks or months down the road, she wouldn’t pine for him so hard. Wouldn’t long for him like she’d just been divested of a limb.

  Or maybe you’ll feel this way forever.

  There was one resource left at her disposal, but it was only available via her father’s job. She pushed herself off the couch, heading for her father’s office. His doors were closed, so she knocked softly. A moment later, he pulled the door open.

  “What are you doing up?” His brow creased with concern.

  “I have a favor to ask.” She drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the outrageous request. “If I wanted to use your database to look into someone’s background, could I?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I just want to look into someone,” she said, heart racing. The idiocy of the request was slowly seeping through her, making her panic. “But it needs to be no questions asked. I don’t want to explain, and I don’t want to talk about it. Just one search.”

  He blinked a few times, his face neutral. “Is this related to the kidnapping?”

  “I said no questions asked. But yes.”

  His jaw flinched, gaze drifting over to his computer. He could get into a shit ton of trouble for abusing his security clearances. But just one search had to be fine. Or else she’d go crazy from wondering.

  “And what will you do with the information?”

  “Nothing, probably. I just need to know more.”

  His gaze hardened. “Before I agree to this, I need to ask a few questions.”

  Hope tremored through her. “Okay fine. A few questions might be allowed.”

  “Is this the person who kidnapped you?”

  “No.”

  “Is this a person involved in rescuing you from the ship?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe.”

  He deflated. “So you do know the identity of who rescued you. You told me it was an anonymous group of bandits.”

  “Dad, I can’t go into detail.”

  “This is pertinent information that the US government wants to know. I need to know.”

  Panic cinched her chest. “I can’t. For all intents and purposes, this person is unrelated to everything. Okay? Just please, let me. Please.”

  His gaze skated over her, worry etched into his face. “Fine. But just one person. Just this once.” He pulled the door open the rest of the way, gesturing to his large computer desk. “Now go.”

  She scurried over, settling into his big leather-backed chair, running her fingers over the keyboard as he navigated to the appropriate program on the computer.

  “Type the name in here.” He gestured at the screen, then to another area. “And you’ll fill in the remaining details in this area. Hit search, and that’s it.” He
seared her with a look. “But make it quick. I’m going to make myself a coffee.”

  He left the office quietly, leaving her in a bloated silence. The time is now.

  She typed “Boris Andreivich Druganov” into the initial search field, followed by a few additional pertinent pieces of information: age range, nationality, gender, race. Breath caught in her throat, she clicked Search.

  The system hung for a moment, a bar at the bottom showing a percentage that climbed slowly from 1% to 99%. It hung at 99% for what felt like an eternity. And then a search result page sprang to life.

  Several pages of Boris Andreivich Druganov greeted her. Portraits hugged the left side, and relevant personal information populated the right-hand column. Excitement gripped her—so many pages of possibilities. She scanned each picture first, on every single page, not bothering to read any of the personal information. She knew so little about him, it would hardly be useful.