Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

  At page five, a picture made her scroll slower. A younger Boris, perhaps: same chiseled jaw, more of a baby face, the same haunting dark eyes.

  Her breath hitched. In the distance, her father rummaged in the kitchen. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  She opened the profile, scanning the information. Boris Andreivich Druganov. Born March 1st, 1988. Moscow, Soviet Union. Caucasian. Deceased as of October 18th, 2008.

  She blinked hard, re-reading the information over and over again.

  Deceased.

  She gulped, staring at the picture, the information making bulky turns in her head. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. It was Boris. Clear as day, Boris Andreivich Druganov. She clicked around, finding a rap sheet attached to his record, showing a multitude of gang-banger accusations and domestic disturbance charges. Seems Boris had a rough childhood. No small wonder, then, that he’d made it to a mafia organization.

  She stared at the information a moment longer, committing as much as possible to memory. The excitement from before, snuffed like a candle, left a strange hollow inside her heart.

  Her only clue to finding Boris on her own had led straight to a dead-end. A ghost certainly hadn’t saved her, that was for sure—which meant he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t even exist.

  Blinking back tears, she pushed up out of the chair and headed for her bedroom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hours turned into days. Days turned into almost a week. And soon Claudia found it hard to completely remember the bone-shaking fear of being onboard the sex cruise. The sting of the mid-day Croatian sun. The drop of her stomach at hearing a gunshot break through the air unexpectedly.

  But some things wouldn’t leave her, no matter how hard she tried to forget them. No matter how many times they showed up in her dreams. The breath-evaporating shock of jumping from the railing of the ship into the ocean. The choked air inside that secret club at the bottom of the ship—any hint of cigar smoke could remind her of that lap dance.

  And then Boris. Everything about him refused to fade away. The steely jaw brushed with days-long stubble; his dark, consuming eyes. The way his belly moved when he laughed while her head was in his lap. The warmth that emanated from him, like they’d been together forever.

  The media firestorm demanded an appearance, and after consulting two lawyers and a CIA spook, Claudia’s father organized a press conference to address the most outstanding questions. Per official protocol, they handed her a very simple and precise script to follow once she stepped in front of the podium.

  Claudia’s kidnapping and heralded return picked up way more media coverage than she’d ever imagined. Not that she’d had any expectations upon returning, other than a hot shower and maybe a few days of complete relaxation. But it seemed like every new outlet in the country had something to say about the kidnapping.

  Pundits debated the efficacy of the US policies towards the support for the exiled royal family of Slavonia, since maybe the kidnapping reflected potential unease at her father’s own position. Talk shows murmured sympathy for the innocent Princess, and all the ways this might affect her future. The internet had produced several clever memes, as well, with too many comments sections weighing in on her experience.

  The attention and buzz of the first week home made her feel like a bizarre type of celebrity.

  “Honey, are you ready?”

  Her father adjusted his tie when he came out of his bedroom, face strained like it always was before a big meeting or event.

  “Almost, dad.” She finished pushing a pearl earring through her lobe and turned to face him, smiling tightly. This press conference was as much an official press release statement as it was placating the expectant crowds, wanting to see the happy father and daughter reunited. The amount of rumors circulating was never-ending. At least this way, they could lay to rest some of the more bizarre theories.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, waving her toward the door. “We should get into the car.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” She snatched up her handbag and followed him to the front door of the two-story townhouse. A black sedan waited out front for them, the car that would carry them to Jefferson Square, where the high-security address would take place. The whole thing made Claudia’s head spin—including the fact that her father might still be in danger.

  She slipped into the back seat of the sedan, catching a whiff of roses before she settled in. “You upped our security for the event, right?”

  “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.

  Sw
arms 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 build
ings 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.