Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

  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 between 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.

  Boris’s breath quickened and a dribble of sweat trailed down to his jaw. The line of sight between him and Pavlichenko wasn’t perfect, and this shot couldn’t be anything short of perfect. A missed shot outed him as the assassin. A missed shot meant more time for Pavlichenko to make his mark.

  A tree branch entered his line of sight, his finger tense above the trigger. Fuck. The breeze was just strong enough to move the leaves. He took a shaky breath and waited.

  The branch cleared.

  Now now now. There was no more time to waste. The longer he hesitated, the higher the risk that Claudia or her dad would be the main feature of that day’s news. His finger hovered over the trigger, gently brushing it. Get the shot.

  The scope crosshairs settled on Pavlichenko’s head just as the man pressed up to his own rifle.

  Anxiety made paralyzing steps across his chest—the stakes had never been so high throughout all of his career.

  His breath hitched and he pulled the trigger.

  The shot hissed out of the barrel and whizzed through the air, so fast nobody could ever notice it.

  He followed the trajectory in the scope and a second later it was confirmed.

  Missed.

  Boris’s belly clenched and he watched Pavlichenko through the scope. Reeling back from the rifle, his face was contorted in anger.

  Outed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Claudia debated for a total of three seconds about the man’s identity before her gut clenched. It came over her like a wave, a sick, nauseous fist taking residence in her low belly. Glancing back at her father, the sad truth washed over her: the assassination was still scheduled. This was it. And it would happen in broad daylight, in front of all their friends, fans and colleagues.

  She stumbled down the staircase, heading for the nearest guard. She tugged on his arm, standing on tiptoes to whisper into his ear.

  “Sir, there’s a threat here in the audience,” she hissed, scanning the front row as she spoke. She couldn’t see the man anymore. “I recognize a man in the front row as someone who was involved with my capture in Croatia. I think they’re planning to kill my father. Please, we have to do something!”

  The security guard jerked his head into a nod and whispered something over his walkie talkie. Then, turning to her, he said, “What does he look like? Can you describe him?”

  “Big, black jacket. Dark eyes. Short, brown hair.” She took a shaky sigh, feeling the claws of panic settling in. “He’s got a Croatian accent, if you can get him talking. English isn’t perfect. I think I remember a scar over his eyebrow.”

  The security guard nodded again. “We’ll scan the perimeter. Do an extra sweep for threats.”

  She wrung her hands, scanning the front row again, searching him out. If he was here, it meant others were here. Heart pounding in her chest, she debated what was best—interrupt the speech, and risk inducing public panic? Quietly usher her father off the stage? Fake a knee injury? At least ten local news cameras were pointed at the stage, documenting every breath, word and sigh. They were probably zoomed in on her having a mini-panic attack off to the side, anchors speculating on whether or not she had PTSD. Fuck fuck fuck.

  She gnawed at the inside of her lip, an even darker reality crushing down on top of her: What if this was still Boris’s gig? He might have decided to complete his mission. He could have been sent here by Pavlichenko, accompanied by the lackey.

  It didn’t seem right, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Tears clogged her throat and she drew a sharp breath, grabbing the handrail of the stairs up to the stage.

  Over the intonation of her father’s closing speech, a gasp rippled through
the crowd. Heads turned to look at something up in the sky.

  A scream pierced the air. More gasps, and her father paused mid-sentence. Murmurs sprang to life; confusion hung thick in the air.

  A man’s body tumbled down the side of a building to the left side of the square. She stared slack-jawed as the man, dressed in a black suit with scraggly black hair, fell to the ground like a rock. The sound of his body hitting the sidewalk made a sickening crack.

  Shrieks filled the air.

  ***

  Boris swore as he rushed down the staircase, nearly stumbling and face-planting in his haste. He burst through the doors of the second floor, tossing the sniper rifle to one of the guys on his way out. In the bright sunlight on the sidewalk, the square before him roiled in chaos.

  People screamed and fled, wild eyes everywhere he looked. He pushed into the fray, strangers bumping into his shoulders as they moved past him. The stage area was empty—most likely evacuated. He hugged the side of the square, headed for the barricades. The black sedan approached from the south side, no doubt to pick up Claudia and her father and whisk them off to safety.

  His heart throbbed as he scanned the fracas for any sign of Claudia. The reporters were gathered on the east side, huddling around the unexpected arrival from the fourth floor only moments ago. Boris sure hadn’t expected Pavlichenko to fall off the building like a graceless surprise springing out of a birthday cake, but no turning back now. Let the media have their field day.

  The square was clearing; most of the audience had fled the lawn area, crowding onto sidewalks and the streets.

  “Gotcha.”

  A man grabbed at his arms from behind, strong holding his wrists together. A second later the cold snap of handcuffs appeared at his wrists. Heart leaping into his throat, he twisted to get a look.

  A black-uniformed security guard glared at him.

  “Brown hair, dark eyes. Scar above the eyebrow. Heavy black jacket.” The guard pushed him toward the periphery, near the black sedan. “You’re the only fool wearing a jacket like that today, with this heat. You won’t be causing any more havoc today. And maybe you’ve already caused enough.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Anxiety stormed him; this hadn’t been on the agenda at all. He wracked his brain for some explanation that made sense. Maybe one of the guys at the safe house had ratted on him—maybe that was why they’d laughed so much. Knowing what was ahead.

  “What are you detaining me for?” His voice came out hard and strained.

  “Ms. Fellows identified you as a threat,” the guard spat, pushing him toward the sedan. “Once it’s confirmed, we’re hauling you to the precinct.”

  Up ahead, the black sedan sat at the curb. The back door opened and Claudia got out, mouth parted, eyes round as she stared at him.

  His heart leapt into his throat as his gaze swept over her. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered—her eyes so much greener, her frame so much more delicate and feminine. His throat tightened and all thoughts left his mind at once, leaving a pleasant blanket of calm.

  The guard sneered, presenting him like a prize. “Ms. Fellows, is this him?”

  Claudia’s father got out of the car behind her, his face knit with confusion. “What’s going on here?”

  “This is the man Claudia described as a threat to your safety.” The guard pushed him forward, like meat on display. Boris couldn’t rip his eyes off of her; his heart throbbed between his ears.

  “It’s him,” she croaked, and then shook her head, like coming out of a stupor. “I mean, no, he’s not the person I sent you after. This is…” She swallowed, drifting closer, tenderness softening her face. “This is my fiancé.”

  Boris grinned ear-to-ear. There’s my Claudia. Rolling with the punches. But he hoped it wasn’t just a ruse. He’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her to a chapel right now if she wanted it.

  “Claudia, what on God’s green earth are you talking about?” Her father looked positively befuddled.

  “Let go of him, please.” Claudia addressed the guard, then turned to her dad. “I didn’t tell you about this, because I was waiting for the right time. But we eloped in Croatia.” Her gaze swung back to Boris and his heart rate picked up again.

  Stjepan’s brow furrowed and he stared at Boris accusingly. “If this is true, then where’s the ring?”

  “I haven’t had the money to purchase one yet, sir.” Boris’s voice came out hoarse. Claudia rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, the sweet scent of her hair prompting a swell of relief. God, I missed you more than I can describe. Into her ear, he whispered, “Purchasing you counts, right?”

  She laughed into his chest. The guard behind him unlocked his cuffs and when his hands were free, he wrapped his arms around her small frame, letting a shaky sigh.

  “I’ve missed you so much, doll,” he murmured into her hair. “I thought I was going crazy.”

  “Me too,” she croaked, tilting her head back to look at him. “Boris, I don’t want to be away from you.”

  Stjepan eyed them suspiciously. “Where did you meet?”

  “In Croatia, while I was backpacking.” She cinched her arms around him tighter, like she’d never let go. “It was all a whirlwind, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but, now he’s here.”

  “Surprise,” he said, smoothing his hands over her back.

  “Come on, let’s get going, Claudia.” Stjepan headed back to the sedan.

  “Boris’s coming with.”

  He sighed, opting for the front seat instead. “Fine. Let’s just get out of here. I’ve got damage control to do.”

  Claudia grinned up at him, squeezing his hand as they walked to the sedan, never ripping their eyes off each other. Claudia climbed in the back seat first and then he followed suit. Once the doors were shut, Stjepan didn’t glance back at him, but the air hung bloated with questions.

  “Are you going to stay?” Claudia snuggled up to him, her green eyes wide and imploring.

  His gaze careened over her face, desperate to memorize it, so that he’d never feel the same type of misery and longing as the past week without her. “I’m going to try. I have some things to wrap up.”

  Claudia glanced toward the front seat. The heavy pause before her words told him she was speaking very carefully. “Was that?” She nodded toward the square, disappearing behind them. “Did you?”

  The gist of her question was clear enough. He nodded his head, gnawing at the inside of his lip. “I took care of it.”

  From the front seat, Stjepan spoke quietly on the phone with someone. His tone was tense and strained. After he ended the call, he let a sigh.

  “You two have some explaining to do,” Stjepan said. “For now, we’ll go back to the townhouse and work on our public statement. At least we managed to show the world you were alive before more havoc ensued.”

  Boris shifted, knowing now wouldn’t be the time to admit he’d been the cause of that havoc—or ever. “What happened, sir?”

  “From the reports coming in, it looks like someone was murdered on the rooftop of a nearby building.” Stjepan tugged a hand through his hair. “They’re saying it might have been an assassin, sent to scope our press conference. Whoever killed him might have pushed him off the rooftop, too. Which is what caused the panic we all witnessed.”

  “Jesus,” Claudia said, but he could catch the distant note of relief in her voice.

  “If he was an assassin,” Boris said, “It’s a good thing he’s dead.”

  Stjepan hefted with a small laugh, turning to look at him. Question marks swirled in his eyes. “I suppose that’s right, if he were truly an assassin.”

  “He might have been coming to hurt you or Claudia,” Boris said, squeezing her knee. If only he could admit the full extent of his knowledge to the King. But that definitely wouldn’t endear him to the idea of him marrying his daughter—or even being in the same car as them.
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br />   “When will we know more?” Claudia asked.

  “As soon as possible, honey.” Stjepan tossed a smile to her in the backseat. “We’re looking into it now.”

  The ride to Claudia’s father’s townhouse was stilted and slow. Traffic swelled in downtown D.C. and maybe some of it was due to the commotion at the square. Boris and Claudia shared drawn-out, heated looks; furtive backseat communication in lieu of words, since there was too much to say and not enough privacy to say it.