by S. E. Lund
I felt sick about it, but it was for the best. She'd been hurt enough for one lifetime. First it was the loss of her father, then her mother's disability, then Spencer abusing her and Graham all those years. Finally, me taking advantage of my power over her to get what I wanted. Sergei's abduction and her rape was too much.
I had to let her go, no matter how much it hurt.
George came home about a week later and went to a special room I'd had hastily constructed with everything he'd need to recover over the coming weeks. A special chair that raised and lowered so he could get in easily. A bathtub that had an easy access. I hired an occupational therapist for him, who would get him back into as good a working shape as possible, given the damage to his nerves.
Four weeks passed, and then five.
Six weeks after I rescued Celia from Sergei's warehouse, I entered the space with my crew, weapons at their sides.
For two weeks, I’d planned the op, meeting with Sergei's competitors, finding my way into their good graces. I'd established a relationship with a man who wanted to take over some of Sergei's business in Boston.
I'd agreed, in a meeting with Sergei's capo, to store his shipments of guns at my warehouse on the waterfront and we were going to pick them up – or so the story went.
When we walked in, the guards checked us out but our weapons were expected because we were transporting the guns and needed protection. I was unarmed and went up to Sergei, shaking his hand.
"It is good you finally came around to my way of thinking about this matter," he said coolly.
"What choice did I have?" I replied, smiling.
"There was no choice, I agree. I hear your little bird was plucked and flew to a better nest. It is sad. I love a happy ending but there are other birds."
"There are."
"Yes, there are many pretty birds and they are very sweet," Sergei said, then waved at the boxes of guns. "But money is sweeter."
I nodded, not letting on how I really felt, smiling like Celia meant nothing to me.
Of course, Sergei knew she meant something to me – a lot. Enough that he could manipulate me to get what he wanted.
"So, you take my guns, and hold them until I have a buyer. You get a cut, I get them out of my warehouse."
At that moment, two more armed men entered. They were a few of the lower-level guards from one of Sergei's competitors, who I'd promised could take over the gun-running biz in Boston once I took Sergei down. It had taken a great deal of finesse to get them to trust me, but they finally did, having as much hatred for Sergei as I did, but for different reasons.
"What the fuck is this?" Sergei glanced at the men.
"Some backup," I said. "Just in case I needed them." I gestured to the men, who were dressed in swat gear. They stood at the ready. The lead man nodded at me. His name was Alexei – the son of one of the Russians in Boston who had fallen at Sergei's hands but he was wearing a mask that covered the bottom of his face so Sergei didn't recognize him.
"We're here with a truck, ready to go," Alexei said, holding his hand up to calm Sergei.
Sergei looked wary, but then he relented. "Be my guest." Sergei pointed to the boxes of guns. "I'll let you know when my buyer is coming to pick up."
"You heard the man," I said to Alexei and his man. "Take them."
That was the signal. Both men turned their weapons on Sergei's guards, who fell to the ground in a hail of automatic gunfire. I watched Sergei, who was cool as a cucumber. The only sign he was upset was the muscle pulsing in his jaw. He turned to me, reaching for his weapon, but I was faster, kicking away his hand before he could draw his weapon. Then I punched him in the head, easily knocking him to the ground. I knelt over him and took the weapon from his holster.
"This," I said holding the gun to his chin. "This is for Celia."
Epilogue
Celia
My new home a few miles north of San Francisco in Duncan's Cove was unlike anything I'd known. I knew it was Hunter's doing. The FBI witness protection program didn't provide oceanfront beach houses for their protectees.
I spent my days walking the coast, collecting shells, and waiting for everything to heal so I could move forward with my life, such as it was. I recovered from my concussion, the headaches slowly subsiding, and my bruises all faded. My memories of the rapes were sporadic, coming back now and then when I least expected it. With nothing else to do, I spent my time reading and watching Netflix, taking my first real holiday since I started college.
I heard nothing from anyone back in Boston except a short email from Monique, my contact in the FBI's witness protection program. She said all was well and everyone in my list of contacts was fine. All alive. All living their lives without me. They could only communicate with me via her so no one knew where I lived or what name I had taken.
For the first week after I arrived in Duncan's Cove, I cried every night, sad that I had been forced to leave everyone I loved, and that Hunter had agreed to it. I really thought he cared for me enough to want to keep me in Boston. I argued with my aunt, I argued with Graham, and I argued with my mother, but they all agreed that it was the right thing to do. Hunter wouldn't even see me, no matter what I did.
In Duncan's Cove, I didn't have to get a job. Money was deposited in an account for me once a month – more than I had ever earned before, and more than I needed. I knew that was Hunter's doing as well, and for that I was grateful, but I hated him for letting me go without even saying goodbye.
Then, out of the blue, six weeks after I left Boston, I was watching CNN and saw a headline on the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen.
Boston Mafia boss Sergei Romanov, brother Victor Romanov killed in gangland assassination.
The news was sordid. A rival Russian gang had fought with the Romanovs over a shipment of guns. Sergei and his brother Victor were both shot dead, as well as three of their underlings. Two men from the rival gang were also killed, their bodies left at the scene.
The news coverage displayed a bloody scene, blue sheets covering the bodies in an old warehouse along the waterfront.
It was the warehouse where I was raped.
One of Sergei's relatives from New York City, Semion Romanov, came down from New York City for the funerals.
I called Monique to ask if that meant I could come back to Boston, but she assured me that I was still not safe. She told me to be patient, forget Boston, and focus on my application for law school at Stanford. That no matter what, I had to make a new life because my name would still be on the Romanovs’ list of enemies.
I was assured that since I already had been accepted at Stanford when I initially applied the previous year, I could re-apply and would likely be accepted. The fact that I was in the witness protection program would be known to only a few of those involved in approving applications. The confidentiality of my real identity would be assured.
Resigned to my lot, I went out and sat on the deck overlooking the ocean and tried to get excited about starting law school in the fall, but it was hard. I still had months to wait until I could begin again. Bored, I got a job at a local bookstore and spent my time stocking shelves and helping customers find their books, even though I didn’t need the money.
Every day I went to work, my name tag reading Emma Jones instead of Celia Parker. It was hard at first to adjust to using a new name, and I often failed to respond when my boss or one of my neighbors called out Emma, because I forgot who I was supposed to be.
Then, one day as I was walking along the beach, I got a text on my new cell. My new number under my new name.
JDOE: If you want to see me again, meet me at 7152 Cliff Avenue.
A surge of emotion swept through my entire body and my eyes teared up. J Doe? John Doe… It had to be Hunter. But how could I know? It could be one of the Romanov thugs come to kill me…
EMMA: How do I know who you are? Give me evidence to prove it's you or I'm calling the FBI.
JDOE: The first time we kissed, you rolle
d on top of me while we were supposed to be watching the stars.
Hunter. He was here, in Duncan's Cove. Cliff Avenue ran up the coast a few miles from my place.
I texted him, unable to hold back.
EMMA: Hunter! Why didn’t you contact me all this time? It's been two months and I haven't heard anything from you. Why didn’t you contact me sooner? You just expect me to come running to you after not even saying goodbye?
I cried after I sent that, torn between being angry at him and wanting to go right away.
JDOE: I know you're angry but I had to do it for your safety. Come to me.
EMMA: Why should I? You expect me to just run to you when you call me up?
JDOE: I remember that night so well. I tried to be a gentleman but you were brazen and insisted I kiss you.
EMMA: I was a foolish young girl.
JDOE: I protested, because I was supposed to be protecting you, not trying to seduce you. You kissed me anyway. It got me in trouble with Graham. And made me fall in love with you. Come to me. Whenever you want.
EMMA: Do you have permission to visit me? My handler didn't say anything about this. I'm not supposed to contact anyone from my past. I'm going to have to think about this.
JDOE: Take as much time as you need. I'm not going anywhere.
I wiped my eyes and walked back to the house, unsure of whether I should go to Hunter and see him again. My handler told me I couldn't go back until I had their approval and that I couldn't be in contact with anyone or I might lose their protection.
I sat in the house and stared at the fireplace, trying to decide what to do.
After several hours of dithering, I got in my SUV and drove up the coast to the address despite my misgivings. I found the house and parked in the driveway, noting that there was a single SUV parked there – a black Mercedes. It had to be Hunter's.
I climbed up the pathway to the house, which was fantastic – maybe a couple of thousand square feet in all with an amazing deck, which was lit up by patio lanterns hanging from the rafters. I knocked at the door and waited.
The door opened to reveal George and I squealed with delight when I saw him.
"George!" I hugged him. He seemed surprised at my show of affection, but I felt real joy at seeing him.
"Miss Celia," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am so glad to see you."
I stepped back, my hands on his arms, and looked him over. He was the same old pug-faced Russian with a salt-and-pepper brush cut and a pale blue button-down shirt and jeans. His face was weathered, with deep lines in it above his eyes, beside his nose. His piercing blue eyes were just as I remembered. He put a hand to them, like he was overcome with emotion.
"What's the matter?"
He pulled his hand away and smiled. "I am so sorry," he said, extending his hand. "I am very glad that you are okay."
"I'm fine, " I said and took his hand. "It's you who was seriously injured. I was just roughed up a bit. Nothing serious."
Of course, that was a lie, but it was the one I told myself. I wasn’t “just roughed up” and George knew it by the look on his face. I smiled, trying to pretend everything was fine, and followed him. He struggled up the stairs, using a three-pronged cane as he climbed the five stairs to the main floor.
"Where's Hunter?"
"He is in garage trying to fix car. Please to come in. Make yourself comfortable."
I smiled at his accent. It was one of those endearing traits of his. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him.
We entered a huge great room with vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, and an enormous stone fireplace. Two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the ocean.
"Sit," he said, waving to the sofa. "I tell Hunter you are here."
I went to the window, glancing around at the cabin, amazed at how fantastic it was, with huge windows overlooking the Pacific. While my place was nice, this was spectacular.
Just then, Hunter entered the living room from the back of the house.
He stopped when our eyes met. "Celia…"
"Hunter," I said, my throat closing, stopping me from saying more.
He came right over, a soft smile on his lips. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me, the kiss soft at first, then growing more passionate. He pulled me closer and finally, I threw my arms around him, kissing him back with abandon.
George cleared his throat and we broke the kiss and turned to him, both of us smiling.
"Sorry," Hunter said. "Got carried away." He turned back to me and touched my cheek, then stroked my hair. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," I said, feeling like I was far too close to tears. I still wanted Hunter. No matter what had happened to me, even if it was his fault, I wanted him.
"I'm so glad you decided to come."
"You thought I'd say no?"
He nodded. "I did," he said softly. "I thought you'd hate me. It was because of me that you… had to leave."
I said nothing, just looked at him, drinking in his face, his body. Finally, I spoke, my voice wavering with emotion.
"I could never hate you," I whispered.
Hunter smiled. "George packed a picnic basket for us. I thought we could hike along the trail along the cliffs and have lunch."
"Sounds nice," I said with a sigh. "I don’t really know anyone here so it'll be nice to have some company for a change."
He nodded, his eyes lingering on my face. "I'm sorry. It must have been hard, being all alone for so long."
I nodded. Finally, he turned to George. "I'll take that."
George held out the wicker basket. "I pack good Russian food, " he said, a grin on his face. "Vodka, caviar, sour cream, blini. Fruit, too."
"Caviar?" I said with a laugh and stood up. "That's not picnic fare."
"Is in Mother Russia," George protested, a mock-hurt expression on his face. "Each year we go to dacha on Black Sea and eat caviar, drink vodka around fire."
I turned to Hunter. "Do you eat caviar? "
"It's really quite good, " he said and grabbed the basket. "Try it. You never know you like something until you try."
"I'll try for George's sake, since he went to so much trouble."
Hunter patted George on the back. "We'll be a while."
George nodded, smiling. "Have nice time."
We left the house and made our way along the cliff that overlooked the coast. While we hiked, I talked about the area and about my time there since I’d left, and he filled me in on news from Saint Brothers Gym and the whole business with Sergei and Victor.
I stopped him, my hand on his arm.
"Did you kill Sergei?"
He said nothing and started walking along the path.
"I take it that means you did, but you can't admit it."
He smiled at me. "Classified info. Let's just say I'm happy he and Victor are gone. Now the FBI has to take down his cousin Semion. He's a really bad guy."
We reached a clearing after hiking along a winding trail that cut along the face of the cliff with a few trees on one side, a sharp drop on the other. Below was a rocky shore where the waves crashed into white foam. The air was cool and a bit damp, the scent of pine and salt sea air strong. It was refreshing and kept me from overheating.
A couple of trees had been felled and the clearing was dominated by a huge tree stump where Hunter stood.
"Here's our table." He turned his back to me. "Do you like the view? I scouted this place out when we arrived and thought this would be a great place for a picnic."
I nodded, then frowned.
"How long have you been here?"
"A week." He glanced sideways at me, a guilty expression on his face.
"A week? And you didn't contact me?"
He shook his head. "I promised your mother and your aunt that I'd never see you again."
Anger bubbled up inside of me at them both for making Hunter promise.
"They shouldn't have made you do that. It's none of their business."
"They were afraid you'd
be murdered, Celia. Murdered because of me."
I said nothing and watched while he placed the basket on the stump, which must have once been a massive tree. It was as big as a dining room table. He opened the basket and took out a blanket with ornate red, white, and black stitching.
"Is that Russian? It looks Slavic."
"Thanks to George. He bought the picnic basket and the blanket at this little Russian store in San Francisco."
"Really? There's a Russian store in San Francisco?"
"There is." Hunter took out dishes and glasses and a bottle of vodka. "I wouldn't know how to fix a picnic if my life depended on it." He opened the bottle of vodka and poured two shots into the tiny crystal glasses with delicate lacy etching. "Luckily, it doesn't or I'd be dead. That's why I have George. He, unlike me, actually had a life in Russia and learned all these things."
Hunter sat on the stump and I sat beside him, wanting to feel his body next to mine.
"So," I said as I leaned back. "Tell me about George. How is he?"
"George?" Hunter fished out a small insulated container from the picnic basket. He opened it and revealed a collection of small pancake-like items. He eyed them. "George is the kind of man who believes in going all out. These," he said, "are blini. Little Russian pancakes."
I smiled. "Yes, I know those. You put caviar on them and sour cream."
Hunter glanced up at me. "They're good. Salty and creamy and savory." He took out a small dish of black caviar and one filled with sour cream. He fixed a blini for me and handed it to me on a napkin.
"You should be drinking a shot of vodka when you eat this, to be truly Russian."
I laughed. "You didn’t tell me why George was so emotional."
"He was afraid for you, that's all."
I smiled, affection for George filling me.
"After what happened in Boston, I'm quite happy to never see another Russian again, but I have a soft spot for George. As for the vodka, hit me." I popped the blini in my mouth and chewed. I didn’t mind it. "Tastes like the ocean." I watched as Hunter ate one as well.