She pulled back to meet his gaze, confusion mingling with admiration. There was a lot of emotion beneath the surface with Boris—more than she’d expected. “You saved me, and I can never thank you enough.”
She stroked the side of his face with her thumb, searching out his gaze. His dark eyes met hers, hesitantly, and they watched each other for a few moments, electricity snapping in the air.
Boris moved first—or maybe it was her—but it was enough to prompt them to fall toward each other, lips seeking lips, and then they were kissing. His mouth crushed against hers, desperate and warm. A dizzying kiss emerged, one that melted into another.
She whimpered, pressing herself harder against him, hooking an arm around his neck. Desperate to seal herself to him, to eliminate any distance between herself and her rescuer.
Her hero. Her Boris.
They kissed until she broke for air. Foreheads pressed together, she drew ragged breaths, trying to still the storm inside her.
“Claudia,” he began, shifting beneath her. “I could kiss you like that all night.”
“Well why don’t you?”
He hefted with a small laugh. “Because we have to go.”
She straightened at his words. “What do you mean?”
Boris’s eyes reflected confusion; maybe apprehension. “I killed him, Claudia. We can’t stick around.” He sighed tersely, assessing the unmoving corpse on the ground. “This guy was important here; maybe one of the organizers of the cruise. His men find out I killed him, they’ll kill me and finish what he started with you.”
Fear and understanding cut through her, leaving prickly trails inside. “Well what the fuck are we supposed to do? We won’t dock until tomorrow.”
Boris’s jaw flexed as he studied the floor. “Do you have anything important with you?”
She creased her brow. “What do you mean?”
“Valuables, important documents, jewelry?”
She ran through the minimal list of belongings in her backpack. “No. Nothing. Just my passport.”
He jerked his head into a nod, shifting her onto the bed. “Good. Do you have a bathing suit with you?”
She nodded, watching him as he stepped over the man as he headed for the bathroom. His back muscles rippled as he turned on the faucet, putting his bloody hands beneath the spigot.
“Put that on,” he said, turning to talk to her but not looking away from his hands. “Wear form-fitting clothing, like leggings. A simple t-shirt.”
She rolled off the bed, tugging her backpack open. The unseeing eyes of the dead man stared at the ceiling, his mouth agape as though still protesting the assault. She shivered.
Claudia dug out the appropriate clothing from the depths of her bag and did a quick wardrobe change while Boris tended his bloodied knuckles. When he came out into the bedroom, she was just tugging her t-shirt into place.
“Good.” He nodded, his gaze scorching up and down her body.
“You missed a spot.” She pushed at his sturdy bicep, guiding him back into the bathroom. At the sink, she reached for a damp washcloth, wetting it under warm water before dabbing at a few streaks of blood at his neck.
“Thanks,” he said, cracking a smile. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” She paused to rinse the washcloth out. “Least I could do for the man who saved me from that lecherous creep.”
Their eyes met in the mirror; something heavy passed between them. She swallowed, using the washcloth to smudge a few errant flecks of blood from his arm.
“Don’t you want to take a shower?” she asked.
“No need.” He reached for his t-shirt on the counter, tugging it over his head. “But we should go. Now.”
She nodded, mind swirling with questions. There was only one way off the ship that required zero valuables and a bathing suit. She was hesitant to entertain it, but the knowledge swirled inside her. I can’t believe this is happening. This has to be a dream. You’ll wake up soon.
“Um…shoes?” She toed at a pair of flats, looking up at him.
He shook his head. “Leave ‘em.”
“Passport?”
“You can get a new one when we land.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, frowning as he tapped and swiped at something. A few moments later, he pocketed it. “Let’s go.”
Boris led her out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind them quietly. Looking both ways for any passers-by, he jerked his head to the left and she followed him, tip-toeing like a teenager after curfew. Her heart hammered between her ears. Boris advanced stealthily, assuredly. She fought to keep up with him as he took the stairs two at a time.
When they burst through the doors onto the mid-deck, he followed a strange, sinuous path toward the center of the ship. They passed hardly anyone—apparently everyone was either fucking or sleeping—and he slowed only when they reached a deck toward the back of the ship.
Boris gripped the railing, scanning the horizon. The air was warm, but who knew what the water below might be like. The salty wind whipped his hair into tufts. She moved some stands of her own hair that got caught in her mouth.
“What now?”
He blinked, then checked his phone again. He drew a long breath.
“It’s time.” He pocketed his phone, grabbing her hand. “Do you trust me?”
Her breath caught in her throat; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving.
“I-I...”
“Do you trust me?” He repeated it slower, more firmly.
“Yes,” she forced out. “Yes, I trust you.”
He nodded and started climbing the railing. Panic gripped her, rooted her to her spot. He straddled the railing and turned to her, offering his hand.
“We have to,” he said, his voice low. “But only if you trust me.”
She swallowed hard. Like there was any other option for her. Like she could walk any other path than this. Your would-be rapist is dead in your room and the rest of the ship is full of sex-hungry creeps. The choice is clear.
Taking his hand, she climbed the railing with shaky legs, straddling it just like he did. The ocean churned inky black beneath them, noisy and choppy, a sliver moon reflecting weakly off the water.
“I’ll get on the other side now,” he said, his voice low. He maneuvered carefully, his thick hands gripping tight onto the railing. When he was on the other side, he offered a hand, his biceps flexing with the strain of hanging on.
“Your turn.”
She forced herself to move, to bring her other leg onto the ocean side, to face chest-out into the salty, open air where nothing waited for them, only water and oblivion.
“We’ll jump together,” he said. “Hold my hand, and don’t let go.”
She nodded, eyes on the churning water below. “But won’t the ship pull us in?”
“We’re going to jump far,” he said, watching her so intensely it practically burned her. “We’re jumping in the opposite direction of the ship. It will be cruising away from us. But you need to swim hard once we land.”
She nodded again. “Okay.”
He grabbed her hand again, his grip ironclad. “Do you trust me?”
She gulped, unable to rip her eyes from the scary dark water. Unable to wonder if the water would hit her like knives and needles or like ice and glass. “I trust you!”
“On the count of three,” he said. “One. Two. Three.”
He bent his knees and launched himself forward. With a yelp, she leapt with him, her legs like jello, and salty air slicing through her lungs.
The freefall lasted a few glorious, breathless moments. The exhilaration nearly suffocated her.
And then the water hit.
They crashed through the surface in a painful splash.
It hit like glass and everything turned dark.
Chapter Eight
Boris dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. They’d been walking for hours now. The Croatian countryside was a never-ending paradise, unless one was on fo
ot. In that case it was an endlessly frustrating series of gorgeous hills, rolling into eternity.
And after their first couple days back on land—after the just-in-time boat rescue he’d orchestrated with a long-time colleague—he and Claudia were nearing the final destination. Filitov’s house.
“Are we there yet?” Claudia cracked a smile beside him, searing him with a knowing look. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. Her leggings fit a little looser than two days ago—whether it be from little food or the unexpected stint in the ocean—and she couldn’t look farther from the sex kitten he bid on earlier that week. The sex kitten he purchased.
“Almost.” He wiped again at his brow, taking a deep breath of the humid, fragrant air. Filitov was a former FSB hitman who’d defected years ago when the Kremlin’s security apparatus began a ruthless internal purge. But more than that, Filitov had been the father Boris never had. He’d brought him up in this gritty world, trapped under this ruthless crust.
He was rumored to live in a faded yellow cottage in exactly this part of the Croatian countryside. He needed Filitov’s advice enough to warrant the risk of being wrong. Showing up unannounced to a defector’s house in the country had trouble written all over it—but for how much Boris covered for him over the years, throwing the organization off Filitov’s tail whenever they sniffed too close, Filitov basically owed this to him.
Where to go from here? It was a question that rattled inside his head like a cadence to their endless trek.
The dirt path scuffed beneath his army boots. They’d picked up some necessary essentials as soon as hitting dry land. Despite their forward motion, literally, he could feel the questions radiating off of Claudia. The confusion was thick as stew, even though he’d done his best to justify this re-route in as few words as possible.
“Who’s here again?”
“A necessary component in our plan.” He kept his eyes on the trodden path. Tall grasses swayed around them; occasional piles of horse poop were pungent addendums to the walk.
A long sigh. Then she said, “Is that his place?”
He squinted after the line of her finger. On the horizon, a squat yellow cottage faced away from them, a ramshackle wooden fence surrounding the property. A cow grazed lazily nearby.
“Yep.” His heart rate picked up as the moment of recognition neared. Business took precedence over emotion—always—but too much of him was excited about seeing his long lost mentor. And even more fearful that this lead would turn out to be wrong.
“Finally,” Claudia said. “After all the swimming and walking we’ve done the past few days, I feel like you’re actually just training me for a triathlon. Maybe this was my dad’s plan all along.”
He smiled at the comment, but guilt flooded his insides. Every mention of her father was a tiny dagger inside him, and he couldn’t figure out why. This was his job—he’d been a hit man for a decade.
Boris picked up the pace as the path wound closer to the house. Birds dipped and twittered in the cerulean sky. Their gorgeous surroundings were the farthest thing from the anxiety pumping through his veins.
The gate of the fence hung open, leading toward an unevenly placed stone pathway. Unkempt grasses grew inside the fence just a beyond it; the house looked dingy and abandoned, but crisp curtains lined the window. The only sign of life.
At the door, Boris raised his fist to knock but paused. The last moment between not-knowing and knowing. The same moment of pause that wheedled into him before every kill.
Knock knock knock. His breath escaped him in a whoosh and he straightened, waiting for a sound beyond the arched wooden door.
Claudia admired their surroundings, squinting into the sunny day. “What if he’s not home?”
“Shh.” He held up a hand, focusing intently on the house, what might be happening on the other side of that door. Still no sound. He knocked again and then pressed his ear up to the faded wood.
Claudia wandered toward the edge of the house, peering around the side. A scuff behind the door. The skin on Boris’s shoulders prickled.
The door opened in a flash, along with the barrel of a shot gun as Filitov’s steely face glared back at him.
“Filitov,” Boris said, raising his palms to the side, to show that he was unarmed. “It’s me. Boris.”
“I know who you are.” His voice came out gruff, crackly, like at the other end of a faraway transmission. He cocked the shotgun.
Fear sliced through him, a million protests leaping to mind. But he didn’t sway; just held Filitov’s gaze with the trained neutrality he was famous for. “Don’t do this, Filitov.”
Claudia wandered back their way; her sharp gasp told him she’d noticed the turn of events. Filitov’s gaze narrowed and he lowered the shot gun slightly. “Who’s the girl?”
“A friend,” Boris responded. “We came alone.”
What Filitov feared was what any defector should expect. The FSB had no intentions of letting previous assets like him just disappear. Maybe he’d found solace out here in the countryside, far from the Russian state security appartus. But Boris’s sudden appearance typically only spelled one thing for him.
Filitov stared at him for a long time; indecision churning in those gray-blue eyes he still found as sharp as the last time he’d seen him. His then-gray hair had descended into white, frizzy chaos. Limp ends were pulled back into a straggly pony tail.
“I came for help. This isn’t a job.” Boris reassured the old man, his voice measured. Finally, Filitov lowered the shot gun and leaned it against the wall.
“How did you find me?” Filitov leaned against the doorframe, narrowed eyes raking him up and down.
“I’ve heard rumors for years. I’ve been throwing them off your tail when they got too close. Kept the information for myself.”
Boris could feel the questions radiating off of Claudia. She didn’t need to know who ‘they’ were.
“Why?”
The years had turned Filitov suspicious. Stripped away his emotions as a necessity of survival. “Because you’re like a father to me. You know this.”
Filitov visibly relaxed and he pinched his eyes shut. “Goddamn it, boy. Get in here.”
Boris let a small sigh of relief and turned to Claudia, jerking his head toward the house to signal she should follow. She watched him with wide eyes.
“Why did he almost shoot you?” she hissed as she followed close behind him.
He swatted away the question as they stepped into the plain cottage. A modest front room held a rocking chair, a fireplace and a threadbare couch. A bookshelf showcased impressive tomes, spines of every color and almost every language. That was the real focal point of any Filitov lair; and if he knew his old mentor like he thought he did, the man would have a getaway tunnel somewhere in the basement. Maybe those days were behind him now, but based on the shotgun to the face treatment at the door, Boris doubted that was the case.
“Sit.” Filitov gestured toward the couch, hunched a little as he walked. Old age in the middle of nowhere maybe hadn’t treated him well. “I’ll bring some water.”
Boris eased onto the couch and Claudia sat rigidly beside him. “I can’t believe we walked all this way to almost get killed,” she said under her breath.
“He had his reasons,” he replied. “I can’t explain it to you. But you’ve got to trust me.”
She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine.”
Filitov returned with three tall glasses of water on a small tray. He set it down on a rickety end table and handed them each a glass.
“What brings you to Croatia?” Filitov asked.
“We were just finishing up a brief stint on the water,” Boris said, struggling to speak in the vaguest code possible. Something that didn’t reveal Claudia’s recent history to Filitov, or Boris’s true intentions to Claudia. “There was some business that went south so we had to make an unexpected detour. We’re on our way to Dubrovnik next. Claudia will be
heading home.”
“My father sent for me. He’s the King of Slavonia,” Claudia said.
Filitov gurgled as he almost choked on his water. Boris grimaced—her admission must have allowed a few pieces to click into place for him. “Is he, now?” He’d wanted to tell Filitov himself; not crucify himself within minutes of arriving.
She nodded, looking to Boris. “He sent Boris to rescue me.”
At least she was rolling with the punches—keeping the kidnapping on the down-low. A tense silence emerged, one in which Boris studied the shape of his fingernails with a never-before-seen intensity.
Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC Page 33