1. The Princess of Zagreb
the princess of zagreb
Lash
M y memory of Zagreb is rusty from disuse, and time is not on my side. In the passenger seat beside me, Tatiana Juric looks frightened but determined, shaken but resolute.
"How well do you know the roads, Lovely One?" I ask in Croatian.
She frowns and sighs. "Not well, I'm afraid. Georg…" she trails off, sniffling. "I trusted him to drive and navigate."
"Filip killed Georg?” I ask.
She nods. "Yes, along with two of my employees."
“I am sorry for your losses," I say.
She shakes her head. "I just…I don't understand what is happening."
"We are pawns in a very complicated game," I tell her. "I do not know all of the details, or even very many of them, but I know the general outlines."
"Could you enlighten me, then?" she says, as we reach the main road leading away from the airport.
I consider. "Some of it. I am a security contractor of sorts for an individual based in Las Vegas, Nevada, in the US." I pause to mentally translate—a complicated process since neither English nor Croatian are my first, second, or even third languages. "There is a man known as Mercado, from South America. He is a very, very bad man. Evil, devious, cunning, and cruel. I do not know how, but somehow he is connected to you and your father, and also those two men back there. There is a plot of some kind against me, my Broken Arrow brothers, and my employer, which somehow involves you, your father, your father's men, and me. Some of my friends are here in Zagreb, held by your father. I cannot guess as to how you are connected to Mercado or why he wants you."
She frowns thoughtfully. "My father is a powerful man in Zagreb, and not just Zagreb but Croatia and beyond. I had assumed this was all something to do with him."
I shake my head. "No, Lovely One. Your father and you are pawns, as am I. I do not know how any of this connects to me and my friends, but I assume all will be made clear in time. For now, keeping you safe is our number one priority. Contacting your father and attempting to get him to see the truth of the situation is second, and freeing my friends is third."
She looks at me. "Your friends’ lives are lowest on the priority list?"
I can only shrug. "In my heart, no. But I must be pragmatic. I know your father, and he is not unreasonable. If I can keep you alive and unharmed and get in touch with him, I do not believe my friends' lives are in danger."
Tatiana nods slowly. "Yes. You are right about Tata. But you killed Filip and Ivan. How will you prove anything? Tata won't just take your word for it."
I can only shrug and shake my head. "I know. And I think it will only complicate this situation that Filip and Ivan were certainly not working alone. Mercado has nearly infinite resources and will turn the full weight of them toward regaining control of the situation."
She sighs. "Tata's resources are not infinite, but he does wield a lot of power in Zagreb. We will have his men to deal with as well."
I glance at her. "Do you know most of his men on sight?”
"Yes,” she answers. “Not all of them, but many of them. Why?"
"I respect your father. I have no quarrel with him, and I won’t kill his men if I don’t have to." I checked my mirrors but saw no sign of pursuit yet.
It's only a matter of time, I know. Mercado’s men, Stjepan's.
I drive in silence for a while, and we reach the city after a few minutes; I opt for High Town and the bustle of the newer and more monied streets. We stop at a traffic light and I glance at Tatiana Juric—the last time I saw her she was a gangly, long-legged teenager with big ideas and an even bigger attitude. She had a predilection for glitter, sequins, crop tops, short skirts, big hair, and tall boots back then. Rebellious, defiant, and troublesome. Back then, Stjepan had to employ several men just to keep tabs on his wayward, troublesome daughter and keep her out of trouble. Those men were very busy.
Now, however, she has blossomed into a stunning woman. The long, coltish, gangly legs are now the long, sleek, curvy legs of a beautiful woman in the prime of her youth. The rebellious, hotheaded girl with big ideas is now a brilliant, successful woman with the world at her feet.
She is tall, a few inches taller than me—albeit I am not a tall man. Her hair is long and jet-black and pin-straight, worn loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are a very dark brown, wide, deep, and mesmerizing. She is slender, but no longer a skinny, knobby-kneed, awkward teenage girl, but rather a curvaceous, slender grown woman.
She is beautiful.
I did not desire her back then, of course—she was a child, a mere slip of a girl, and my employer's daughter. And I knew also that such as she, Zagreb's unofficial princess, was not meant for the likes of me.
The only things that have changed in the intervening years is that she is an adult now, and I do not work for her father. She is still Zagreb's princess, and still not meant for the likes of me.
"What will we do, Lash?" she asks, breaking the spell of my thoughts.
The light turns, and I accelerate through the intersection, checking cross traffic and our backtrail for signs of pursuit—so far, so good.
"First, we get rid of this vehicle," I tell her. “Then we must develop a plan." I glance at her. “Do you have your phone?"
She shakes her head. "No. Filip took it from me and threw it when he kidnapped me. My car is still there, along with my purse and my—my girls. Ana and Katya."
I look her over—my T-shirt is enormous on her. We are nothing if not entirely too conspicuous, like this, me without a shirt, her swimming in mine, and us in this flashy car.
"We need to find clothes and a different car," I say. "And a cell phone. Do you have access to any money without your phone or purse? We cannot risk backtracking across the city to wherever those items are."
"Low Town," she says, absently answering as she thinks. "If you think it is safe, we could go to my flat. My doorman will let me in. I have cash there, and clothes. With cash, we could get a pre-paid cell."
"Is it far?" I ask, pulling over to the curb.
She looks around, assessing our location. “No, in fact, only a few blocks from here."
"Very good. We will have to be quick. I must assume your flat is being watched, but we cannot make our way out of this as we are. We need cash and a phone, and you need proper attire."
Tatiana nods. "I understand. Go to the next intersection and make a right."
I follow her instructions—a few blocks ends up being more like a full mile away, which in city terms is a lot. But we arrive at her flat without issue. It's an old building on a narrow side street, away from the bustle. Formerly a single dwelling, it was renovated at some point in the near past into a handful of upscale flats. It has dedicated parking in the rear, in a small courtyard accessible only via a low, narrow gate with a keypad. Instead of entering the parking lot, however, I circle the block several times, watching. I see no evidence of either Mercado's or Stjepan's men, yet, so I park the borrowed Range Rover a couple of blocks away.
Tatiana moves to exit the car, but I stop her with a hand on her wrist.
"Wait," I say. "We must be cautious."
"What are we waiting for?" she asks. "I've seen no one."
"That does not mean they aren't there," I tell her, watching the mirrors. "Ah, yes, see?"
I point—an older red Skoda passes us and makes the turn that takes them to her building. "I saw them a few blocks back. They are attempting to follow us, but they are not very good. I wasn’t sure if they were following us or not until now."
"How do you know they are?" she asks.
"Because they followed us around the block more than once. Which is clumsy work, indeed." I eyed her. "I have an idea, but it would require some trust on your part."
She lifted her chin and regarded me cooly. "What would you have me do?”
I jut my chin at her. "You will walk to your flat from here and I will follow at a distance. It will look as if you are doing the…" I paused, thinking. "I do not remember the words in this language." I switch to English. "The walk of shame. Do you know this?"
Her amused grin is dazzling. "Much to Tata's eternal shame, yes, I do. Perhaps too well." She stares at me, defying me to judge her.
I only smile. "If you are seeking judgment, Princess, you will not receive it from me. You are a woman grown and owe me no explanations for the choices you make in your own life."
She frowns at me. "Princess?"
I shrug. "I always thought of you as the Princess of Zagreb."
She grins. "I like that. Tatiana, Princess of Zagreb." The grin fades. "So, I am bait, then, yes?"
We stick to English, now, and hers is fluent but accented, with occasional pauses to recall the correct word.
I nod. “Yes. But I will not let anything happen to you."
Her lovely dark eyes search me. "I know." She says it simply, quietly, with an assurance that puts a burn in my chest.
"You trust me?" I ask.
She nods. "I do. It is a…a feeling, I suppose. Perhaps you will betray me, but I do not think so." She rests a hand on my forearm. "I have known many of my father's men, and many of his enemies. I know how it feels when a man is good and when he is evil, and you are not evil."
"Most of us are not all of one or the other,” I say, "but a little of both, princess. You would do well to trust me only so far as I have earned it."
She shrugs. "What choice have I got, Lash? With this Mercado seeking me, how long will I make it alone?"
"Hours at best."
"And with you?"
"I will die before I let Mercado have you," I say, the words a low, forceful hiss.
She smiles, shrugging—the gesture has an air of resignation. "So then, I ask again—what choice have I but to place my trust in you?"
"None."
She lets out a breath. "I'm going, now."
I pull the pistol from the space between the driver's seat and the center console where I'd stashed it while driving; I checked the load—two rounds missing.
"Go," I tell Tatiana. "You may not see me, but I will be with you all the way, I promise."
She exits the expensive SUV with a single short, sharp nod, and she. A flurry of wind blows, catching the oversized T-shirt like a sail and lifting it, baring her torso from waist to chest. For a split second, my gaze is fixed on her lovely curves—a trim, slender waist, delicate ribcage, and small, firm, high, round breasts.
In that split-second, a flash flood of desire rampages through me.
But then I remember—as I always do, as I am bound to do by the ghosts which haunt me, and I drop my eyes.
Tatiana presses her arm across her middle to keep the shirt down as the wind gusts, and her deep dark eyes are on me. She knows what I saw, and that I looked away.
For another fraught moment, our gazes meet. She looks away first, and I cannot read her thoughts. She picks her way carefully across the street on bare feet, and I wait until she's a good distance away before exiting the car myself. I leave the key fob in the cupholder and jog after Tatiana.
She rounds the corner and is out of sight—I pick up my pace and reach the corner just in time to see her at the keypad for the gate leading into her building's parking lot.
Two men cross the street after her, closer to her than I am by a few dozen meters.
Shit.
They haven't seen me yet, fixated on their quarry; I collapse against the wall and lean heavily against it, letting my hair drape in front of my face, and adopt a shuffling stumble as if intoxicated or drugged.
They notice me and dismiss me in a single glance.
They hurry after Tatiana, entering the portico that covers the gate and keypad. Tatiana made sure the gate was securely latched behind herself, which pleases me.
One of the men shakes the gate as if he could unlock it or loosen it with a few hard shakes. The other man gives him a disgusted, annoyed look, muttering something to him which I am too far away to make out.
The gate is designed to keep cars out, not people, and they make quick work of scaling the fence between the gate and the wall, a narrow section only a hint wider than a man.
I continue my vagrant shuffle, leaning heavily on the wall and watching through the curtain of my hair.
Once both men are over the fence and out of sight, I scrape my hair out of the way and sprint for the portico. I scramble over and land just in time to see them enter the building.
Time to move faster. I sprint for the doorway and then stop, easing it open and peeking in.
Within, the foyer is bright with sunlight and warm, the light reflecting off of white marble floors. A semi-circular desk with a computer monitor faces the entrance, unmanned at the moment. I hear the elevator whining, and soles squeaking on the stairs.
I jog up the stairs, pistol held close to my body as I crane my head to see up the stairs; I catch glimpses of bobbing heads and shoulders, and a quiet murmur of voices speaking in Croatian: "…Alive, so no guns."
"I will only scare her."
"Boss says we don't get paid if she is hurt."
"I won't hurt her."
A snicker of laughter. "You always say that, Josip. Your idea of hurting someone is suspect, though."
"Oh shut up, Dario. If enjoy the spoils of work a little, who will know? Will they believe her? Or me? I won't leave any marks."
"You will get us both killed, Josip. Boss says the client is a big deal and was very clear. The girl is his. I will not help you. I will not be a part of it, and I will tell the truth if I am asked."
"I asked nothing of you, Dario, you useless piece of shit. I will take the risk, and I will have the reward."
Seems to be a running theme, so far. Mercado wants Tatiana for himself, and he wants her "unspoiled."
What does the daughter of a Central European crime lord have to do with a South American drug kingpin? I can see no connection.
Other than me.
I worked for Stjepan when I was younger, and now I work for the Boss, and somehow Mercado has Tatiana Juric in his sights.
I let my mind work on the problem as I ascend the stairs as silently as possible. The two men continue to bicker in Croatian as they make their way to the third floor.
I hear a door creak open, silence, and then the soft thud of the door closing. I sprint up the stairs and crouch near the door, pause, and then ease it open, hoping to avoid the creak by opening it slowly.
It mostly works, and I slip through—ahead of me, the two men amble unhurriedly side by side down the wide but low-ceilinged hallway. The floor here is plush scarlet carpet with gold flecks or designs of some sort, and the walls papered in dated pinstripe wallpaper. The plush carpet silences my footsteps as I creep up behind the two men, wishing I had my knife or a suppressor.
At the far end of the hallway, beyond the men, I see Tatiana. She's playing her part beautifully, walking slowly with an awkward limp, as if she stepped on something in her barefoot journey here. She's mumbling to herself in Croatian—complaining about men, it sounds like.
She reaches the door that I assume must be hers, rattles the handle, and fumbles at her hip as if reaching for a purse that's not there.
The men increase their pace, and one of them produces a handgun from the back of his track pants. The other has a taser, and they exchange a silent but aggressive argument about gun versus taser.
The argument is their undoing.
I move as swiftly as possible on the carpet, creep up behind the taser-wielding thug, and wrap my arm around his throat. He gurgles as I haul him backward, putting his body in front of mine. I grab his wrist and twist the taser out of his grip. His companion has noticed, and his gun lifts. I jab the Taser into the side of my victim's throat and trigger it. He convulses violently, choking noisily. I drop him and let him fall to the ground; his head thunks on the carpet, the plush surface likely saving him from brain damage, not that I care.
His companion, in the split second it took for me to tase the first man, has gotten his gun up and brought to bear on me, for all the good it will do him. I sweep my front foot upward in a sharp kick, knocking the barrel up and away. Landing on that same front foot, I lurch forward and leap, driving my trailing knee as hard as I can into his diaphragm.
He staggers backward, doubling over and vomiting from the force of the impact. I step past him, locking my arm around his head, and twist. CRACK . He flops to the floor, dead instantly.
The other thug is still alive, gurgling and gagging, writhing in agony. I crouch beside him. Stare down at him—His eyes are wide, and he's trying to speak, begging for his life.
I grip his trachea and squeeze, watching panic flare in his eyes; his struggles slow and then cease.
Tatiana watches from the end of the hallway, eyes wide. "He was not a threat anymore," she whispers.
"He would have been. He could call for backup. Send a message to his boss or his friends." I rifle through the pockets of both thugs, coming up with spare 9mm magazines for my pistol and an excellent Kershaw folding blade, as well as a few hundred euros.
"Can we not use their phones?" Tatiana asks.
I shake my head. "No. We must assume their employer is tracking them, for one. And for another, their phones are locked."
"Can’t you just put it in front of his face and then change the Face ID to yours?" she asks.
I smile. "Face ID these days requires attention. It is almost impossible to spoof or fake. It is an excellent idea, but unfortunately impossible. A burner is best."
"Oh." She unlocks the door with a key. "Shall we?"
"Where'd you get the key?" I ask. "The doorman was gone."
She gives me a saucy wink and a smirk. "I saw the men coming after me and assumed they were there for me. Old Gregor is a lovely man and I didn't want to see him get hurt, so once he gave me my spare key, I told him to go have a smoke."
I followed her inside and closed the door behind me, locking it. "Excellent."
"What do we do about the bodies?" she asks.
I shrug. "Leave them. We have other things to worry about. By the time the police are called, we shall be well away from here."
"But I thought most murders got solved. Won't they come looking for you?"
I can only laugh. "They can look."
This gets me an odd look from her. "You mean to say they will not be able to find you."
I shrug. "I am not an easy man to find."
Tatiana frowns. "Filip managed it."
I laugh. "Filip managed nothing. Mercado had the jet I was on hijacked. Filip was a blunt instrument at best. A sledgehammer."
"And what does that make you, Lash?"
I consider the question. "Obsidian."
She blinks at this, confused. "The volcanic rock? Black stuff like glass?"
I nod. "When properly worked, there is nothing on earth, man-made or otherwise, that is sharper than obsidian. Obsidian blades are so sharp and capable of creating such precise and delicate cuts that they are used in eye surgery to this day because no steel instrument can be sharpened so finely as obsidian."
She stares at me, absorbing this information, and processing how it applies to the metaphor. "I see."
I shake my head. "We do not have time for metaphors, Tatiana. Change into practical clothing, and swiftly. Jeans or leggings, a shirt, a hooded sweatshirt or some such, and practical shoes." I fix her with a look. "This is not the time for fashion, Tatiana."
She shoots me a look that is equal parts amused, droll, and annoyed. "It is always the time for fashion, Lash." She gestures at the kitchen. "There's food if you're hungry."
"Very good."
She heads down the hallway to where I assume her bedroom is, pausing at the door. "Lash?"
I look her way. "Yes?"
She peels off my shirt and extends it to me, managing to keep herself covered in the process. "Here."
Heart pounding, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I move down the hallway and halt within arm's reach.
I take the shirt, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. An expression I cannot read crosses her face, and then she releases the garment and drops her arms to her sides, exposing her bare chest.
My eyes involuntarily flick down, linger, and then I whirl away. "Get changed," I say, my voice a low murmur.
Those who know me—very few people, indeed—know that the quieter my voice gets, the more dangerous I am.
Tatiana is in danger indeed—but not of violence.
My hands shake, and I clench them into fists as I shrug into my shirt.
"Lash?" She sounds puzzled.
I do not turn. "Change, Lovely One."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
I hear her steps. I flinch as if stabbed when her soft small warm hand touches the center of my back. “I dropped the shirt, Lash. You did nothing wrong."
"I know."
"Do you not find me attractive?" So close behind me that I can almost feel her body heat.
My brain scrambled by her proximity. "Yes, Tatiana. I do. Very much so.”
"Then I do not understand."
"No. You cannot."
"Lash…"
I pivot on my heel, and she's right there, so close, long black hair draped over one shoulder to cover a breast, pink nipple playing peekaboo through the strands; she's all elegant curves and graceful lines, a dancer's body, lithe and sensuous. Staring up at me, bold and curious.
"So tell me," she whispers.
"It is long in the telling, time is short, and it does not have a happy ending.” I brush the pad of my thumb over her lips. "Do not toy with me, Tatiana. I will keep you safe and see you free of this mess. But…" I hold her arms and walk her backward. "I am not the kind of man you should set your sights on, now or ever. I cannot be what you want."
I walk her into her room, release her, turn on my heel, and exit. "Get changed. We need to be gone in the next two minutes."