I’ve got millions of dollars missing—money I won’t be able to find without some help. I know Byrd stashed it somewhere, but I need a Russian to help me track a few leads. Someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”
Kozlov stared at Payne, considering his words. “How much you pay me?”
“I was thinking a flat percentage. Let’s say, one percent.”
“One percent? I no work for one.”
“I’m talking millions of dollars here. If we find ten, you’d make a hundred grand. I know damn well you didn’t make that much to kill Byrd.”
“And if we find one million, I make ten thousand. I worth more than that.”
“Touché. Maybe you are a businessman after all.”
Kozlov nodded. He doubted that Payne was telling the truth about any of this, but on the off chance that he was serious, Kozlov wanted to hear as many details as possible—if for no other reason than to lure his opponent even closer.
Right now they were seven feet apart. A few more feet and Kozlov could strike.
Payne continued. “I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. One percent with a guaranteed minimum of twenty-five thousand. That way, no matter what, you’ll be paid for your time.”
“Minimum of twenty-five? For helping you with search? This is tempting.”
“I thought it would be. Of course for that kind of cash, I need some up-front information. Right here, right now. No bullshit.”
“What information you need?”
“Who hired you to kill Byrd?”
Kozlov smirked. “This is big question.”
“This is big money.”
He nodded. “This is true. How I know you will pay me?”
“The same way I’ll know if you’re telling the truth. Just trust your instincts.”
Kozlov considered this. “In Russia, there is better way. Look man in eye as shake his hand. This is more valuable than promise. This is contract.”
“Fine,” Payne said, only happy to oblige. He moved his gun into his left hand while staring at the Russian. “Let’s shake on it.”
Kozlov nodded and took a tentative step forward.
Payne followed his lead and did the same.
The two of them were four feet apart, just out of each other’s grasp.
As Kozlov stretched his right hand forward, he inched his left hand toward his belt. Made out of black leather, it was held in place by an elaborate silver buckle. Though it looked decorative, the buckle was actually the handle of a sharp dagger. The blade itself was tucked into the leather like a sheath. One simple flick of his wrist, and the weapon would be free of its constraints.
Payne kept his finger on the trigger even though his gun was pointed toward the ground. He reached his right arm toward Kozlov and grabbed his hand with a firm grip. The two men shook, while staring into each other’s eyes. Neither man trusted the other.
Kozlov moved first, extracting his blade with speed and precision. One moment it was in his belt, the next he was thrusting it under Payne’s arm toward his gut.
But Payne had anticipated the maneuver. Using all his strength, he pulled Kozlov’s right hand down and outside, which turned the Russian at a forty-five-degree angle and prevented his knife from striking. Suddenly, Kozlov found himself off-balance and facing away from his opponent. Thinking quickly, he swung his blade behind him, hoping to catch Payne in the ribs or his exposed left shoulder. Instead, the Russian felt his right knee explode as Payne used all his weight to drive his knee into the side of Kozlov’s leg.
The popping sound was so loud that both men could hear it.
Kozlov dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a writhing wave of agony. The pain was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, including the time he was shot.
Cartilage, tendons, and kneecap—all destroyed with a pinpoint strike.
Kozlov wanted to scream, but before a sound could leave his lips, it was stifled by the taste of metal in his mouth. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on the gun that would soon end his life. It rested in the hands of the man he had just tried to stab.
Suddenly, Payne was in complete control.
And he would milk it for everything it was worth.
“You know,” he said as he knelt on Kozlov’s chest, making it tough for the Russian to breathe. “Back when I was in the Special Forces, I developed a nasty reputation. Among all the other officers, I was known as a closer. Does that translate into Russian?”
Kozlov tried to nod his head.