‘Last time I make that mistake,’ Dial replied.
As they laughed in unison, a single shot rang out across the lake.
The round from Masseri’s rifle traveled faster than the speed of sound.
There was nothing they could do.
By the time they turned around, Zidane was already dead.
As he made his way across the grounds, Payne had no idea what to expect. He sprinted around the small cove that protected the boathouse and ran into the clear. But instead of a waiting army, all Payne found were the littered bodies of the men he had already encountered. It appeared that everyone in the second wave of soldiers was on the water.
There were no signs of life on the yacht, either. It simply sat at the end of the pier, dark and motionless. Despite its uninviting appearance, Payne ran to the end of the dock and leapt aboard, landing softly on the aft deck. In less than a minute he had positioned the crane and attached the sling underneath one of the WaveRunners.
A minute later he would have been in the water and racing to the aid of his best friend.
Unfortunately, Hendrik Cole had other ideas.
After the incident in Rakovnik, Cole had been forced to make a detour into Como before arriving at the villa. There he had met a local doctor who was able to treat the injuries he had sustained at the lab. Normally the first to fight, he had decided to rest on the yacht while Zidane’s men handled the security breach on the estate, but all that changed when he heard the whirring of the crane. Cole left his berth to investigate and spotted Payne on the deck.
In a flash, he knew his recovery would have to wait.
He had to act fast to keep the element of surprise.
Ideally, he would have preferred to shoot Payne in the back of the head and be done with it, but he had no idea where Jones was or what other reinforcements were lurking nearby. This forced Cole to kill Payne in a much more personal manner.
And because of the whir of the crane, Payne didn’t hear him coming.
One moment he was hoisting the WaveRunner from its cradle, and the next he was being slammed violently into the watercraft.
In the collision, Payne’s gun fell from his belt and slid off the deck into the water below. It was followed by a thunderous crash as the WaveRunner broke loose from its lifting straps and toppled over the side of the boat.
Cole relished the opportunity to murder someone as revered as Jonathon Payne. Driven by a surge of endorphins, he was oblivious to the ache in his gut. Even if Cole had known that the staples closing his wound had pulled loose, it would not have stopped him. He might never get a second chance. He wasn’t about to pass it up.
Cole reached into his scabbard and withdrew a large, machete-like blade. It was razor sharp, with a cutting edge on the front side and deep serrated teeth on the back. The tip was narrow and pointed. It was a weapon capable of stabbing, slicing, and sawing — and Cole had experience with all three methods of death.
In response, Payne pulled his bayonet from its sheath. It was only a third the size of Cole’s custom sword, but it had proven its worth throughout Payne’s career.
Without saying a word, the two men circled each other like wrestlers, both waiting for the right moment. Cole struck first, swinging at his opponent’s neck. Payne ducked the attack and countered with a swipe across Cole’s thigh. The cut drew blood, but it wasn’t crippling. Cole stepped back, then half-smiled, half-snarled as he struck again. This time it was a downward-looping motion, as if Payne was a chunk of wood that Cole intended to split. Payne was able to intercept the blow with his knife, deflecting Cole’s weapon to the fiberglass hull. Shards flew before Cole reversed the direction of his swing, jerking the serrated teeth in the direction of Payne’s forearm.
The bite of the blade found its mark, and the saw-like points tore the flesh from Payne’s arm as he winced in agony.
Cole laughed with delight.
Payne took the knife in his opposite hand as blood soaked the arm of his long-sleeved shirt. In an act of mockery, Cole also changed his grip, tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. Despite his injury, Payne now took the offensive. He sprang forward and delivered a series of stabs, swipes, and swings. Cole deftly deflected each attempt, his grin growing with each missed opportunity. Catching Payne off-balance, he lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the deck. But he did not attack. He simply stood over Payne, relishing the moment before allowing him to scramble to his feet.
Payne held his wounded arm to his chest. Blood streamed off his elbow and pooled on the polished deck around him. His breathing was heavy and labored; his eyes were dull and sullen. He had the look of defeat. It was the moment Cole had been waiting for.
He raised his weapon and charged his target, attempting to run him through.
But Payne’s vulnerability was just a ploy.
He sprang to life and sidestepped the bull rush at the last possible moment. As Cole passed by, Payne struck him several times in rapid succession. The blade of his bayonet punctured Cole’s lung, stomach, and kidney. The doctor in Como had done his best to repair Cole’s wounds, but Payne now sliced through the Butcher with his brand of surgical precision.
This time, Cole would not recover.
If left alone, he would be dead in a matter of minutes.
But that wasn’t soon enough for Payne.
Taking no chances, he wrapped the line of the deck crane around Cole’s neck then shoved him toward the railing. With a swift kick, Payne sent Cole’s body swinging out over the side of the boat like a prized shark at the end of a long voyage. Blood drained from his wounds into the water below as he struggled for a last gulp of air that wasn’t to come.
Eventually, the body went limp as Payne staggered away.
Epilogue
Jones racked the balls for a game of billiards at Café Louvre in Prague while Payne selected a cue. Sahlberg sat on a nearby barstool, nursing a well-deserved beer.
‘You know this is the only way you’ll ever beat me, right?’ To drive home his point, Payne nodded toward his bandaged arm, which was resting comfortably in a sling.
‘Give me a break,’ Jones said. ‘We both know you’re an expert at one-handed sports. You certainly get enough practice.’
Payne chuckled at the crude innuendo.
‘Is this safe?’ Sahlberg asked.
‘Is what safe? Playing pool?’ Jones asked.
‘Being out in public,’ he clarified.
It was a fair question, given the week he had just experienced. He had gone from a breathtaking sunset in California to the confinement of a Czech root cellar in less than twenty-four hours. He had remained drugged and locked away in the dank basement, subsisting on raw vegetables and dried meat, for days. Just as he had begun to lose hope of rescue, he had been freed by one of Masseri’s accomplices without an explanation of any kind.
Released near the Charles Bridge, he didn’t know where he was or how long he had been missing. Nor did he know the identity of his captors, or if anyone was looking for him.
Fortunately, a Czech policewoman spotted him and told him that Interpol had plastered his image across the city’s precincts. The next morning, he was reunited with Payne and Jones, who filled in many of the missing details about Berglund and Zidane.
‘Mattias,’ Payne said with a gentle pat on his shoulder, ‘drink in peace. I assure you, we’re safe from Masseri. He knows that if he comes after us, he’s a dead man.’
Sahlberg nodded his understanding, remembering their earlier conversation. Payne had explained that he had military connections all over the world, and that if he and Jones were killed, another member of their team would pick up the fight. Masseri would be hunted down without mercy, and he knew it. There’d be no place on earth he could hide.