Free Eden's Gate by David Hagberg

the root, comrade,” Lane said agreeably.
    Mironov stood stock still, although he was obviously in a great deal of pain. “What do you want?”
    â€œThe question is, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
    â€œWatching you.”
    â€œWrong answer. You were lifting my fingerprints out of the car I drove tonight,” Lane said. He shoved Mironov’s elbow a little higher. “Why?”
    â€œFuck you—”
    Lane squeezed the nerve bundle just above the man’s elbow, and
Mironov’s complexion instantly went ashen; his knees started to buckle, but Lane backed off the pressure.
    â€œI asked you a question.”
    â€œIvan knows you from someplace,” Mironov grunted. “He wanted to check it out.”
    â€œFair enough,” Lane said. “He looked familiar to me, too.” He let go of Mironov’s arm, and took the Russian’s Makarov automatic out of his jacket. He ejected the magazine from the pistol, grabbed it firmly with his thumb and four fingers. Then, careful not to smudge the prints he had left, replaced the magazine in the gun and replaced the gun in Mironov’s holster.
    â€œNow what?” Mironov asked, holding his arm as if it were broken.
    â€œNow you get out of here and let us good people get some sleep,” Lane said.
    â€œI’ll be back—”
    Before he could get the whole sentence out, Lane grabbed him by the throat and shoved him backward, almost off his feet. “If I ever lay eyes on you again, Russian, I’ll kill you,” he said, his voice guttural. “Think about it. Think real hard about it.”
    Lane let him go, then disdainfully turned his back on the man and headed back into the house, Baumann right behind him.
    Â 
    Speyer came down to the kitchen and Baumann made them some coffee. Gloria got up to see what was going on, but Speyer sent his wife back upstairs. Lane poured a little brandy into his coffee.
    â€œWhat are they going to find out?” Speyer asked.
    â€œNothing more than I’ve already told you,” Lane said. “But I don’t like people sneaking around behind my back. And I especially don’t like Russians.”
    Baumann had a new respect for Lane. “I don’t think that Schweinhund will forget what happened tonight.” He told Speyer everything.
    â€œWhat’d you find out about him on the computer?”
    â€œWell, he was never in South Africa,” Baumann said. “Germany four years ago, France, Iran, Libya, Mexico City, and a few years back he was on some sort of a special assignment in Brazil. Rio.”
    â€œThat’s where I saw him,” Lane said. “There was a joint Russian-U. S. war game down there. Every arms dealer in the world showed up, including some from Cape Town. Which was where I came in.”
    â€œWill that queer the deal?” Speyer asked.

    â€œI don’t think so,” Baumann said. “Lukashin wants the money you’ve offered him. And he wanted Browne’s fingerprints, which he now has. So he’s got everything he wants.”
    â€œBut if you missed something on the computer, and he was somehow involved in South Africa he might suspect that Browne is out for revenge.”
    â€œEven if that was the case, I don’t think it’d stop a man like Lukashin,” Lane said with a smirk. “Even if he screwed me over once, he wouldn’t see any reason why he couldn’t do it again.” Lane shook his head. “He’ll cooperate. He needs the money.”
    â€œThat’s assuming there was a South African connection after all,” Speyer said, thinking out loud. “It’s probably the thing in Rio. A coincidence.” He focused on Lane and nodded his approval. “You did a good job tonight. I had my doubts, but I think you did okay. We’re not going to kiss anyone’s ass for this deal. Lukashin either does what I’ve asked him to