Page 44 of Red Fury
“Wait until you see the inside,” Webb replies, his voice tight with nervous energy.
The reception area is just as ridiculous. The receptionist behind the sleek desk is as polished as the rest of the place.
“Good morning, Mr. Webb. Mr. Kozlov is expecting you. Please make yourselves comfortable in the executive waiting area. Someone will be with you shortly.”
We’re led to a waiting room that makes the lobby look modest. There are soft leather chairs, original artwork on the walls – not that I know what I’m looking at, mind you. The place smells of money. Who is this Kozlov guy?
“Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?” A server appears as if from thin air, dressed in a crisp black uniform.
“Coffee would be great,” Webb says, settling into one of the chairs.
“I’m good, thanks.” I shake my head.
The server nods and disappears. Webb checks his watch, then looks at me, narrowing his eyes.
“Before we go any further, I need to remind you about your NDA,” he says. “What you’re about to see and hear is strictly confidential. Not a word can be repeated outside of this building, or you’ll end up in federal prison. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, though my gut is telling me I’m about to hear something that will change everything.
The server returns with Webb’s coffee, but before he can take a sip, three men in expensive suits, wearing heavy cologne, enter the room. They’re clearly security, despite the designer clothing. Their intent is obvious.
We stand, Webb placing his coffee on the table.
“Gentlemen, we’ll need to conduct a security check,” one of them says in accented English. “Please stand and place your hands on the wall. Please hand over any weapons before we begin.”
I hand over my service weapon without argument, along with the backup knife I keep in my ankle holster. Webb does the same with his pistol. The frisk is thorough and professional, but over quickly.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the lead security man says, pocketing our weapons. “You’ll get these back from reception when you leave.”
They file out of the room, and we sit back down. Webb picks up his coffee and takes a sip.
Then we wait.
And wait.
And fucking wait.
Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. Webb’s empty coffee cup is taken away, and we wait some more.
At first, I just sit there, and then I decide to Google this Kozlov person. It’s important I know who I’m dealing with. It doesn’t take long for the information I need to pop up on the screen, and I start scrolling. He’s the CEO and main shareholder of Kozlov Enterprises. There is a list of companies under the Kozlov umbrella, from real estate companies to nightclubs. He’s on several boards of some major concerns. Blah…blah…blah.
There isn’t much on the man himself except that he seems to have come from humble beginnings. Born on the Mainland to Russian immigrants. A real rags-to-riches tale. The guy has no social media presence at all. He doesn’t engage with the paparazzi. There are very few pictures of him under images. He’s younger than I expected and scowling in all of them. The same female is on his arm in several of them. She’s wafer-thin but quite pretty. She looks older than him. His female, perhaps? Since he is not married, she must be a long-standing girlfriend. Other than the business side, there isn’t much on him, which pings my radar.
That isn’t normal. Then again, he is a super-wealthy asshole who deals in arms. He comes across as shady as fuck.
A server walks in as I swipe to close my cell phone.
“All still okay, gents?” She lifts her brows.
“I’ll take that water now, please,” I tell her.
“Of course, sir. Anything else?” She looks at Webb.
He nods, asking for peanuts and a soda.
“I’ll be right back.” She leaves.
He sighs. “This is normal, by the way. Kozlov likes to…to…demonstrate his importance. He likes to show who’s in control.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s so damned childish.”
