Page 130 of Ruthless Creatures
Whatever it is, it doesn’t involve me.
And it probably isn’t good.
THIRTY-ONE
KAGE
When the text comes through, I’m standing in the middle of a frigid warehouse on the Lower East Side, surrounded by nineteen armed and dangerous Russians.
I hope it’s my girl. I need something good tonight.
Ignoring the chiming from the inside pocket of my overcoat, I continue.
“Shut down everything immediately. Nothing gets through unless it’s ours. The ports, the borders, incoming flights, and scheduled shipments from everywhere to everywhere. I want them to feel the pressure. Make it impossible for them to do business. When the money dries up, they’ll be more amenable to another meeting. Then we’ll let the hammer drop. Get the word out to all your captains and soldiers that we’re at war. Peacetime rules are suspended.”
I look at each man in the circle in turn. All of them lethal. All of them loyal. Every one of them ready to kill or die, depending on the word from me.
Though the orders are issued from Max, I’m the one who dispenses them. The king’s hands and mouth, I rule in his absence.
And I rule with an iron fist.
“What happened on Christmas Eve is a wake-up call. Our partnerships with the other families have been going too smoothly. It’s made them bold. It’s time to remind them who we are, and why we’re in charge.”
I direct my attention to one of the men standing across from me. He’s burly, with a shaved head and a scar that runs from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. The head of the Chicago Bratva, he’s unfailingly loyal. And as vicious as they come.
“Pavel, there’s a big shipment of Asif’s livestock headed your way. Make sure it doesn’t arrive.”
He nods, not needing to be told that the cows he’ll be hijacking have up to a hundred pounds each of Asif’s cocaine carefully packed in their intestines.
I turn to another member of the circle, an older man with a long beard, crazy eyes, and discolored teeth. His real name is Oleg, but everyone calls him the Cannibal due to his fondness for carving open the chest of every man he kills and taking a bite of his bloody heart.
They don’t call him that to his face, of course.
No one is that stupid.
“Oleg, Zhou’s containers arrive at the docks in Miami tomorrow evening. The police should get there first.”
He narrows his eyes, angry that I’m not giving him permission to take the contraband in the container for himself, but because he wants to stay head of the Miami family, he keeps his mouth shut. I move on.
“Ivan, Rodriguez has a dozen body packers on a flight into LAX from Mexico City. I’ll get you the details. Pick them up as soon as they clear customs.”
“And after we extract the product?”
He wants to know what to do with the bodies. “Make sure Rodriguez sees his dead drug mules on the evening news.”
Everyone chuckles. Not only do they enjoy the idea of pissing off the arrogant head of the Sinaloa cartel, they can’t wait to see what grotesque display Ivan will make with the bodies.
He’s got a reputation for creativity in that respect.
“Aleksander.”
“Yes,Pakhan?”
I pause, caught off guard by the honorific.
Everyone else is surprised, too, shifting their weight from foot to foot and glancing at each other, waiting to see how I’ll respond.
There isn’t a choice, however. As long as Max is alive, I’m not Pakhan, the “big boss.” He is.
