Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

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.
I’ll be sending a clear message that I’m disloyal to our
leader and intend to take the throne for myself if I accept
Aleksander’s mistake.
Unless it wasn’t a mistake.
Maybe it was a test.
And maybe the test originated from someone much
smarter than Aleksander.
My stare freezing and my tone deadly soft, I say, “On your
knees.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
In a five-thousand-dollar silk suit, handmade shoes, and an
overcoat spun from the wool of baby Tibetan antelopes, he
silently sinks to his knees on the cold cement floor of the
warehouse.
Then he waits, along with everyone else. Clouds of steam
from his breath turn white in the frigid night air.
“Empty your pockets.”