Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

He puts the car into Drive and pulls off, ending the
conversation.
Big-dick energy, zero sense of humor. Next.
We drive through the city as I ooh and ahh at all the bright
lights and big buildings. Beside me on the seat, Mojo snores.
We take a turn into the garage of a skyscraper and drive down
a twist of empty floors until stopping next to a bank of
elevators.
In front of the elevators stands a phalanx of burly dudes in
black suits, glaring at the car like it’s about to explode.
Ah, Russian gangsters. Such a trusting group of fellows. I
just want to pinch their cute rosy cheeks.
I wait for Sergey to open my door for me before exiting,
because there’s nothing better than making a regal entrance in
front of a captive audience.
Especially when that audience is a bunch of strong,
dangerous men.
I have a feeling this trip to New York is going to be epic.
Smiling, I step out of the car. I wonder if sending the army
of gangsters a beauty queen wave would be too much.
Probably. These guys don’t look like they’d get the joke.
But suddenly, they’re not looking at me. Their attention
has been caught by the other car pulling up behind us.
It’s a big black SUV with blacked-out windows, and it
might as well have a neon sign on the roof screaming, “You’re
all going to die!” for the reaction it gets from the Russians.
In a coordinated move that would make any military
general proud, all of them reach into their coats, pull out
weapons, and point them at the windshield of the SUV. One of
the men starts bellowing something in Russian like a crazy
person.
Then, when five more SUVs screech to a stop behind the
first one, the shouting guy completely loses his shit. He drops
to a knee and starts firing.