Page 108 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Yes?”

“Did something happen?”

“No. It’s past time that we did this.”

Silence.

“This is why they’ve been getting bolder—lack of proper retaliation. Lud, they tried to kill me.”

I told him about our close shave at the parking garage. Seems he needs reminding now.

“I know, and they will pay for it, but … if we had a concrete plan, something more—”

“No. This calls for a lesson. For a swift stab to the gut and a twist so they get the message loud and clear: this is our city.”

Ludmil doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to.

“I’ve made my decision,” I say. “I’m loading up at the stash house, then meeting everyone at headquarters. Be there.”

I hang up. Ludmil’s uncertainty is not what I need now. I need obedience, plain and simple.

* * *

Loading up at the stash house takes minutes, getting to headquarters a few more. Inside, the dank air buzzes with pent-up energy. The gloom casts everything into half shadow. The generals stand with erect postures of readiness.

“It’s about time!” Radovan crows.

“It is,” I agree, and hand him a machine gun.

I stand there as the wind howls in from the opening over my head, throughout the stone vault. “Today, no survivors. Anyone with a skull tattoo is a dead man walking. Today, we send the Skull Kings a message loud and clear: leave or die.”

The men’s eyes glitter with understanding and satisfaction. It’s time. They know it as well as I do.

“As for this new leader of theirs, the one who thinks he can attack us and threaten us and take from us and suffer no consequences … For him, I say, we stick his head on a spike, don’t you think?”

The men roar their approval, shoving their fists into the air.

“Any survivors?” I ask.

“No survivors!”

“Crush the Skull Kings?”

“Crush their skulls! Crush their skulls!”

“Well, what are you waiting for then?” I yell at them. “Let’s go! To the gutters where they stay. The Skillet, the Barian Market—I want us everywhere Skull Kings are. Make it rain blood.”

They roar their approval, and we storm out.

* * *

The Skillet.

Even from outside, I can see the bar is jam-packed. Bursting at the seams with cheap whores, spilled beer, and dead men walking. The music thuds at ear-splitting volumes.

If there’s a smart way to start this, I don’t know it. I just know how to hurt them.

I step out of the van, take out my gun, and get shooting. It’s like stamping on ants—there are so many of them that my bullet invariably ends up landing in someone who deserves it.

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