Page 2 of Lord of the Underworld

There's Russian folklore about the Black Horseman who spreads the dread and terror of night through the early morning hours.

Maybe he's followed me here from Moscow.

Chapter One

In which we learn the difference between ruling by fear, by strength, or by soul-blistering terror.

Vadim…

"Rule by fear," my grandfather says.

My father's position is, "Rule by strength."

I rule by soul-blistering terror.

I don't have time to waste when we're setting up new operations, trying to decide who is a treacherous piece of shit and who is going to do their job.

It's always good to make an example on the first day.

Construction on this lab took six months. It'll manufacture the new ghost guns and rifles for our firearms line, along with transportation and distribution for our military-grade weaponry trade. This will be the Turgenev Bratva's most lucrative arm. It is crucial that everything runs as it is meant to.

I don't like working with Americans. They're too jovial, impetuous. They lack the discipline that I see in our Moscow people. But discipline can be taught, and quickly.

We purchased sixty acres of farmland outside of Chicago for the build site. It was constructed to look like an agricultural processing center. Inside, the manufacturing areas are gleaming white and pristine, there's a low hum from the air scrubbers. The lab stretches across the entire south wall, protected by bulletproof glass, the walls and ceilings are built to withstand a missile attack.

My crew of seventy-five men and women are standing in front of me, every one of them frozen into silence as I step through the door of the manufacturing division.

"We are at the beginning of a powerful new development for the Turgenev Bratva," I say, looking at each one of them for longer than is comfortable as I stroll along the line of workers. "Do your job well, and the reward is incalculably high. If you fuck with me, there are no second chances." Some of the bigger men are in the back, shifting restlessly. My guards are already eyeing which ones seem to look apprehensive.

There is a group of three shrewd-eyed women wearing lab coats, standing together. I'd poached them, two from the U.S. Department of Defense, and one from another Bratva who'd been working toward the same technology. Their brilliance is higher than the combined IQ of half of Chicago. I nod to them before continuing.

"Security is paramount. Every government on this planet would like to get this technology, but it's ours. Each of you has the piece of information needed for your cog in this machine. You do not search for more. Is that understood?"

Most of the crew nods. Some, jerkily like a marionette whose strings are being pulled. I've brought ten of our best men from the Turgenev security division in Moscow here, they'll manage security and distribution. Every one of them has a set, grim expression. They are men I selected specifically for a complete lack of humor, and the same driving dedication for what we're doing here.

"Some of you might be feeling a sense of power that you're involved with something so important. Some of you may be so pleased with yourself that perhaps, you've bragged a bit." A man in back stiffens. Avarr Kabakov. Middle aged, built like a bear but cursed with a weak chin and an even weaker sense of self-control. He's utterly still, like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to pass over.

With a sigh, I pull my gun out from my side holster and shoot Avarr in the face. One of my computer geniuses puts her hand over her mouth, but no one else moves. No one says a word. "Avarr was spotted in a bar in downtown Chicago," I say, lowering my gun to my side. The muzzle is still smoking.

I step closer to one cluster of workers, watching them shrink back slightly, then resume my walk down the line. "All it took was half a bottle of vodka, and this stupid motherfucker was bragging about his important new job that was going to make him a millionaire. Avarr got off easy. If I find anyone else risking the security of this operation, I will make their agony drag on for days. Do any of you question this?"

There are a few scattered “no’s,” and everyone shakes their head.

I put my gun back into its holster and clap my hands together, the sound echoing through the room. Several people jump.

"If we meet our quota at the end of the month, every one of you gets a five hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. Except for you." I nod at the women. "Your bonus will be a million each.”

I have security on my system designers at all times. They are the ones who must be protected. Their knowledge of the technology and their ability to develop the system is what this entire operation rides on. I will allow nothing to happen to them.

"So, let's begin."

Everyone moves gratefully to their workstation as I leave the room. I stroll down the production line in the next bay, eyeing the equipment. Everything is spotless, the enormous 3D printers waiting to create the new design.

Ivan, my Vtoroy, joins me. "I am trying to remember the American phrase," he says. "Starting out with a bang?"

"It's going out with a bang," I say, moving toward the loading docks.

"Well, shooting Avarr in the face seemed to have done the trick," he says. He tilts his head subtly to the left and cracks his neck. I can see the long, puckered scar running from his left ear down his throat until it disappears into his shirt collar.