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And then he does.
He turns to me and he charges.
“Motherfucker,” he roars.
I stare at him in disbelief, at how slow he is, at how clumsily he moves. It’s like he’s never been in a fight before. By the time he gets to me the swollen sac of drug-peddling shit is almost out of breath.
I duck under his clumsy hook and coil my arm under his armpit, shoving my other arm behind his neck, lifting him off his feet as he chokes and sputters and kicks his legs. He’s trying to scream, to whine, to make any noise, but I squeeze him harder and harder, compressing his airway.
“This is your leader,” I roar, turning him, displaying him to all his men. “This is the man you’re following. Look at him. Remember him like this.”
I release some of the pressure on his neck, letting him place his feet on the ground, but there’s nothing he can do but stand in the chokehold as I move my body so any bullets fired at me will also hit Juan.
“Shoot him,” Juan cries, which is the worst and stupidest thing he could possibly say.
If they shoot me, they shoot him as well, but in his panic, he doesn’t seem to realize this.
His men exchange glances, silently agreeing not to open fire because they’re not the ones in the chokehold. They’re not the ones panicking.
“If you try to take me, they’ll open fire,” Juan whimpers. “You know they will.”
He doesn’t realize his control has already slipped.
The moment he charged at me, he lost any right to command these men. The Cartel will devolve into in-fighting as a result of this, as the hungry wolves lurking in the wings rise up to try and take power from their weak leader.
Still, he’s right.
I can’t take him, I can’t hurt him, because then the men would be honor-bound to protect their leader.
No, not honor-bound. They’d be compelled by fear.
Because they can’t know that Juan will be ousted from power. They can’t be certain. None of them wants to be responsible for their leader getting taken or killed and then have the higher-ups at the Cartel hear about it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave empty-handed.
“Who killed my man, Juan?” I snarl. “Who cut off his fucking head? Tell them to step forward or I swear to God – I swear on everything I’ve built – I will choke the life out of you right now.”
He makes a pathetic whimpering noise as I apply more pressure to the back of his neck, driving with my forearm.
“Raúl, Carlos, Martin, step forward,” Juan says.
More disgust flickers across the faces of the men, and nobody moves.
“Time’s running out, Juan,” I snarl, crushing him even tighter, making him feel like he’s trapped in the unstoppable clutches of an anaconda. “Tick tick.”
“Step forward,” he cries. “Or I’ll order my cousins to hunt down your families. Now.”
Reluctantly, the men step forward. Two of them are shirtless and bloated, a real goon look about them like they’d carry out any command their cowardly leader gave without a second thought. The third is wiry and looks strung-out, as though he’s addicted to something more than steroids.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I snarl. “We’re taking these men with us and they’re going to face justice for what they did to my man. Or they can run and I kill you, Juan. I choke you out right here and leave your body to rot. Your choice.”
One of the big men scowls, his teardrop tattoo puckering. “I’m not going with you.”
“Is that so?” I smirk. “Then I guess Juan here is going to have to carry out his threat and hurt your family. Is that what you want?”
I would never allow a woman or a child to be harmed, but this motherfucker doesn’t know that.
“Cillian, take them,” I snarl.
“Do as he says,” Juan whines, forcing the words out past my throttling arm. “Just—just do it.”
My second-in-command steps forward, backed up with a couple of my men, their guns raised and their eyes trained on the Cartel members. I can tell they don’t want to go with him, but what other choice do they have?
Juan gave them an order and, if they don’t do as he says, word will get back to the Cartel and fucked-up things will happen to their families. That’s exactly the reason I'm fighting so hard to keep them out of my city, so it doesn’t devolve into this sort of careless violence.
“Motherfucker,” the big man grunts as Cillian tosses his gun to the ground and grabs him by the arm, leading him toward our cars.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cillian says. “Just keep moving.”
I wait until all the men are in the cars, listening for the heavy shutting of the doors, and then I lean close to Juan so only he can hear me, whispering in his ear.
