Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Fortunately, Dom had the map from Camilla’s uncle Álvaro. He was going to owe the old man a few beers when they got back to Los Angeles.

  Three hours into the second day of their journey, the pickup crested a hill overlooking the outskirts of what was once an oasis in the desert. Derelict communities surrounded the gambling mecca, and a graffitied sign pocked with bullet holes greeted them: “Sinners welcome.”

  The strip flickered in the distance. The pyramid-shaped Sphinx Hotel reminded Dom of the Vega-controlled Angel Pyramids in Los Angeles, and the Excalibur resort looked much like the Commerce Hotel after Antonio Moretti turned it into his personal castle.

  The mini Eiffel Tower reached for the sky in the center of the lavish resorts that once attracted millions of visitors each year.

  “Always wanted to see this place,” Moose said.

  Namid stared silently ahead, probably thinking about his sister now.

  Cayenne slept on the floor, uninterested in the boarded-up mansions in the burbs, or the blocks of houses burned to their foundations. Unsurprisingly, a few appeared occupied. The former methadone capital of the world had problems with junkies and squatters long before the apocalypse.

  Eventually, the LA crime families would move in when they were strong enough to defeat the organizations that controlled this city. For now, men like Antonio Moretti and Esteban Vega were only bringing their product here: both drugs and slaves.

  “Where first? Bellagio?” Moose asked.

  Dom flattened the map. “Yeah, Marks said there’s a pimp the sicarios spoke of—guy who specializes in girls my sister’s age.”

  He had a hard time saying it, but he had to be strong. Stroking Cayenne helped ease his anxiety as they entered traffic on the highway to the strip.

  A plane touched down at the airport, and traffic increased as they made their way into the city. The wealthy few still flocked here with entourages of former soldiers, to play poker against other rounders. Even with bodyguards, some still ended up with empty pockets and a bullet in the head.

  This was the Wild West, where a man could fulfill any desire, even those that once would have landed him in federal prison.

  “Is that a . . .” Moose said.

  On the shoulder of the road, a man led a donkey with a cart full of junk. Cayenne barked when she saw the donkey.

  At the strip, they weren’t greeted with the flashing lights and half-naked women Dom remembered seeing in the movies.

  Most of the businesses were boarded up like the houses in the surrounding communities. But there were a few exceptions. Caesar’s Palace, the Bellagio, the Wynn, and the Venetian had reopened and were humming along.

  Cars waited under the porte cocheres, and pedestrians loitered outside, smoking cigarettes and surrounded by their bags.

  Moose passed a dry pool where the Bellagio’s fountains once shot a hundred feet into the air. They drove to an aboveground parking garage.

  “Namid, you stay here with Cayenne for this first check,” Dom said. “Watch the truck and our gear. We’ll call if we need help.”

  “You got it,” Namid said. “Be careful.”

  Cayenne tried to follow Dom, but he snapped his fingers. She sat next to Namid, letting out a low whine as Moose and Dom walked away.

  Wearing jeans and T-shirts, with face masks around their necks, they entered the casino carrying two bags. Thick clouds of cigar smoke greeted them.

  Men wearing suits sat around card tables, smoking and drinking. Dolled-up women in tight dresses watched their husbands or dates.

  It wasn’t hard to distinguish the tourists from their bodyguards. Most of the tourists appeared to have plenty of money, and Dom suddenly felt underdressed. Still, he didn’t bother placing any bets to blend in.

  The pimps were scattered about the casino floor, and it didn’t take Dom long to find the one who fit the description Marks had given.

  A tall, pale man leaned back against a bar, watching old horse races on massive flat-screens. His red suit jacket, red cowboy hat, silver rings, and watch weren’t what gave him away. It was the cane with a silver grip.

  “Hey,” Dom said.

  The guy turned slightly, holding a cigarette to his lips.

  “Whattya want?” he asked in a Southern drawl.

  “A fucking unicorn and a billion bucks,” Dom said. “What the fuck you think we want?”

  The man lowered his wing-tip shoe to the floor and stiffened. He was much taller than Dom originally thought.

  Pushing up his mirrored sunglasses, he looked each of them up and down.

  “You got coin?” he asked.

  Dom set his bag down and pulled a black bag from his pocket. “Don’t mistake my clothes for my bank balance.”

  The guy leaned forward to look in the bag.

  “And don’t play me or my buddy for a fool,” Dom added. “There are plenty of other businessmen in this casino.”

  Moose folded his muscular arms over his chest.

  The man tapped the spiked silver tip of his cane on the stained carpet once, twice.

  “Type of girls you boys looking for?” he said.

  “He likes ’em young,” Moose said with a laugh. “Fifteen or so. Italian roots if you got any.”

  “You came to the right guy, my friends. I’m Jimmy Two Shoes.” Reaching out, he put his hands around both men’s shoulders, but Dom pulled away.

  “Easy there, partner. I don’t bite, but I got girls that will. Boys too, if that’s your thing.” Jimmy flashed Moose a glance, and Moose grunted back.

  “Not my thing, bro.”

  “Fair enough.” Jimmy stopped under a chandelier that emphasized the mascara he wore. He pulled out a cell phone and turned his back to them.

  Dom and Moose exchanged a glance.

  A few feet away, an attendant opened the doors to the Bellagio Theater, exposing a stage and arena that once attracted hundreds of patrons to water shows featuring talented gymnasts.

  Now the stage was used for strippers and sex shows.

  Jimmy turned and grinned as he lowered his phone. “I think I have what you’re looking for, but it’s going to cost you.”

  “Let’s see her first,” Dom said.

  The pimp hesitated.

  “You saw the coin; now let’s see the merchandise, or I’ll go elsewhere.”

  “Okay, okay, follow me.” Jimmy swung his cane and led the way across the casino floor. They passed roulette and blackjack tables, most of them empty. Then they passed what was once a sushi bar, now a pub with peanut shells crushed on the floor.

  The pimp led them through the lobby, but instead of going to the elevators that would take them to any of thousands of suites, he took them to the pools.

  Dom remained patient, following without uttering a word, eyes roving for threats. Most of the people here were just tourists with their bodyguards, and casino staff. He didn’t see any gangbangers like those who hung out at LA’s biggest casino—the Golden Oyster, another Moretti property.

  Outside, tourists lounged and swam in two large pools while bikini-clad women served cocktails and beers. One of the girls nodded at Jimmy, and he flashed her a cocky grin that she did not return.

  When they got to the smaller tables, he pointed his cane at lounges with drapes for privacy. Dom and Moose took a seat on the comfortable couches inside.

  Someone was having fun a few lounges down, but the fun didn’t sound entirely mutual. Dom tried to block out the sounds.

  A woman in a bikini brought them beers, and a few minutes later, Jimmy returned with two muscular men. Both had flames tattooed on their bald scalps. They flanked a high-school-age girl with a short black dress and skimpy top. Not Monica.

  Dom shook his head. “Too skinny.”

  The pimp brought out more women, and each time, Dom gave some excuse for not liking them.

  Thirty minutes later, Jimmy was growing frustrated. He narrowed his eyes and said, “I get the sense you’re looking for someone, not for a good time.
”

  “You’d be wrong,” Dom said, getting up from the couch.

  Jimmy stood, rising a good six inches over Dom. Moose stood and matched the pimp’s height.

  “Is there a problem, boss?” asked one of the guards outside the open drapes.

  Both men stepped up, but he waved them back.

  “Not yet,” Jimmy said.

  He brought four more girls, none of them Monica.

  Dom sighed and got off the couch when he realized he had pushed his luck. Though he really wanted to shove the cane where it belonged, he gave Jimmy a silver coin for his time. He couldn’t afford to create trouble just yet.

  “You boys sure you don’t want to go younger?” Jimmy called out as they walked away from the lounge. “Maybe that’s the problem. I got a girl that’s twelve, fits your description.”

  Dom stopped with his back to Jimmy.

  Monica was only thirteen when she was taken, and imagining her working for this powdery fuck boiled his blood.

  “Don’t,” Moose said.

  “Sorry, can’t let it slide.”

  Moose sighed and followed Dom as he rushed back toward the draped-off lounge. Jimmy looked surprised and held up his cane.

  “Hey, what the fuck?” he shouted.

  Both bodyguards moved to intercept Dom. He ducked one guy’s punch, then elbowed the guy in the back of the head, bringing him to his knees. Moose took the other guy.

  These two bozos were nothing to the opponents Dom had faced in the underground cage bouts when he was trying to catch the Vega brothers.

  He took the big man down with a punch to the throat, then a knee to the face.

  Jimmy backed up, swinging his cane. Dom ripped it from his hand and smacked Jimmy in the face with the silver handle. A tooth flew out and clattered on the floor tiles.

  A familiar deep growl came from behind Dom.

  He almost smiled when he saw Namid walking—or rather, being walked by—Cayenne. Straining at the leash, she snapped the air near the downed second guard while Moose finished neutralizing the first.

  A final blow to the face sent him to dreamland.

  Jimmy watched in shock, a hand to his jaw, blood dripping from his lips.

  “Come on, guys,” he said, holding up his other hand. “No need for such—”

  Cayenne growled at him, shutting him up.

  He took a step backward, tripped, and fell.

  “Cayenne,” Dom said, patting his thigh.

  Namid let go of the leash, and she hopped over to Dom, still snarling at Jimmy, who held up both hands defensively. “Please,” he begged. “Please, call it off.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Dom said.

  Namid and Moose turned to give him privacy and watch for more trouble.

  After pulling the drapes closed, Dom snapped his fingers at Cayenne. She sat and panted, eyes pinned on Jimmy.

  Dom bent down, studying the pimp like his dog. Then he reached out quickly, making Jimmy flinch.

  “Relax,” Dom said. He fished inside the red jacket, pulling out the silver coin he had tossed Jimmy only a minute before.

  “I’d let my dog rip your nuts off, but I’m afraid she’d get sick.” He patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “But I’ve got a better idea anyway.”

  Dom stood and picked up the cane, holding it like a golf club. Then he took a nice-looking backswing and teed off on two balls at once.

  Cayenne tilted her head as Jimmy howled.

  Moose waited outside, both bodyguards limp at his feet. Namid had stepped outside the drape to keep the gathering crowd back.

  Dom tossed a coin to the first staff member who arrived—a woman in her twenties. The same one Jimmy had grinned at earlier. She smiled and then surprised Dom.

  “Thanks for taking care of that asshole, mister.”

  The Saints hurried out of the casino without facing any resistance. Apparently, Jimmy wasn’t all that popular. When they got back to their truck, they were out of breath and Moose was panting like Cayenne.

  Dom clapped his friend on the back. “Get it together, brother. The hunt has just begun.”

  This time, Dom got behind the wheel. If his sister was here, he would find her, even if he had to beat down every pimp and search every dive and flophouse in town.

  -1-

  FIVE YEARS LATER . . .

  “We can’t get to Esteban or Miguel,” said Chief of Police Brian Stone. Slouched in his chair, he looked like a dog anticipating a beating. “They’ve gone underground after our last raid.”

  And here Antonio Moretti was, standing behind the bulletproof office windows of his casino overlooking the hills of Hollywood. Right out in the open, while his enemies cowered out there.

  Come and get me, you cockroach motherfuckers, Antonio thought.

  It would be no easy task. He was surrounded by a small army, and the Golden Oyster, like his office at his compound, was as secure as the White House had once been.

  He had escape routes, security everywhere, and multiple getaway cars if he ever needed to flee to a safe location.

  “Sir,” said a voice much smoother than the chief’s two-pack-a-day rasp. This was the voice of a politician.

  Antonio looked at Mayor Buren’s reflection in the window. The mayor had aged over the years—his hair gray and thinning, his athletic frame a little thicker in the middle—but he still had that smooth voice and business smile.

  All the men in this room looked older.

  Wars always aged those lucky enough to survive them.

  Antonio had a receding hairline, more wrinkles from a constantly furrowed brow, and worst of all, weakening vision. He wore contacts in public, glasses when he was by himself.

  But it wasn’t just his physical form that had taken a beating. The losses had softened his heart. It was odd. War broke some men and hardened the rest. But war had made Antonio more empathetic to the plight of the less fortunate. That was part of the reason he donated so much of his profits back to the city.

  The mayor stepped up to the window and adjusted his tie. “Looks like a bad one brewing,” he said.

  Chief Stone remained back in a leather chair, drinking the glass of whiskey that Lino De Caro had just brought him.

  Zachary “Yellowtail” Moretti was also here, wearing a black tank top that showed off his gold cross and thick muscles. Unlike Buren, he had lost some weight.

  The wind blasted the window with grit. The mayor stepped back.

  “Don’t worry, nothing short of an armor-piercing round is going to break this glass,” Antonio said. “Why don’t you have a seat while we wait for my brother.”

  Buren went back to the chairs and sat next to Stone, but Antonio remained here, admiring the view from the fifteenth floor of the Golden Oyster. The dust storm was gathering strength.

  Soon he wouldn’t be able to see the Hollywood Hills. He could still make out what remained of the iconic Hollywood sign up on Mount Lee. Most of the letters had tumbled away in previous storms, leaving only “H” and “OOD.”

  Hood.

  Almost the entire city was the hood, not controlled by the dirty politician or the crooked cop sitting beside him—although Antonio sometimes found it convenient to make the mayor and the chief think they were in charge. Everyone knew that it was really the Vegas, the Morettis, the Nevsky crime family, and a few hardcore street gangs who were in control of the four zones.

  Antonio had always considered himself a patient man. But eight years had passed since the old war ended and his war for the city began.

  Sometimes, you have to do things yourself—his own cold words from the night his crew ambushed the Vega brothers and an LAPD task force. The same night the Vega brothers used a drone to attack the wedding ceremony of Raffaello Tursi and his bride.

  Antonio gritted his teeth at the painful memories. He would have his revenge.

  In war, patience wasn’t just a virtue; it was a strategy. Now it was time to cash in on that patience.

  The office door finall
y opened, and Christopher Moretti stepped inside, dressed in a black suit with a tie and pocket square that matched the silver-gray in his goatee and slicked-back hair.

  Two guards, both armed with automatic rifles, closed the door behind him.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Christopher said. He went straight to the table overlooking the carmine sky.

  Antonio remained standing.

  “I called this meeting to discuss a new strategy to destroy the Vegas, and to discuss the upcoming election,” he said.

  The cops weren’t getting the job done, his men weren’t getting the job done, and the Vegas weren’t leaving their hideouts. He had to draw them out. There was only one way he could think of to do that.

  “I want Mariana López,” Antonio said.

  Stone swallowed. “What do you mean, you want her?” he asked.

  “I want you to deliver her to me.”

  “I can’t give her to you—she’s in County, under the watch of Sheriff Benson. But I can request she be transferred for medical care. If something should happen to her en route, well . . .” He shrugged a shoulder.

  “That will do,” Antonio replied. “How fast can you make this happen?”

  “I don’t know. I have to make some calls.”

  Antonio paced in front of the desk, considering this plan.

  The wind howled outside, flinging grit against the window. It sounded like a hundred little fingernails. He enjoyed the sound of the storm and thought the foreshadowing apt.

  “Open the safe, Chrissy,” Antonio said.

  Christopher walked over to a door in the expansive office and started twisting the wheel on the massive vault.

  “Make your calls,” Antonio said to Stone.

  The chief pulled out a phone and walked to the corner while Antonio pulled a chair in front of Buren.

  “About that election in a few months, Mr. Mayor,” Antonio said. “You’ve got some major competition this time.”

  “I’ll win,” Buren said.

  He was a confident man. Antonio was too, but confidence could also be victory’s assassin.

  “Don’t bank on it,” Antonio said. “Times are changing. We’re seeing an influx of refugees from other cities, and while we have the water, we don’t have the food.”