Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  It also reminded her of her father and all she had lost.

  “I didn’t say, no,” Álvaro said. “But I think it’s time to tell me what’s going on.”

  She wanted to tell him, but it would put his life at risk. She couldn’t do that to her last surviving family member.

  “I’ll be in touch.” She left the room without saying goodbye, too afraid that he would see the tears in her eyes.

  * * *

  Two days after the attack on the port, Vinny sat in the back of a Range Rover, nearly spilling his cup as they jolted over a pothole. Behind the wheel was Lino De Caro, wearing a gold pair of Gucci aviators.

  “Watch it,” said Christopher from the passenger seat.

  “When is some of the money we give to the City Council members going toward roads?” Marco said. “Or does it all go to the wall?”

  Vinny laughed. He cinched a strap on his ballistic vest and grabbed his new Beretta ARX160, the charcoal-gray gas-operated fully automatic assault rifle used by the Italian Army.

  “Where the hell’d we get these?” Marco asked.

  Vinny wasn’t going to tell his cousin shit.

  “Pretty nice, yeah?” Christopher said.

  “Where’s mine?” Marco asked, admiring the weapons.

  “Your dad wants you out of the action,” Christopher said. “You’re here to watch and learn.”

  “So why this?” Marco asked. He patted his vest.

  Vinny knew why. It was to protect the heir to the empire, and it also backed up his suspicions. Something big was about to go down, and odds were good it had to do with the Saints.

  But why bring Marco along? Especially when Lucia was so adamant about not involving him in any violence?

  It wasn’t often that the prince of the Moretti family left the safety of his castle. If he did leave, it was usually for the Goldilocks Zone, with a posse of heavily armed soldiers.

  Christopher opened a tactical bag in the front seat. For the first time in weeks, he wore black fatigues instead of one of his many Armani suits.

  Lino wore a vest over his T-shirt, his inked, muscular arms flexing as he gripped the wheel and tried to keep the rig steady on the fragmented street. He cursed under his breath and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  The sweat wasn’t from the heat but from nerves, and Lino was usually the last man to get nervous—something else that told Vinny they were going after the Saints. The elusive cops were going to become real ghosts today.

  Christopher pulled out magazines loaded with hollow-point rounds. Perhaps a lot of people were going to die.

  “Come on,” Marco said. “I should have one.”

  “No.” Christopher’s response earned him a scowl from Marco.

  “Did you guys find out who the Saints are?” Marco asked.

  Christopher had already turned back around to the front.

  “Come on, let me in on this,” Marco said. “I don’t want to sit and watch. How’m I supposed to learn by doing that?”

  Lino chuckled. “You got plenty of time to prove you got a big cazzo, kid, but today you best listen to orders.”

  Vinny palmed a magazine into his gun. He chambered a round and looked back out the window. They were moving into the outskirts of an old residential area. Most of the houses had burned down in the wildfires and droughts that followed the war.

  He fingered his rifle’s safety catch as a car came up on their left. It backed off when the driver saw the three Range Rovers.

  Wise man, Vinny thought.

  Several other cars passed on the other side of the highway. Most were rust buckets carrying migrant workers. An ancient Honda van with mattresses lashed to the top puttered down the road. Two kids were in the back seat, the parents in front. Two motorcyclists in body armor escorted the family.

  They were trying to escape the darkness of LA, but for most people there was no escaping the misery. And there were far worse things than gangsters and junkies where the van was headed—raiders and cannibals prowled the deserts they must cross to reach the Midwest.

  A cell phone chimed. Christopher pulled his out and brought it to his ear. “Okay, we’re on our way,” he said.

  He put the phone away and muttered something to Lino, who accelerated to catch up to the other two Range Rovers. One of them had taken some damage in the attack at the coffee shop days earlier. The broken windows had been replaced, but shrapnel holes and dents peppered the passenger side.

  All the pointless suspense was making Vinny mad. Why the hell keep him in the dark? He was a made man!

  Lino took the freeway into the city, heading for the western slums in zone 2, Vega territory. Government housing complexes, stacked like gray concrete Legos, rose across the skyline.

  “All right, go time in five minutes,” Christopher said as they approached the dreary pyramidal structures. He looked to Marco. “Remember what I said. You’re just here to watch. You got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Marco stared out the window as the convoy moved into heavier traffic, standing out in stark contrast to the rusty heaps surrounding them. He suddenly looked away. “I don’t like this,” he said. “We shouldn’t be on this strip.”

  “Your dad spent a small fortune on these ballistic door panels and bulletproof windows,” Christopher said without turning. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, but won’t the cops recognize us?”

  “Nope.” Christopher pulled out ballistic helmets from the bag on the floor and handed them out.

  Vinny grabbed one and stared at it. He was a Moretti. They didn’t hide their faces when attacking. They weren’t cowards like the Saints, or the Vegas with their colorful metal face masks.

  “Just wear it,” Christopher said when he saw Vinny glaring at the mask.

  The convoy passed through an open marketplace, where thousands of people were out bartering goods. The Rovers attracted plenty of attention, and some people stopped what they were doing to watch. Others saw it as an opportunity to panhandle and loitered right in the middle of traffic.

  Horns from the other cars honked. The front Range Rover halted, and one of the soldiers inside tossed a handful of coins onto the sidewalk. The onlookers bolted for a chance at a silver dime, clearing the roadway. And just like that, they were moving again.

  Christopher took another call.

  “Yeah?” he said. “We’re almost there. ETA two minutes.”

  Vinny felt the first trickle of adrenaline.

  The convoy took a right on the next street, entering a zone of halfway decent houses and apartment buildings. This was West Hollywood, where city officials and some of the wealthier businesspeople lived.

  Cars, motorcycles, and trucks zipped by as traffic increased. A police cruiser turned on its lights and chased two men on a scooter.

  The convoy took another right, onto a road framed with businesses, coffee shops, bars, and restaurants. The lead Range Rover peeled off, taking a left down an alleyway, but Lino kept following the one with the shrapnel damage.

  “There,” Christopher said, pointing at two armored black sedans parked in front of a coffee shop. Pedestrians crossed the street ahead, and civilians bustled along the sidewalks.

  The Range Rover in front of them made a U-turn, and Lino gunned the engine, pulling into the opposite lane of traffic and slamming on the brakes a hundred feet from the armored sedans.

  “That’s them,” Christopher said, pulling his mask up over his face. Lino followed suit, and they both jumped out.

  The second Range Rover emptied, disgorging Moretti soldiers in tactical gear and ballistic masks. Weapons shouldered, they strode toward a group of people sitting at tables outside the coffee shop.

  Three police officers drinking coffee stood up and went for their pistols. The one on the right, a young guy with a porn-star mustache, fell dead before he cleared the holster.

  Bullets ripped into the chest of the other man, sending him sprawling back on the table.

  “Holy fuck!” Marco said.
“Are those the Saints?”

  Vinny squinted for a better look, but these cops didn’t look like anyone special. They looked like straight beat cops.

  The third cop managed to pull his revolver, but a volley of hollow-points hit him in the skull, blowing brains, bone, and hair outward.

  The front door to the coffee shop opened, and a fourth officer stumbled out. He managed to aim his handgun and get off the luckiest shot in the world. The round punched through the eye socket of a Moretti soldier’s ballistic mask. He dropped to his knees and onto his side.

  Vinny resisted the urge to break orders and jump out of the vehicle.

  Christopher and Lino both looked over at their fallen comrade, limp as a doll, blood trickling out of his helmet.

  “Stay here!” Christopher yelled.

  He and Lino joined the fight.

  The other seven Moretti associates and soldiers fired at the building, shattering storefront windows and hitting the cop with a dozen bullets. He crashed backward through the shards of the glass door.

  Innocent people were cut down in the spray, falling to the pavement and screeching in agony. A shotgun blast rose over the noise. The fire came from the left of the parked Range Rover, somewhere on the sidewalk.

  Marco pulled a pistol from his coat and opened the door before Vinny could grab him.

  “Wait!” he yelled.

  Vinny jumped out on his side. He hugged the vehicle and looked for contacts in the street, but all he saw were frightened people and cars racing away from the violence.

  Gunfire continued as he crept around to the front of the Rover. Marco was crouching and aiming his pistol. The boom of a shotgun came again, and the blast slammed into the side of the Range Rover.

  And Marco.

  Vinny watched in horror as Marco slumped, his hand on his vest. He caught a blur of motion on the sidewalk as he moved for his cousin. The cop with the shotgun crouched behind a concrete park bench chipped by bullets—all misses from Marco.

  The cop loaded fresh shells into his shotgun, eyes locking on Vinny. They widened as Vinny swung up his ARX160.

  Three rounds obliterated the man’s forehead, blowing out one eye.

  “MOVE!” Lino shouted. He ran over and reached down to help Marco to his feet. The other Range Rover was already pulling away, but Christopher was standing in the seating area, over one of the cops.

  Vinny ran over. The guy was still alive, trying to crawl away.

  “You thought you could rob the Morettis?” Christopher yelled. “Turn over, dipshit.”

  The cop struggled for air, lungs crackling. Several gold chains hung over his heaving chest.

  “I’m sorry . . . It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he said, gasping. “Please, please don’t kill me.”

  This man was no Saint, Vinny realized. He was one of the cops who showed up with Lieutenant Best at the port before the attack.

  “The Morettis are done dicking around with you rat fucks,” Christopher said. “The deal with Captain Stone ends now.”

  The man put his hand out in front of his face. “Please, no . . . NO!”

  Two rounds punched through his hand and face. Christopher spat on the corpse and jerked his chin at their ride.

  “Let’s go, Vin,” he said calmly.

  They hustled back to the vehicle and peeled away. Marco was moaning in the back seat, and Vinny quickly helped him out of his vest.

  There was no blood, but he could see right away that his cousin was going to have a nasty bruise.

  “You’re fine,” Vinny said. He patted Marco on the shoulder.

  “What the fuck’d I tell you?” Christopher asked, turning around as he reloaded his rifle.

  “I’m sorry,” Marco said, breathing heavily. “That cop came out of nowhere.”

  “And he almost dirtied up the car door with your educated brains,” Christopher said.

  Lino chuckled. “How do your balls feel?”

  Christopher looked to Vinny. “Nice shooting, but you didn’t follow orders, either. Your job is to watch your cousin.”

  He normally didn’t question his father, but he couldn’t hold back.

  “Since when did we kill cops? The Saints are one thing, but those guys were nobodies.”

  Christopher snorted. “Those were some of the ‘nobodies’ from the port the other night.”

  Lino turned down another street, tires screeching. They gunned it for three more blocks, but they weren’t heading back to the freeway yet.

  The mission wasn’t over.

  Houses with barred windows and doors lined the street. It was quiet here, the earlier violence over.

  “There,” Christopher said.

  Lino nodded and followed the other Range Rover to the right side of the street, where the third Rover was parked. His brother, John, was standing on the street, holding sentry with his rifle.

  “Marco, you good to move?” Christopher asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Come with me, then,” Christopher said. “You too, Vin.”

  As soon as the vehicle parked, Vinny and Marco jumped out. Marco winced from the bruised ribs, but he moved well enough.

  They jogged toward an open front gate and up a curving path to a house. The front door was broken open, and Christopher walked right through. He moved through a living room with decent furniture and a large-screen TV, down a hallway and into a kitchen, where a shirtless man sat at his kitchen table.

  “Fucking guineas,” the man grumbled.

  Vinny recognized him by the acne scars.

  “Sorry to disturb your breakfast,” Christopher said, pulling up a chair. “So where is it?”

  Lieutenant Best looked up from his plate of cold eggs and bacon but didn’t reply.

  Christopher grabbed the plate and whacked him in the side of the head. Then he grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his head onto the table.

  Best fell out of his chair and onto the tile floor, grunting and spitting blood.

  “I’m not here to play games,” Christopher said, leaning down. He picked a piece of bacon off the floor, sniffed it, and jammed it in the lieutenant’s open mouth.

  “Tell me where the money from the other night is, or you’re going to die on your kitchen floor—a fat pig choking on bacon.”

  Best spat the meat out and looked up, a grin on his chubby face. Blood dripped from his nose and the cuts on his forehead. “You wouldn’t kill a cop. We have a deal—I was there the night Stone made it with Don Antonio.”

  Christopher stood up and pointed his rifle muzzle at Best’s head.

  “Deal’s over,” he said. “We just killed six of you corrupt, worthless fucks, and now it’s your turn unless you tell me who the Saints are.”

  The blue eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Christopher for a lie. Marco watched his uncle, who, like his father, had years of experience dealing with men like Best.

  The lieutenant pushed against the floor and labored to his feet, his belly sagging over his blue uniform pants. “I don’t know who the Saints are, I swear,” he said. “But I do have the money from the port. I’ll give it to you. Just please . . . please don’t shoot.”

  “Got a lot of heat incoming,” said a voice. “Better move, Chrissy.”

  Lino stood in the hallway with his rifle cradled.

  Christopher grabbed Best by the arm. “Guess you’re coming with us.”

  Vinny pushed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s back as they led him from the house.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Best said, looking over his shoulder. “You can’t do this to a cop. Don Antonio and I are partners.”

  “The fuck we can’t,” Vinny said. “We’re the Morettis. We don’t have partners. We own you, and we own this city.”

  -14-

  Antonio walked over to the bulletproof office window with a steaming cup of espresso in hand. He was a cautious man who understood that expensive security was worth the price. Twelve floors below his fine Italian shoes, he
had an end-of-the-world bunker just in case the US government decided to go nuclear again.

  When his family fled the violence in Naples, he had promised Christopher they would build an empire out of the ashes. Like his other promises, it had come true.

  Long ago, he had promised his wife that he would never let Marco become part of this world. He also told her he would always protect their son, no matter what.

  But to fulfill the second promise, he had to break the first. Their son needed experience to survive in this cutthroat world that, Antonio now realized, he could never escape from.

  Lucia stood next to him at the window, watching for the first sign of their son. The wait wasn’t long. A convoy of Range Rovers blazed down the road, kicking up a plume of dust. The guards manning the gate were already opening the thick steel doors.

  Antonio gestured for Lucia to take a seat. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she had that look—the kind that told him she was in no mood for bullshit.

  “When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  Antonio sipped his espresso, savoring the bitter taste.

  “The motions put in place today will come to light soon,” he said. “This is just the first of several moves I’m making to ensure our survival.”

  “I don’t want to survive, Antonio. That’s not why I married you. I married you because—”

  He raised a hand. “Because I promised you we would thrive. And we are.”

  “Thriving means nothing if Marco is dead. So tell me why you sent our son out there to kill cops. You said he was going to have a desk job or something, where he wasn’t at risk.”

  “Marco was instructed to remain in his vehicle—”

  “He shouldn’t even have been out there,” she said, talking faster. “He’s not ready for this world, Tony.”

  Antonio braced for the coming storm. She called him Tony only when she was mad or he was about to get lucky, and the latter hadn’t happened for almost a month.

  “He’s not ready,” she repeated. “And what about the deal you had with Chief Stone?”

  “His men broke that contract.”

  “You’re not worried he will ask the military for support?”