Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Dom palmed a magazine into his M1A SOCOM 16 and then checked his .45. He closed his eyes as adrenaline and Dexedrine warmed his veins. When he opened them, Moose was slowing the Jeep toward a roadblock at the end of the exit ramp.

  Two black SUVs were blocking the route into what was once Hollywood. The Goldilocks Zone flashed in the distance.

  Dom leaned forward to see guards behind the vehicles, armed with submachine guns and wearing some sort of armored helmets.

  “What the hell is this?” Moose asked.

  “Security,” Dom said. He motioned for Moose to turn around.

  He should have known that Don Antonio wouldn’t leave the compound without a small army. The guys at the roadblock were checking vehicles and keeping the roads clear to give their boss an escape route.

  And, of course, Dom didn’t see any cops patrolling. Chief Stone still hadn’t responded to West Hollywood, and Dom didn’t trust him to send out any cars.

  Any justice was up to the Saints.

  To defeat evil, we must embrace it.

  Dom drew in a deep breath. He had gunned down a lot of Morettis over the past few days and didn’t regret a damn one. But he had to be careful no civilians got caught in the cross fire.

  That was a line he wasn’t prepared to cross, even if it meant nabbing Don Antonio. If they were lucky, maybe Vito would be with him tonight, and he could kill both the bastards.

  “Take the back way,” Dom ordered. “Drive in the fucking dirt if you have to.”

  Moose turned and then drove across the shoulder back to the freeway.

  “If those guys are still here, it means Don Antonio is too,” Rocky said.

  Dom pulled out his buzzing cell phone.

  “Whattya got?” Dom asked.

  Namid whispered, as if he didn’t want to be heard, and Dom couldn’t make out much of it, but he did catch two words.

  “Heading out.”

  “Can’t hear you, man,” Dom said.

  “The king is on his way out of there with the prince. They are in a black BMW and surrounded by a convoy of black Suburbans, westbound. I’m on foot and about to lose them.”

  “All right, we got this,” Dom said. “Now, get somewhere safe.”

  He pocketed the cell phone and scanned the road and overpasses.

  “They’re heading for the freeway in a black BMW,” Dom said.

  Moose looked over. “Have you considered that this might be a trap?” he asked. “To draw us out?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think so. This is Don Antonio, flexing his muscles and saying he can do whatever the fuck he wants after West Hollywood. And not to fuck with him.”

  Moose didn’t respond, but he did push down on the pedal, speeding toward the next exit to get ahead of the Moretti convoy.

  They had to hit him here, on the road, before he could escape. But they couldn’t just pull up alongside and empty their magazines. That was suicide.

  “Up there,” Dom said, pointing at a bridge that spanned the freeway.

  Moose veered off onto the shoulder and then took the exit. He sped down the ramp and slowed as they approached the intersection. Several cars passed through.

  “I don’t see any roadblocks,” Dom said.

  They pulled up to the stop sign and took a left. Seeing a cluster of headlights on the road below, he felt his pulse quicken.

  “Hurry!” Dom yelled.

  He jumped out of the Jeep and ran over to the railing. Rocky and Moose joined him a moment later.

  “Watch our six, Rocky,” Dom said. He raised his rifle and angled it at the road. Headlights shot down the westbound lanes.

  Rocky checked the right and left of the road to make sure they weren’t being flanked. “We’re clear,” he said.

  Dom looked down the scope of his M1A SOCOM 16 and searched the convoy for the BMW. The car was right in the middle, protected by two black Suburbans. He moved his finger to the trigger.

  He had waited a long time for this.

  “Paint that motherfucker!” Dom yelled.

  Gunfire cracked on his flanks as the three Saints opened fire. Bullets shattered the BMW’s windshield and punched through the roof. The tires went next, and the car swerved out of control, slamming into one of the Suburbans before sliding onto the shoulder, where it stopped in a cloud of dust.

  Dom leaned over and fired single rounds into the vehicle until the bolt clicked back. He ejected the spent magazine, grabbed another from his vest, and slapped it in.

  “Changing!” Moose said. He and Rocky slapped in their second magazines and rained more lead down on the BMW. The Suburbans had pulled off, and soldiers jumped out.

  Moose and Rocky fired their fresh magazines, cutting them down before they could fire back.

  Dom aimed for the gas tank of the BMW.

  “Burn in hell, Antonio,” he said.

  A memory of Monica flashed through his mind as he pulled the trigger.

  Rounds peppered the metal. An explosion burst from the back end, flames poofing into the night, forcing Dom to step back from the bridge railing.

  “Let’s go!” Moose shouted.

  Rocky ran back to the Jeep, but Dom stayed, feeling the heat from the fireball just below the overpass. He stood watching the BMW and the men inside burn, until Moose pulled him away.

  -18-

  Camilla splashed cold water on her face, making the cut sting. She used a towel to blot it dry, then leaned in to check the stitches. The swelling had gone down, but her brown eyes looked sunken, and several small cuts hid the freckles on her nose.

  Dom was right—she was lucky. And he didn’t even know the half of it.

  Better to spare him the details.

  She took off her shirt, and she saw the other scars that tattooed her flesh: the snaking line from below her right breast to her naval, where a knife had traced her flesh; the raised scar on her left biceps, where a 9 mm bullet had punched into her muscle.

  Each scar had a story, and she didn’t like dwelling on them.

  She threw on a tank top. The rough cotton fabric felt good on her skin. It reminded her of her childhood, when things were simple and the biggest concern was when her papi drank too much tequila and lost his temper with her mamá, Fabiola.

  Now she was the one who drank too much and had a bad temper.

  She checked her cell phone, saw that it was dead, and put it on the charger. Grabbing a pair of boots, she shoved them on and carefully slipped her .380 subcompact revolver inside the right boot, and her knife in the left. With the weapons concealed, she headed out for dinner.

  Fires burned in barrels in the courtyard behind her building, where dozens of people watched a game of basketball and drank moonshine or cheap beer.

  She walked toward a place that served more of the cheap stuff: a corner bar called the Pig’s Ear. They had halfway decent food there.

  Hookers shouted their pitches to drivers and pedestrians from the curb outside the old public library. One of them hooked a fish, and they walked inside the library turned brothel that sported a sign: Silver & Gold.

  The sight reminded Camilla that life could be a great deal worse.

  She set off toward a black police cruiser parked in a lot across from the library. Tires squealed at the next intersection. Two cars shot across, their engines rumbling as they raced down the road.

  But the officer seemed too preoccupied to follow.

  Camilla walked past the car and spotted a mop of hair moving over the cop’s lap. Neither of his hands gripped the wheel. He glanced over and caught Camilla’s gaze, grinning wide.

  “Wow,” she murmured. “That’s what we’re up against.”

  Two junkies hung out on the benches around the corner. She recognized both as locals.

  “Ma’am,” said a dark-skinned guy missing most of his front teeth. He rose to his feet, his muscular frame and biceps captured in the streetlight.

  “Hey there, Mr. Mayweather,” she said with a smile.

  Mayweather, whos
e real name was Joe, returned the gesture, showing off his missing teeth. The man was an anomaly. About as ripped as Rocky, he had once been a Golden Gloves champ, hence the nickname.

  “You got any money I can borrow?” he asked.

  Borrow . . .

  “You can fight me for it,” she said, putting up her fists.

  “I don’t hit ladies, ma’am, but damn! Someone else sure must have.” His pinned eyes squinted at her face.

  “I fell,” she lied.

  Reaching into her pocket, she took out a couple of silver dimes.

  “Get yourself something to eat,” Camilla said. “Maybe something for your buddy to eat too.”

  She handed the coins to Joe.

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said.

  Camilla jogged the rest of the way to the Pig’s Ear. Over twenty people packed the small, narrow space furnished with a long bar and ten red tables.

  She took a seat at the bar and ordered a basket of tacos al carbón and a side of salsa verde. It was some of the best in the entire city—and fresh too. And the hogs were raised not far away.

  The barmaid, a woman in her fifties named Sandy, popped the top off a sweating bottle of Carta Blanca and set it down in front of Camilla.

  “Long day?” Sandy asked.

  “Is it that obvious?” Camilla grabbed the cold beer and brought it to her lips, enjoying the first gulp more than sex—not great sex, but decent sex. That was what she really wanted, but the man she wanted it with was off limits.

  She and Dom could never be together. It would tarnish their working relationship. But, damn, sometimes she couldn’t help but think of him in that way. Intelligent, kind, generous, with a strong moral compass, not to mention handsome—he was the antithesis of the men she hunted.

  Although she worried that he was starting to change. Popping the speed and taking bigger risks had her worried. She kept telling herself he was doing it to help him fight a war and that he would stop. But the pills were addictive, and he already had a drinking problem.

  You’re one to talk, she thought as she finished off the beer.

  Sandy popped another and slid it to her with a warm smile.

  Camilla sighed in the breeze of an old ceiling fan. She downed the second beer and a shot of tequila, her anxiety-ridden body welcoming the chill and then the burn.

  She could already feel eyes on her. Two forty-something white guys in jeans, T-shirts, and ball caps sat off to her left, a fort of empty beer bottles on the bar in front of them. The woman on her right got off the barstool, opening up a spot.

  Oh, great.

  The tacos came out, and she mowed them down, chasing each bite with a swig. Maybe her eating like a pig would deter the assholes to her left from bothering her.

  She was wrong.

  They walked over, sitting on the two empty barstools to either side.

  “Hey, lady,” the guy on the left said. “You alone?”

  “What’s it look like, prick?” She wiped her fingers on her shirt and grabbed the fresh beer the barmaid had set down.

  “Well, damn, maybe there’s a reason for that,” the guy said. “You got a mouth on ya, don’t you?”

  She tipped back the beer, giving the guy a quick side glance. He had a handsome face, with dimples and a five o’clock shadow. But she didn’t like his eyes. She knew eyes, and his seemed empty, dead—the gaze of a man harboring bad secrets.

  “I’m alone for a reason,” she said. “Now, fuck off and let me enjoy my cerveza.”

  Sandy smiled, a cigarette bobbing in her mouth, and went back to wringing out a filthy mop into a bucket.

  The guys weren’t amused or deterred.

  “You really should be more polite,” said the one on her right. “Maybe you would avoid all them scars and cuts if you were. I mean, you ain’t that good lookin’, lady.”

  She still hadn’t bothered to look at his face but decided to give him a glance. Unlike his friend, he had a beak of a nose and barely a chin.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t sit down uninvited,” she replied.

  She threw down a few coins to pay her tab, grabbed her beer, and said, “Thanks Sandy.”

  Sandy nodded, then glared at the two men.

  Camilla walked out of the Pig’s Ear, figuring it was over. Again she was wrong.

  She kept walking, listening to the footfalls behind her. When she rounded the corner of the building, she stopped, looking out over an abandoned parking lot.

  Walking away wasn’t her style.

  She turned around, pissed. When they came around the corner, they just kept coming, even when she shouted for them to stop.

  Before she could react, a fist hit her in the nose. Stars burst in her vision, and heat flared in her brain.

  She stumbled back and tripped on a hunk of broken concrete. A cold wave of fear rushed through her as she fell.

  She hit the ground hard, the bottle in her hand shattering.

  The ugly guy went to grab her leg, but she kicked him in the face. The other guy reached down to grab her arm, and she slashed him across the wrist with the broken bottle.

  “Crazy bitch!” he screeched.

  She got back up, holding the broken bottle and swiping the air. The two guys stumbled away, holding their wounds and cursing.

  “You’re lucky we don’t kill you!”

  “She broke my nose. Holy shit, I think she broke my nose!”

  Around the corner came Sandy, with a guy wearing an apron and carrying a meat cleaver.

  “Get out of here, you punks!” he yelled.

  Sandy walked over to Camilla, who was still holding the broken bottle in a shaky hand.

  The two lowlifes moved around the corner, still screaming profanities.

  “Miss?” Sandy asked.

  “You okay?” asked the cook.

  “I’m fine,” Camilla said.

  “Better let me look at that nose,” Sandy said.

  Camilla wiped the blood away on her arm.

  “I’ll be okay. But thanks. Those tacos are amazing!” she said as if nothing had happened.

  The cook and Sandy exchanged a glance as Camilla walked past them.

  For the next half hour, she walked the streets, mind racing and heart pounding. She stopped at a corner grocery store to pick up some gauze, then continued to the Santa Monica Pier, or what was left of it.

  Chain-link fences blocked off the coastline. The boardwalk and shops were gone, burned to the ground during the war. No Trespassing signs were posted every quarter mile or so.

  Waves beat the shoreline behind the fences, eating at the ledge of dirt and sand. The beautiful beaches that once attracted tourists from all over the world were gone, eroded and washed away.

  She walked over to the fence and found a section partly cut away. Ducking under the flap, she walked to the high-tide shelf and sat dangling her feet over the side. There, she did something she hadn’t done in years. Camilla Santiago sobbed and sobbed, her salty tears falling into the saltwater that lapped at her feet.

  * * *

  Sweat dripped down Vinny’s forehead behind the night-vision goggles and his mask.

  The Moretti fire team, bottlenecked in the narrow concrete passage, had come across several obstructions, some of which required careful checking for booby traps.

  But for Vinny, it was the image of the dead boy that slowed him down tonight. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  Focus, Vin. You got to keep focused on the mission.

  In a few minutes, they would be out of the sewers and on Nevksy territory. And with one man already down, he continued to feel the pinch of fear that came with waiting. Waiting gave the idle brain too much time to worry.

  But there was an upside to Frankie biting the dust. It opened up a dealing spot at the Four Diamonds, and Don Antonio would need another captain to run the operation.

  Vinny almost smiled, but the night was young, and plenty of risks lay ahead. The Nevskys weren’t the only threat. The storm sewers were oft
en home to the crazies, cast away from society on the surface.

  Vinny had seen only a few face-to-face. Most were rounded up by the cops and cast into the wastelands, but a few escaped to dark places like this.

  He wasn’t surprised when he smelled, then saw, bodies ahead.

  Judging by their condition—mostly reduced to bones, hair, and clothing—they were probably refugees after the Second Civil War.

  A random drip of water hit his helmet as he passed under a grate. There were about a hundred other places he would rather be than down here, and he suddenly envied his cousin. While Vinny was down here risking his ass, Marco was probably drinking champagne, and doing lines off some hooker’s tits.

  Vinny focused on the mission and also on Carmine. He didn’t like that the man was walking behind his father, but he also didn’t think Carmine was going to do anything right now to avenge his friend Frankie.

  The asshole made a big mistake. Even Carmine had to know that. All the men knew the rules. Similar to the old ways of La Costa Nostra in Naples, but with the rigid chain of command that Antonio and Christopher brought with them from the Italian Army.

  If you directly disobeyed an order, you were punished accordingly. In Frankie’s case, that meant a bullet—three, actually.

  Carmine raised a fist, and Vinny halted.

  A rat skittered past, vanishing into a crack in the wall, reminding him of the biggest threat to the Moretti family.

  Human-sized rats. The Saints. They were next on the hit list.

  Carmine lowered his hand, and the team continued into a large room with tunnels jutting off in four directions. Christopher split the fire team, with Yellowtail leading four men on the left while Vinny, Carmine, and Rush followed Christopher on the right. They walked up concrete steps and ducked into a tunnel with a low ceiling. Halfway down the passage, a steel ladder rose through a shaft to the surface.

  “Carmine, check it out,” Christopher ordered.

  Carmine grumbled as he climbed. A few tense minutes later, he climbed back down.

  “The lid is welded shut,” he whispered. “Microcam shows a motion detector topside.”

  “Not for long,” Christopher said. He brought a finger to his earpiece, breaking radio silence for the first time to send Doberman a message.