Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “I’m Jennifer, Marco’s girlfriend,” she replied in a soft voice, extending her hand.

  “Girlfriend?” Lucia asked, folding her arms over her chest.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. Marco’s never mentioned you,” Lucia said coldly.

  The young woman stared back defiantly.

  “Pleased to meet you, Jennifer,” Antonio said. “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll bring you some water.”

  The boys also moved toward the chairs, but Antonio shook his head. “You three stay put.”

  Lucia, still aiming a hawkish gaze at Jenny, finally walked away to get a glass of water. When she returned, she held it out to the girl, who was shaking as if from cold.

  “Tell us what happened,” Antonio said quietly. He knew better than to ask the drunk boys. If he wanted a fanciful story, he would have asked them over the phone.

  “It was the Vegas,” Jenny said. “They followed Vinny into the club and then just started shooting.”

  Christopher’s hard eyes narrowed. “Don’t try and pin this shit on Vinny just because you’re fucking Marco.”

  “I’m . . .” She let out a huff. “First off, I’m not sleeping with him. Second, I’m just explaining.”

  Lucia turned her hawkish gaze on Christopher. “Let her talk.”

  Apparently, she had a change of heart about the girl after hearing she hadn’t slept with her son yet. Antonio had a hard time believing that. And if she was lying about one thing, she would lie about another.

  Christopher muttered under his breath and backed off.

  “After Nick got shot, we took off for the exit,” Jenny said. “Vinny and Marco told us to hide, then went the other way down the hall. I saw Vinny shoot one guy there before we went into the bathroom.”

  “Then what?” Antonio asked.

  “We hid, but we only heard rumors after that,” she said.

  Antonio moved on to the boys. “Your turn. Did you see or hear anything else?”

  All three kids kept their eyes on the floor out of respect or fear, or both. Yellowtail, Lino, and Christopher loomed in silence around the boys. Tension filled the room.

  “I heard Marco and Vinny ran out to the parking lot, and Marco shot a sicario there,” Giovanni said. “I saw the body, so I know someone shot the asshole.”

  Antonio drank in the information. So his son had killed one of the men. That was good, but it didn’t excuse his behavior. No, that would take nothing short of a miracle—like catching the goddamn Saints.

  “What happened next?” Lucia asked.

  Giovanni shook his wavy hair side to side. “I heard they ran, but that’s all I know. No idea what happened to them after.”

  Antonio looked to Christopher, who had taken out the chewed butt of his cigar and was looking at it as if unsure what to do with it.

  “We have to send out everyone,” Lucia said. “Yellowtail, Chrissy, Lino, you guys need to get out there.”

  The men hesitated, looking to their leader for orders.

  “Tell them, Antonio!” Lucia exclaimed.

  The kids studied him for a reaction.

  Antonio massaged his eyebrows. “If they got away, they will hunker down until it’s safe. But if Esteban or Miguel got them . . .”

  Lucia wiped a tear from her eye. “If the Vegas have them, then you get them back, Tony. You do everything in your power—everything—to bring my son and my nephew home. And then you kill every last one of those pieces of coyote shit.”

  “Send out everyone we have,” Antonio said. “I only want a skeleton crew back here.”

  “Brother, this could be what they want,” Christopher said. “Trust me, I want to send everyone to save my son and yours, but it could be a trap.”

  “Send everyone you can spare,” Antonio said. “I’ll handle security back here. We’re ready for an attack.”

  Barking and screaming suddenly came from outside the door. Antonio backed up on the Persian rug to stand beside Lucia while Christopher, Lino, and Yellowtail pulled guns and moved to the door.

  “Get back,” Antonio said to the kids.

  They all huddled behind the war table.

  The barking stopped, but the screaming turned into a wail.

  The female voice sounded oddly familiar.

  “Open the doors,” Antonio said.

  Christopher pulled the right door open, and a large woman came inside, sobbing, her hair frizzled. It took Antonio a second to recognize Vito’s wife. She lived two floors down and never came up here.

  “Giuliana, what’s wrong?” Lucia asked, reaching out.

  “It’s Vito,” Giuliana said, sobbing. “Someone killed him.”

  -27-

  Ray punched Namid in the jaw. The crack echoed through the abandoned garage, but the Mojave warrior didn’t cry out in pain. After an hour of taking hits, he was still silent.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ray said.

  He backed away, gripping his bloody knuckles, bumping into his Audi parked in the garage.

  “That all you got?” Namid said, spitting blood.

  He twisted and squirmed against his restraints on the metal chair, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Ray had tied him well, and no one was around to hear him scream if it came to that.

  Judging by the abuse Namid had already taken, it might well come down to that. He was a tough bastard, and Ray respected him for that.

  “Bro, trust me, it’s going to be a lot worse if I turn you over to the Morettis,” Ray said. “All you got to do is tell me who the Saints are, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”

  Namid blinked away blood dripping from a cut above his right eye, then focused intently on Ray.

  “You aren’t a cop, you piece of shit. You are . . .” Namid spat blood on the floor before adding what Ray already knew.

  “You’re a fucking gangster,” Namid said. “No better than the Morettis, the Vegas, the Russians, or the bangers.”

  Ray bent down in front of him.

  “Look, bro, I already know you’re a Saint. Remember the night at the hospital when you dropped off that RX-Four?”

  Namid glared at Ray, rage burning in his brown eyes.

  “I know it was you there,” Ray said with a shrug. “I know for a fact, so no use lying.”

  “You don’t know shit, because I wasn’t—”

  Ray pulled out his P320 and hammered him in the knee with the butt. Then he jammed the barrel under his chin.

  “You remember Dr. Hogan, right?” Ray asked.

  Namid avoided his gaze, his chest heaving as he tried to manage the pain with deep breaths.

  “Abdul?” Ray said. “He told me you were there that night. He told me right before I killed him.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Namid slurred. “You killed one of the only guys in the city who are actually trying to help people.”

  “I did what I had to, to save a lot more people, man.”

  “I was wrong. You’re worse than the gangsters.” Namid spat again, this time in Ray’s face.

  Closing one eye, Ray wiped the bloody spittle away. Then he stood and holstered the pistol.

  “I also know my brother was with you,” Ray said. “And I have a feeling I know who the other Saints are too.” He studied Namid, trying to gauge some sort of reaction.

  “No?” Ray asked. “Keep lying, but I know everything. I know you guys have been operating under the guise of sheriff’s deputies. I know Abdul was your contact at the hospital for the RX-Four. I know there’s a contact at the LAPD feeding you funds, weapons, and support. I know you guys have contacts in the refugee camps and the city council.”

  Namid looked at his boots.

  “Yeah, I know everything, man.” He pulled out a knife and held up the saw-edged blade, turning it from side to side.

  “If I’m just as bad or worse than the gangsters, then I should have no problem cutting off your ears or nose, right?”

  Namid looked at the knife, then at Ray.

  �
�You’d turn over your own brother?” he said quietly, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “You’d really turn your own flesh and blood over to those bastards?”

  “Dude, I’m not the one playing vigilante hero out there. I do what I have to do for my family.”

  “Believe what you want, you corrupt piece of human garbage.”

  Ray sliced Namid’s cheek, drawing a line that instantly started to bleed.

  Namid shook in his chair, raging.

  “I’m going to kill you!” he shouted.

  “Next time, it’s your neck,” Ray said. “Admit you and my brother and Dom are Saints, and tell me who the other Saints are. I know it’s more than that dude with the ponytail and the guy with the beaver teeth. Oh, and what’s her name . . . Carmen?”

  Namid clenched his jaw and looked down.

  “Brah, I saw you all at that barbecue at my brother’s place,” Ray said. “I just can’t believe I didn’t put this together sooner. I guess maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I wanted to believe my brother was just tracking down raiders, but instead he’s been hunting gangsters.”

  Ray crouched in front of his prisoner.

  “You’re starting to really piss me off,” he said. “But I’ll be honest with you. If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you go. You don’t all have to die. We can just turn over a few Saints to the Morettis.”

  That got Namid’s attention. He glanced up. “You think I’d trust you? You just want those two-million-dollar bounties. Either that, or you’re trying to save your own skin.”

  The guy was smart, Ray would give him that. But smart didn’t mean shit when you were tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere.

  “You’re a greedy asshole rat,” Namid said. “A disgrace to good cops like your brother.”

  Ray put the knife to his throat. He could smell Namid’s breath, and it reeked of fear.

  “You think I’m greedy, but you’re the greedy assholes that caused this entire mess,” Ray said. He leaned in even closer until their noses were almost touching and the knife was pressed against Namid’s neck.

  “What you don’t realize is that the Morettis have helped restore order in this city,” Ray said.

  “They restored slavery, and you’re one of their slaves,” Namid said.

  Ray pushed the knife even harder, forcing Namid to rear his head back.

  “You’re wrong,” he said.

  Namid looked at him in the eyes. “That’s where you and your brother are different. He sees the potential of a Los Angeles without the mob, a Los Angeles protected by an uncorrupted police force. A Los Angeles run by the people, not the gangsters. A place where everyone benefits from the utilities and the farms.”

  Ray chuckled. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought.”

  He pulled the knife away from Namid’s throat and took a step back.

  “It will happen. That’s what I have been fighting for. That’s what your brother has been fighting for. You can help. You can join us.”

  Even though Ray already knew the truth, something about hearing this admission aloud chilled him to the core.

  “Do what’s right, Ray,” Namid said. “Let me go, and if you can’t do that, at least make sure nothing happens to my family. Please. I’m begging you. Tell your brother to go pick them up and take care of them.”

  Ray took another step back, his mind racing.

  Since he left the hospital, his gut had told him that Andre was a Saint, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He still didn’t want to believe it.

  Namid looked at the floor as Ray swapped the knife for his P320 and pointed the barrel at the widow’s peak on the Saint’s forehead.

  “Don’t let them hurt my family, Ray,” Namid pleaded.

  An image of the pregnant woman and little boy surfaced in Ray’s mind, followed by images of Alicia when she was pregnant with Lolo.

  “Please, promise me,” Namid said.

  You have to do this for your family and to protect Moose.

  Ray fingered the trigger, gritting his teeth as he stared at Namid. Could he really kill a cop? A good cop and a good father?

  Another image surfaced. This time, it was his partner, Tommy. Ray had gotten the kid killed. Chewed up in a goddamn garbage compactor.

  And for what? How many other innocent people had died because of the Morettis and the Vegas and all the others? How many kids were orphaned after their parents were either gunned down or poisoned by the drugs?

  Namid’s words played in his mind.

  A Los Angeles protected by an uncorrupted police force . . . a Los Angeles run by the people, not the gangsters.

  “Fuck,” Ray said, lowering the gun.

  Namid let out a sigh of relief.

  Ray pulled out his cell phone and saw several missed calls. He stared at the screen for a moment, knowing who they were from. Then he did what he had to do.

  Bringing the phone to his ear, he waited for the cannibal psycho to answer.

  “Ray, my brother,” Mikey answered. “Where the FUCK you been?”

  “I’ve got one of them.”

  Namid looked up, his eyes widening. “No,” he said. “Please, man . . .”

  Ray gave Mikey directions to the garage and hung up. He bent down in front of Namid.

  “I’m turning you over. Sorry, but I got no choice. They’ll kill my family if I don’t.”

  Namid seemed to consider his fate. Ray fully expected him to beg for his life, but he calmly said, “Do the right thing and make sure my family is taken care of.”

  “Don’t tell them about my brother, and I will,” Ray said.

  Namid nodded.

  “They’re going to hurt you, man,” Ray said. “Hurt you bad.”

  “I know.” The calmness in his words amazed Ray. Smart, brave, and honorable—all the things Ray was not.

  He pulled out a pack of smokes and wedged one in his mouth. He offered one to Namid, who accepted it between his lips.

  “We could fight them,” Namid said as Ray bent down to light the cigarette. “You and me.”

  Ray had considered an ambush, but he couldn’t without knowing that his wife and kids were safe. If Mikey’s people really did know where they were, well, he couldn’t risk that.

  He had used up all his outs.

  There was only one thing he could do: turn the Saint over to the real wolves.

  A few minutes later, several headlights burst through the windows in the side of the garage. Ray finished his cigarette and walked over to open the garage door.

  Mikey and his right-hand man, Richard Ontiveros, a.k.a. the Chef, got out of a truck. Two other men, carrying automatic rifles, walked away from a car with tinted windows and spinner rims.

  “Who do we have here?” Mikey asked, pausing to hike up his pants.

  “One of the Saints,” Ray said. He stepped aside and let Mikey and his men into the garage. The Chef pulled his machete off his belt and twirled it several times, flecking the concrete floor with blood.

  “Been a busy night,” Mikey said with his trademark shit-eating grin.

  Namid looked over, and Ray saw that one last ray of hope in his gaze. But Ray looked away, unable to watch. He knew what was coming next, and he didn’t have the stomach to watch a good man get tortured.

  “Namid,” Mikey said. “You have a fine-looking family, you know that?”

  Ray turned slightly, seeing Namid struggle in his chair.

  “Don’t you touch them!” he yelled.

  The Chef twirled the blade again, flinging more droplets of blood. The light from Ray’s battery-powered lamp captured the blood spatter on the butcher’s apron around his waist.

  No, they wouldn’t kill Namid’s family, Ray thought. His gut knotted as realization set in. There was nothing Mikey wouldn’t do. He was a fucking cannibal, for God’s sake.

  Namid twisted and fought against the restraints, toppling over with the chair.

  “Don’t hurt my family!” he screamed.

  Ray look
ed at the bloody blade, his heart pounding.

  “What did you do, Mikey?” he asked, anger rising in his voice.

  “Don’t worry about it, Detective.” Mikey turned to the side, his burned face twisting into a macabre grin.

  “What did you do?” Ray demanded.

  “I had a little fun,” Mikey said with a shrug. “And now I’m going to find out who all the other Saints are, so I can go to Don Antonio and collect my reward.”

  He jerked his chin at the Chef, who moved over to pick Namid up and reposition his chair.

  “NO!” Namid yelled, his voice an inhuman howl of rage and pain. He choked and sobbed between screams.

  “Don’t worry, they ain’t all dead,” Mikey said. “But we—”

  Ray pulled out his P320 and fired three shots into Mikey’s chest. He shot the man next to Mikey twice in the head and had the gun aimed at the other guy with a rifle before Mikey hit the ground.

  But he wasn’t fast enough, and the man fired off a burst. Ray dived for cover and fired twice.

  A flurry of gunshots ricocheted off the floor as he rolled up behind his Audi. Getting up, he crouch-walked to the other side and shot out the headlights of the two vehicles outside and the lamp.

  The room went dark and silent.

  Muffled breathing and a gasping sound came from the other side of the garage. He hoped it was Mikey. He wanted the scum to suffer.

  Hearing soft footfalls, Ray got down on his belly. He saw a shadow move—the guy with the automatic rifle walking over to the car. Ray aimed at the reflective logo on the tennis shoes and pulled the trigger.

  Blood spattered the ground as the guy fell screaming. Ray put a bullet in the side of his chest. Then he moved to the other side of the Audi and peeked over to see the Chef, with Namid upright in the chair, and the machete pressed against his throat.

  “Drop your gun, gabacho, or I give him a second smile,” he said.

  “Kill him,” Namid croaked.

  Ray aimed at the guy’s head, but before he could pull the trigger, the garbageman dug the machete into Namid’s neck and began tracing it across his throat. A squeeze of the trigger stopped him halfway, and he stumbled backward, dropping the blade to grip his arm.

  “Time’s up, asshole,” Ray said. He pulled the trigger again, but the slide had locked open, the magazine empty.