Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

“Guess he used up all his lives,” Antonio said. He shrugged it off. “I never liked that asshole, but his expertise did come in handy from time to time.”

  “Expertise?” Ray said. “The sick fuck butchered women and children. Not to mention he’s a freaking cannibal.”

  Antonio glared at Ray.

  “I don’t like your tone, Detective. Remember where you are. This is my house, and you will show some fucking respect.”

  “I’m sorry, Don Antonio,” Ray said. “My apologies.”

  Antonio turned to his wife. “Lucia, why don’t you give us the room.”

  “I’d rather stay,” she replied. “I want to hear who the Saints are, from the mouth of someone who knows.”

  Antonio looked back to Ray. “You heard her. Speak.”

  “Namid, a sheriff’s deputy, was one of them,” Ray said.

  Antonio had never heard the name.

  “He’s dead?” Lucia asked.

  “Mikey’s men cut his throat before he could tell me who the others are,” Ray said. “But I think I know.”

  Carmine nodded.

  “Well?” Antonio asked, growing impatient. “Who are the other Saints?”

  Ray opened his leather jacket again and pulled out a SIG Sauer. It took Antonio a microsecond to process what was happening.

  He reached for the .45 in the back of his waistband, then remembered it was under a pillow on the couch.

  “Carmine!” he yelled.

  The soldier struggled to unsling his rifle.

  “I’m a Saint,” Ray said calmly. He directed the gun at Antonio, who moved to shield his wife with his body. He made it two steps before Ray stopped him.

  “Don’t fucking move or I’ll put one in your dome,” he growled.

  Carmine finally unslung his rifle, but instead of pointing it at Ray, he turned it on Lucia, a few steps away from Antonio.

  “Go watch the hall, Ray,” Carmine slurred. “I got this. If any of the guys I sent out return, blast ’em.”

  Ray glared at Antonio, then moved out of the room, pistol out.

  Antonio knew the chill of betrayal all too well. Some men would have frozen, but instinct took over as Ray stepped out.

  Carmine looked toward Lucia, giving Antonio a split second to grab a chair and fling it at the captain looking to usurp the throne.

  Gunfire shattered prisms from a chandelier.

  Antonio dived for the couch. He grabbed his pistol as bullets blew through the expensive cushions.

  “Don’t!” Carmine yelled.

  Antonio knew that by the time he fired, he would be dead. The only chance was to make a deal with his old friend and this . . . Saint.

  “This has been a long motherfucking time coming,” Carmine said. “Now, drop it or I’ll put one in your whore’s face.”

  Antonio gritted his teeth, tempted to sacrifice his life just to kill these two pieces of trash, but that would only get his bride killed.

  What he needed was time to make a deal, and time for his loyal men to return.

  This was partly his fault. He had left himself lightly guarded—a rookie mistake that had cost so many of his enemies their lives. But what choice did he have now?

  He dropped the gun on the couch as the glow of a new day brightened the room.

  Was this the last one he would see? The last time he would see his wife?

  “You good?” Ray asked from the doorway.

  Carmine kept his gaze on Antonio. “Stay in the fucking hallway, Ray, or our deal’s off.”

  Antonio put his hands up and stared into the pinned eyes of his betrayer.

  Carmine stared right back.

  “Get this shit over with,” Ray said. He gripped his side and walked back to stand guard in the hallway.

  Antonio checked his wife. She stood against the other wall, breathing hard, a hand over her pounding heart.

  “Why?” Antonio asked Carmine.

  He laughed and then switched to Italian. “Your prick of a brother killed Frankie in cold blood. Gunned him down over a stupid kid.”

  Antonio waited for the real reason.

  “But most importantly, you two have lost your way. Our product is dried up from the disaster at the port. We’re hemorrhaging money. You made a deal with the pigs, then broke it. Now I’ve made my own deal.”

  Antonio shook his head but let his old friend continue spewing bullshit.

  “Even worse, you’ve taken on the entire city, and now the military is here. You created more enemies than we can fight. Your reign has come to an end.”

  “My enemies are wiping one another out,” Antonio said, also in Italian. “Soon there will just be me and Esteban Vega.”

  Carmine laughed again. “You crazy bastard. I believed in your vision long ago, but you’ve lost your way. This family needs new leadership, and once I kill you and your brother—”

  “You kill us, and you’re a dead man. No one will follow you.”

  Had Carmine ever considered what he was going to do? Perhaps not, judging by his tiny pupils. Being high made him even more dangerous.

  “I’ll give you Frankie’s spot at the Four Diamonds,” Antonio said. “It will make you a rich man, and we will forget this ever happened.”

  Carmine grinned. “You’re offering me something that I will already own once I kill you. I’d rather be Don Carmine Barese.”

  “The men will hunt you,” Lucia said. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Carmine.”

  “The men can’t even find your dumbass son, and no one will be hunting me. You’ve lost their respect. Everyone knows Marco is your weakness. Everyone knows he won’t ever be able to run this family.”

  Carmine jerked his gun muzzle at Lucia.

  “Don’t do this,” Antonio said.

  The barrel moved back to his face.

  “The Moretti family is doomed from your leadership and your blind love for Marco. If he’s still alive, I’ll kill the little bitch after I’m done wi—”

  A gunshot echoed, and blood spurted from just above Carmine’s heart. He was so focused on Antonio, he never saw Lucia grab a pistol from the drawer.

  A scream of pain rang out, followed by the crack of return gunfire. Bullets sprayed the wall above Antonio. He scooped his pistol back up as Lucia put another round into Carmine.

  The second .45 bullet still didn’t bring him down. The rat was wearing a vest.

  Antonio fired two more shots, one in each leg. Carmine wailed in pain and crashed to the floor.

  Ray fired into the room, forcing Antonio down. The detective moved the barrel of his gun to Antonio’s right and fired.

  A cry rang out; a body slumped to the floor.

  “NO!” Antonio yelled.

  He fired several shots, hitting Ray twice. Ray stumbled back through the open doorway and around the corner as Antonio fired shots into the wall.

  “You rat motherfucker!” Antonio yelled. He backed away, the gun still on the open doorway.

  He backpedaled past Carmine, who squirmed on the floor, bleeding out.

  “Tony,” came a faint voice.

  Antonio rushed back to Lucia. She lay on her back, still holding the nickel-plated .45, a present he had given her for her forty-second birthday.

  He gently moved her hand away from the wound. The bullet had hit her in the stomach.

  “Help!” Antonio screamed, putting pressure on the wound. “Someone, fucking help!”

  “Tony,” she whispered.

  Antonio met her gaze. The dark eyes he had fallen in love with seemed dimmer as life faded away.

  “It’s going to be okay, my love. Going to be okay. Just hold on.”

  Her eyes fluttered, and he gripped her hand.

  “Stay with me, Lucia.”

  She grabbed his wrist and looked him square in the eye as she gasped for air.

  “Marco,” she said, her voice weak.

  Blood bubbled from her lips, and she choked, flecking him with red.

  “No,” Antonio said. He gripped
her hand tighter. “Don’t leave me, Lucia. Don’t . . .”

  In a moment of clarity, she said the last words Antonio would ever hear her speak.

  “Save Marco, and tell him I’ll always love him.”

  * * *

  Ray stumbled down the stairwell, blinking away the stars. He had snorted some cocaine with Carmine on the ride in to keep focused, and though it was already wearing off, his heart continued to kick.

  He could feel it thumping in his chest and singing in his ears.

  His arms and back were soaked with blood, but he didn’t feel much pain. Probably a combination of the shock from having bullets tear through his left biceps and shoulder, and the drugs in his system.

  Dizzy and numb, he wouldn’t be conscious for long.

  He kept his left arm elevated, and the pistol up in his right hand.

  Fueled by thoughts of his family, he kept going down the stairs, dripping blood on each step. He had come here to kill Don Antonio, and while he had failed to take out the don, he had nailed the matriarch.

  Perhaps, losing his wife would help Antonio realize the terror he had inflicted on the city. Sometimes the only way to see the light was through trauma.

  For Ray, it was the wave of violence after the port that finally helped him understand. The Saints weren’t the cancer in the City of Angels—it was the gangs, like the Morettis, that were spreading the disease.

  For his final acts, he had protected his brother and the rest of the Saints by calling Carmine and making a deal. After being in their pocket for years, Ray had known that Frankie and Carmine were going to make a move on Antonio Moretti, and had decided to take the gamble and ask Carmine for help.

  The bet had paid off, but not for Carmine.

  The identities of the other Saints would die with Namid, and with Ray if he didn’t make it out of here.

  It wasn’t redemption, but it was a start.

  He stopped on the next landing and palmed the wall, smearing blood. Taking in a breath, then another.

  The oxygen helped. Feeling less light-headed, he opened the door and cleared the hallway.

  Keep going, Ray. Keep breathing . . .

  Crimson drips followed him on the tile floor. He was almost to the lobby and didn’t see the guards posted there. Carmine had told the few men to leave their posts and wait outside for Marco and Vinny.

  The plan was working.

  Ray hugged the wall as he moved, keeping his gun trained on the open doorway to the marble lobby. Several closed doors separated him from the rotunda. Offices and apartments where the family members lived.

  He paused to listen for voices or footfalls, knowing that even one of the wives could give him up. But there was only the distant hum of mechanical equipment, and the air-conditioning pumping cold air into the expensive apartments.

  The Morettis did live like kings. And he had just capped the queen.

  Ray stopped a few feet from the lobby. He listened again. Hearing nothing, he moved out across the marble, clearing the open rotunda with two passes of his gun. He limped to the exit doors and shouldered them open.

  A second pair of glass doors led outside, providing a view of the circular drive, courtyard, and gardens inside the walled compound. He bent down when he saw the headlights moving down the road. Several vehicles pulled through the open gate in the distance. Range Rovers, Suburbans, and an Escalade.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He checked his last magazine. Only five bullets left—not nearly enough to shoot his way out of this.

  The thought filled him with dread. He had hoped that just maybe he could make it to the Mercedes and drive to meet his family and say goodbye.

  But none of that was going to happen. He had already lost too much blood.

  This was the end of the road for Detective Ray Clarke.

  He locked the front doors and sat with his back to the wood doors leading to the lobby. A wave of pain ripped down his left arm. After it eased enough for him to move his hand, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket.

  He wiped the blood off the screen with his coat and squinted to make out the missed calls from Alicia and Moose.

  Headlights lit up the front entrance as vehicles pulled into the driveway. He slouched and dialed his brother, fumbling with the phone as he brought it to his ear.

  “Ray, where the hell are you?” Moose said.

  “The Moretti compound.”

  A beat passed before Moose replied.

  “What the hell are you—”

  “Long story, but I took down the queen.”

  “You got to get out of there, man,” Moose said, panic rising in his voice.

  “Don’t worry about me, bro,” Ray said. “Did you find Namid’s family?”

  “His wife is gone,” Moose said. “But Isaac escaped. LAPD picked him up.”

  Ray closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, man. I swear I never meant for that to happen. I didn’t realize Mikey would go after his family.”

  “What about Abdul? Did you really kill him?”

  Ray felt a tear streak down his face. Or maybe that was sweat, or blood, or all those things. He was a mess, his heart thumping in his chest as if it wanted out.

  “I killed him to protect you. Made it look like a Vega—”

  “Jesus,” Moose said. “You killed an innocent man. A guy who served this city and represented everything that’s still good about it.”

  “That’s why I’m going to hell.”

  “Ray, why . . . why didn’t you come to me for help?”

  Voices sounded outside the front door, and Ray bent lower to stay out of view.

  “I’m out of time, bro. And I know nothing I say will wash away my sins, but I tried to do you right . . .”

  “Ray, don’t hang up!”

  “Promise me you’ll look after my family, Andre. They’re at Alicia’s aunt’s house. You remember where she lives, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Promise me,” Ray said—the same words Namid had used.

  “I promise.”

  “I love you, Andre. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better cop, and a better man.”

  Ray hung up the phone before Moose could try to talk him out of it.

  There was no time to call Alicia, but maybe that was for the best. She knew he loved her, and the kids knew he loved them.

  Calling would just make things worse. He would rather take thirty more bullets than hear the pain in their voices.

  Shouting continued outside, and more voices came from the lobby behind the closed doors. Ray crushed the phone under his boot, stomping on it several times. Then he drew in a breath, exhaled, and opened the doors, bringing up his gun.

  He shot two Morettis running across the marble, dropping them both. He lowered his gun and clutched the injured arm against his chest. With only three bullets left, he moved back to the glass doors and stepped out onto the staircase looking over the Moretti compound.

  Dozens of soldiers moved away from the vehicles, weapons shouldered and aimed at Ray. He smiled when he saw Christopher Moretti. The man had brought back the prince of the family, Marco, and his cousin Vinny.

  “Drop your gun!” Christopher shouted.

  Ray’s grin widened as he saw an opportunity to fuck the Morettis up even more. He raised his pistol at Marco. “For the Saints!” he yelled.

  Muzzle flashes lit up the night like exploding fireworks before he could pull the trigger. Bullets ripped into his vest and his muscular body.

  He hit the ground on his side, the air in his lungs gone. The gunshots continued, more rounds cracking into the steps around him. He felt another flash of pain so bad that he tried to scream. Nothing came out besides a tear.

  He blinked it away and watched as Christopher Moretti raised his hand into the air.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted.

  Ray fought for breath, thinking of his wife and kids as he struggled for a few more seconds of life. In the end, he would never be a good cop or a good man like his broth
er, but he had given some of those good men a fighting chance to save the city from the darkness of the sinners fanned out below him.

  Red encroached on his vision, and Ray looked down as Christopher walked up the steps. He smirked at the thought of that asshole finding his brother upstairs with his dead wife.

  The Morettis’ second in command and a group of soldiers moved past Ray as he lay bleeding out. As the other men stepped away from the vehicles, he saw someone he hadn’t seen earlier—a man sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a suit.

  A crack sounded above Ray, and the darkness consumed him.

  -31-

  Camilla hardly recognized the woman in the sun visor’s mirror. Between her injuries and all the crying, she looked like a raccoon. There was plenty to be upset about. They had lost Namid and his wife. Moose had lost his brother, and the violence was spreading throughout the city.

  She flipped the sun visor back up as the convoy of three vehicles pulled into the hidden section of Canoga Park just before midnight. Two days had passed since Mikey the Mutant killed Namid, but in that time, they had managed to get his son, Isaac, out of police protection with the help of Lieutenant Marks.

  That was the easy part.

  None of the Saints knew whether the Morettis had figured out any of their identities besides Namid’s, and Dom had decided not to take any chances. He made the call to get their families out of the city.

  “This is the right move,” Camilla said. “We can trust my uncle.”

  Dom steered the truck to the left as the Chevy Tahoe ahead moved down a ramp leading to the dry riverbed. It stopped halfway down, and Moose jumped out with Rocky. Both men ran over to a gated fence and pushed it open.

  The trucks rolled along the concrete gorge, toward the tunnel her uncle had marked on a map as the pickup point.

  “I hope you’re right about Álvaro,” Dom said. He kept his eyes on the road, both hands on the steering wheel. He hadn’t said much over the past few days, and she still didn’t know what he had planned other than sending the families to a safe zone somewhere in the Midwest.

  They had a lot of people to take care of. Moose had Yolanda and their two kids, Tamara and Bryon. And Ray’s wife, Alicia, had Jamal, Will, Lolo, and Maddie. And with Namid and Victoria gone, little Isaac was now alone in the world.