Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  But the Canavaros apparently didn’t care about burning for eternity if it got them ahead in their mortal lives.

  Antonio watched the demon in the flesh raise a gun.

  “Christopher!” he yelled.

  The soldier raised his pistol and fired as the scream echoed through the halls. The bullet meant for Christopher struck Greta in the chest. Christopher turned toward the gunman as his wife crumpled to the ground next to young Vinny, her hand still in his.

  Christopher bolted toward the assassin, screaming at the top of his lungs. The man shot him in the arm and then the chest, but the bullets only slowed Christopher down; they didn’t stop him.

  He slammed the Canavaro soldier into the altar. Then, grabbing him by the throat, Christopher slammed his head into the wood once, twice, and once more just to be sure.

  Antonio pulled Lucia toward the back door as she held a crying Marco close to her chest. She wailed as they walked past Greta’s limp body.

  “Vinny, you have to go with your aunt,” Antonio said.

  The boy hesitated.

  “Go!” Antonio yelled.

  Lucia grabbed the boy with her free hand, and Antonio rushed over to pick up the revolver that had killed his sister-in-law. He looked for targets as his wife carried Marco toward the back exit, with Vinny in tow. Christopher ran over and collapsed near his wife’s side.

  Antonio pulled the hammer back on the gun and backpedaled as he covered their retreat. All across the open room, the other assassins were hunting down Moretti soldiers, shooting them as they tried to escape with their families. The death and chaos happening all around him made his heart sink, but habit and the killing instinct took control.

  He aimed and pulled the trigger, striking a “policeman” in the neck. Lino picked up the fallen man’s gun. Zachary had taken down another of the cops and beaten his face into mush.

  Antonio fired at a Canavaro soldier who took refuge behind a column.

  “Christopher!” Antonio yelled. He looked over his shoulder to see his brother carrying Greta. Blood spread outward from the two bullet holes in his suit.

  “Go, go!” Lino shouted.

  He hopped over a pew, and Zachary followed. Frankie and Carmine joined them with their wives, and the group ran to the back doors, where the choir had already fled.

  In the back hallway, they found the assistant priest sprawled on the tile floor, hit in the back by a stray bullet.

  While his family slopped through the blood of their loved ones, Antonio trained his gun on the door that had opened behind the altar. Sure enough, one of the assassins emerged into the rear hallway. Before he could bring up his submachine gun, Antonio put a bullet through his eye.

  The man dropped, providing a narrow view through the doorway to the massacre in the church. Screams and moans filled the space, some of them cut off by gunshots as the assassins continued to execute his family.

  “Antonio!” Lucia yelled.

  He hesitated, torn between saving his wife and child and saving his friends and fellow soldiers. The gun had two or three shots at most—heading back into the nave would be suicide.

  Antonio swore and ran after his family. He raced down the back passageway and past an alcove with the statue of an angel holding a sword and wearing armor, its features tense and hard with the burdens of a warrior protecting the innocent from evil.

  Gunshots echoed behind him, heralding the deaths of more Moretti soldiers. Ahead, at the end of the hallway, he saw Lucia clutching Marco against her breasts, tears streaming down her perfect face. Only a handful of family members had made it out alive.

  The realization struck Antonio like a bullet. The reign of the Moretti family had all but ended here in the basilica.

  The only future, and only hope for his boy, was away from Naples, in a country where they could raise him without fearing for his life.

  Fleeing their home to find a safe place was a sad but necessary reality. But the Morettis would return to Naples, stronger than ever before, when the time came to take their revenge.

  -1-

  Eight years later

  south gate, los angeles county

  Dominic Salvatore pinched his bleeding nose and walked to the side of the basketball court in Hollydale Regional Park. The game continued as though nothing had happened. Bloody noses, black eyes, and scraped knees were common on these courts, where basketball was war dressed as sport.

  As a mixed martial artist, he was accustomed to athletic injuries, and if not for the flow of blood, he would have stayed in the game. But he had to stop the bleeding if he wanted to get back on the court.

  Taking a seat on the bench between two sweaty players, he eyed the dark-skinned young man who had elbowed him in the face. Ray Clarke aimed a sharp grin at Dominic.

  “Just an accident, Dommie boy,” he said.

  “You’re a better hooper than you are a liar,” Dom called out. “And you’re really not all that good at shooting hoops, either.”

  Ray laughed and went up for a shot. The ball nicked the rim and landed in an opponent’s hand.

  Dom didn’t waste any more time arguing. That wasn’t his style. When he got back out there, he would give it right back to Ray, but twice as hard.

  “Dom, let’s go!” shouted Andre “Moose” Clarke, Dom’s teammate and best friend and Ray’s younger brother.

  “Gimme a few,” Dom said. He grabbed a towel from his gym bag, keeping his thumb and forefinger clamped above his nostrils.

  “You good?” said a female voice. Camilla Santiago walked over from the end of the bench and sat down beside him. She was his age, not quite eighteen, and also a senior at Downey High School, where they had met in Spanish class. Now she was practically his Spanish tutor, and a good friend on the courts.

  “Fine,” Dom replied.

  She brushed her long ponytail over one shoulder. Her dark eyes studied him for a moment, then flitted back to the game. She loved to play with the guys, but some of their friends were dicks and preferred she stay on the bench. It made sense—she was better than some of them, and they had fragile egos.

  He toweled sweat off his lean body and welcomed the refreshing breeze that whipped the palm fronds on the other side of the fences.

  According to scientists, this summer was the hottest in recorded history. Droughts in the American Southwest, floods in the Midwest, and hurricanes on the East Coast had devastated an entire season of crops.

  Dom tried not to worry about all that. He was here to have fun—and to win.

  Moose went up to dunk the ball. All six feet, two inches and 220 pounds of him rose into the air, slamming into the guy guarding him.

  The ball sank through the chain net, and Moose landed back on his Nikes. Unlike his older brother, he reached down to help the opponent he had knocked down.

  “Nice!” Camilla called out.

  “Give it to ’em, Moose!” Dom shouted.

  “Get some, baby!” Moose yelled. He flexed his massive biceps, lowered his head, and gave a loud snort. His Afro, sculpted low in the middle and sticking up and out on the sides, did indeed look a lot like moose antlers. The distinctive ’do and his imposing size had led to a nickname that stuck.

  Camilla grumbled about wanting to get back into the game and then stood, cheering her teammates on. Dom grinned. She was a firebrand, almost as competitive as he.

  He looked out across the park. Not as many joggers as usual, and only a few families grilling. The hot wind carried the scent of barbecue, but there was something else in the air, so palpable it almost had a smell. Fear—the same kind that crept up on him before he entered the ring to fight an opponent. A messy combination of adrenaline and anxiety that made him feel as if he might puke.

  But the complete absence of fear made men weak. That was what his dad always said. Marine Sergeant Ronaldo Salvatore had a lot o
f great quotes and sayings.

  Today, Dom saw fear in the uncertain gazes of parents who had brought their kids to the park for a picnic, trying to enjoy what normally would be a perfect Saturday. He also saw it in the emptiness of the park—all the missing families that normally would be playing on the slides or eating at the picnic tables.

  As much as Dom tried to focus on having fun, he couldn’t ignore what was happening in America. Extreme weather events had displaced millions of people and bankrupted the biggest insurance companies and factory farms.

  Government bailouts had finally resulted in a default on the $30 trillion in debt the country had accrued, creating a trickle-down effect across the globe. Currencies crashed, inflation rose, and a perfect storm roared through the global economy.

  The federal government had all but shut down, and people were in the streets, rioting over skyrocketing prices of gas, food and water, and utilities.

  But it wasn’t just the general population that had taken to the streets. The gangs were also adding to the chaos. Even here, today, a group had gathered outside the new skate park, smoking joints and laughing over the thump of Mexican gangster rap.

  It looked like a small clique, probably affiliated with the Norteño Mafia, like most of the Latino gangs. From here, he couldn’t tell what clique, and there were plenty to pick from.

  Downey, a dozen miles southeast of LA, was once the mother of modern street gangs, but the police had worked tirelessly with the community for years to rid the city of them; forcing out MS-13, the Sureños, the Crips, the Bloods, and a score of smaller gangs.

  Until now. The crashing economy drew violent opportunists back out into the light, and it added to the opioid epidemic already ravaging the city.

  “Hey, check that out!” yelled Camilla.

  Dom rose to his feet beside her to watch a group of National Guard Humvees speeding down the highway on the other side of the dry concrete ditch that was the Los Angeles River. It didn’t surprise him, not with all the rioting these days.

  “Wonder where they’re going,” Moose said.

  “Who cares?” Ray said. “Let’s play.”

  The trucks made their way through the slow-moving traffic, and Dom thought of his father. He would be back from Afghanistan soon, his company recalled to help deal with the civil unrest here at home.

  It wasn’t just his dad’s unit. Other marines and soldiers were coming home from hot spots around the world, and Dom feared they were returning to fight on American soil. Whispers of a second civil war were everywhere. People blamed the government, and some states, including California, were already talking about seceding from the union.

  “Hurry up, Dom,” Moose said. “We’re getting our asses kicked.”

  “I’ll go in,” Camilla said.

  “I’m coming,” Dom replied.

  She grumbled again and sat back down. Dom took the towel away from his nose and looked up at a news helicopter crossing the skyline.

  More shouts came as Moose went up for another dunk and slammed it home. Dom tucked the bloody towel away and ran back out to the court.

  “About time, baby,” Moose said.

  Ray gave him the million-dollar pearly-white grin that was infamous for getting girls to drop their panties. Dom wiped the last bit of blood from his nose with his forearm and dribbled the ball down the court, using his speed and agility to get around Ray.

  They were about the same size: six feet, and two hundred pounds of mostly muscle. A perfect match on the court when playing fair, but then, Ray wasn’t much for playing fair.

  See how well you stack up against me in the ring, Dom thought.

  Moose held up a hand for a pass, and Dom faked one to him, then maneuvered around Ray, dribbling in for a layup. He jumped and gently tossed the ball. It hit the backboard and dropped through the net.

  “Attaboy,” Moose said. “Back in the game, baby. Twelve–ten.”

  Ray snorted and reached for the ball as it sailed through the air. He caught it and started dribbling as Dom moved into position to guard him. As Ray got closer for the shot, Dom blocked his body with his own, moving his arms up and own. Ray was fast, but not as fast as Dom or even his younger brother, Moose, a skilled soccer player who had caught the eye of scouts from the Los Angeles Football Club.

  Ray, on the other hand, wasn’t on anybody’s radar except the academic probation committee at UCLA.

  The ball shot across the court back to Ray, and Dom bolted to intercept. He missed, and Ray caught it. He launched the ball, but Dom jumped higher, deflecting it and coming back down on top of Ray, knocking him on his ass.

  Camilla snickered and nodded at Dom from the bench.

  “What the hell!” Ray shouted.

  Dom shrugged. “Defense, man.”

  He reached down, extending a hand, but Ray slapped it away and pushed himself up. Glaring, he came face-to-face with Dom.

  “Easy, guys,” Moose said.

  “I ought to knock your dumb ass out,” Ray said.

  Dom smiled. “See how that works out for you.”

  Moose tried to wedge an arm between them, but Ray pushed up against Dom, knocking him slightly backward.

  “Watch it,” Dom said.

  “Or what? You think you’re some kinda badass fighter, don’t you?” Ray said, chin raised as if asking for a punch. “I heard you ain’t shit.”

  Ray spat on the ground to the side, but Dom didn’t take the bait. Everyone on the court knew that Dom was 5-and-0 in the Octagon.

  Ray pushed Moose back just as a rumbling sounded in the distance. It quickly grew in volume, drowning out even the thumping bass of the gangbangers’ boom box. Dom looked to the eastern skyline. He knew that noise from his time living on military bases.

  “What is that?” Moose asked. He and Ray joined Dom, forgetting their argument to stare at the squadron of fighter jets that came roaring over the skyline.

  “Dude, what are they doing so close to the city?” Ray asked.

  He was right. Dom had never seen jets come in this low, so loud the scream hurt his ears.

  “Get down!” Moose yelled.

  Dom crouched with everyone else as the jets rocketed over, heading away from the city. The low rumble continued in their wake. Families had already deserted their half-eaten meals and were running to their cars as the sound faded.

  “What the hell was that about?” Moose asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not good,” Camilla said.

  Dom stood slowly, shaking his head. She was right, and he had a feeling something dire was about to happen. He just hoped men like his father could stop the tide of violence before it was too late for America.

  * * *

  Marine Sergeant Ronaldo Salvatore drowned out the radio chatter and the conversations in the Humvee. Normally, he would have been shooting the shit with the other marines, especially today. The platoon known as the Desert Snakes was freshly back from deployment in the barren, dangerous mountains of Kandahar.

  Lance Corporal Callum “Tooth” McCloud, youngest of the four, sat behind the wheel, and Staff Sergeant Zed Marks rode shotgun. Ronaldo sat in the back with Corporal William “Chaplain” Bettis, the eldest of their small team.

  Tooth’s deep Irish brogue filled the Humvee, rapping the lyrics to one of the newest American chart toppers. The freckle-faced kid with green eyes didn’t always speak with a brogue, but when he did, he could usually make Ronaldo and everyone else laugh. Today, though, he was just annoying.

  “Will you shut your trap, Tooth,” Marks hollered. “Please?”

  Tooth grinned big, exposing the prominent upper incisors that earned him the nickname. “Ah, ya don’t like my tunes, Sarge?” he said in the thickest accent he could muster.

  Corporal Bettis frowned and scratched his salt-and-pepper hair. Then he went back to doing what he u
sually did in his spare time: reading his well-worn pocket Bible. The “chaplain” had been a seminary scholar until 9/11. He kept to himself, but he always had an ear to lend a brother marine who needed it.

  Today, Ronaldo needed an ear.

  The convoy sped away from its forward operating base, toward downtown Atlanta. Normally, Ronaldo could ignore other worries when he was heading out on mission, but today his mind was focused on his family back in Los Angeles.

  For almost two decades, his wife, Elena, had raised their son Dominic and his sister, Monica, mostly on her own. She was a strong, smart woman, and although they had their share of problems as a couple, he could sleep well at night knowing they were safe with her.

  But today he wasn’t sure how safe they were. The situation continued to deteriorate, with riots and violence in every major city. In LA, the gangs were rising to power, and any teenager who couldn’t find a job was ripe for recruitment.

  There would be more junkies, more violence, more ruined lives.

  When he arrived home from Afghanistan six days ago, Elena had begged him not to go to Atlanta. Instead of the joyful homecoming he had imagined, they had gotten into an argument in front of the kids.

  Now, all the way across the country, he was kicking himself for not controlling his temper. At least, he could count on his boy to look after them. Dom was smart, brave, and fit, and Ronaldo had entrusted him with a shotgun and pistol to protect his mother and sister.

  He tried to get his family out of his thoughts, but seeing all the residents fleeing Atlanta on the opposite side of the highway wasn’t helping any.

  Maybe I should have gotten them out …

  Ronaldo was the only one in the Humvee who had a wife and kids—well, kids he knew about, anyway. Tooth couldn’t keep it in his pants and quite possibly had offspring somewhere.

  Bettis was a loner, and Marks, like so many of their brothers, had gone through a terrible divorce. All the men had struggled with relationships, thanks to the horrors of war that they couldn’t help bringing home with them after each deployment.

  “They must think they’ll find jobs out that way,” Marks said, looking across the interstate at the stalled line of cars topped with bundles and suitcases. “Reminds me of the refugees leaving Baghdad.”