Ronaldo lifted his helmet long enough to wipe the sweat off his buzz-cut head. While he found it hard to accept that America was in such dire straits, it wasn’t hard to see how things had gotten to this point. The combination of severe weather, economic collapse, and social breakdown had the country coming apart at the seams.
In the back seat, Bettis made the sign of the cross above his wrinkled brow to start a quiet prayer. His features were hard, and Ronaldo suspected that prayers wouldn’t be enough to see them through this time.
“This shit is fucked,” Tooth said, all business now. He had said it a hundred times since they stepped back onto US soil, and in his normal voice.
It occurred to Ronaldo that maybe the rapping hadn’t been so bad, after all.
Tooth changed lanes to avoid a car with smoke coming from its engine. Marks looked over his shoulder, scrutinizing Ronaldo.
“You good?” Marks asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah, bro, I’m good.”
“No, you aren’t, man.”
Ronaldo frowned. He and Marks had fought insurgents and terrorists in hellish, isolated hot spots around the world for almost two decades. As a result, they could read each other like an open book.
Marks sighed. “I got no family to worry about, brother, but you do.” He paused as if searching for the right words. “Dom’s a good kid. He’s got instincts like his old man and will look after Elena and Monica.”
Radio chatter filled the Humvee as they sped toward downtown, weaving in and out of lanes once they pulled off the highway. At stop signs, they paused only to make sure the path was clear.
The rioters were growing more brazen, destroying storefronts, tipping cars, and setting fires.
“This shit is really happening in every major city ?” Tooth asked.
“Sure sounds like it,” said Marks.
“So we’re going to sit on the sidelines and play babysitter?” Tooth paused to inspect the toothpick he’d been chewing on. “I’d rather be out there—”
Another transmission came over the radio. This one chilled Ronaldo to his core.
“Dirty bomb … San Francisco port … Mass casualty event …”
“Holy shit,” Tooth said. “Turn that up.”
Ronaldo fiddled with the radio, his mind back on his family. They would be safe from the radiation in Los Angeles, but what if more attacks came?
“Buncha’ pussy terrorists, I bet,” Tooth said. “Hittin’ us when we’re weak. Goddamn asshole cowards.”
He continued to mutter profanities as they followed the convoy deeper into the chaos.
“Stay frosty,” Marks said, “and when we get out there, you keep your finger off the bang switch, Lance Corporal. Got it?”
Tooth nodded, but his face was set with grim conviction. “Sergeant, you heard the radio—”
“Yeah, I heard it, and we’re here to help civilians, not make things worse. Do you hear and understand the words coming out of my mouth?”
“Loud and fucking clear, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
Ronaldo and Marks exchanged a glance. First the assassinations, now a dirty bomb …
“Who is doing this?” Ronaldo said, incredulous.
“Somebody that wants a reset,” Bettis replied.
“Reset?”
No longer in his praying voice, Bettis said, “These domestic or international terrorists, whoever they are—they haven’t taken credit for the attacks, because their goal isn’t just to spread terror. It’s to take our country down while we’re weak. That’s why the assassins wore masks.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, man,” Tooth said, cinching his body armor a little more snugly.
“Two years away from retirement, and our country is falling to pieces,” Marks said.
A pair of Black Hawks thumped overhead. As they crossed the skyline, Ronaldo watched the crew chiefs manning the M240 machine guns mounted in the open doors.
“That army?” he asked.
“I can’t tell,” Tooth said, craning for a better look.
“Not army,” Bettis said. “That’s the new Corps.”
The marines all studied the Black Hawks. Ronaldo glimpsed the symbol of the new American Military Patriots (AMP): the head of a raven. He wasn’t a big fan of the name, since all marines, sailors, soldiers, and guardsmen were patriots. But some young Harvard grad working in the White House had probably thought it sounded catchy, and the “Always on Watch” slogan was a good pitch to citizens that the government and military had their back in these difficult times.
In response to the civil unrest, the administration had reorganized the National Guard under the AMP banner, and the move had gained traction with surprising speed.
“Vice President Elliot must be behind this,” Marks muttered. “He’s a four-star freaking general, and he’s dangling POTUS like a puppet on strings.”
Tooth chuckled nervously, but Ronaldo didn’t find it funny. “It’s brilliant and ironic,” he said. “The marketing campaign of a government and military looking out for civilians is exactly what people want right now: to feel their government cares.”
“Yeah,” Marks said, “but it’s also another excuse for the Coleman Administration to take troops away from the states so they can’t rebel.”
“And grab all the best equipment while they’re at it,” Bettis said. “I heard the Air Force is being transferred under the AMP banner, which means they’ll have access to all those new F-Thirty-Fives. I thought those were supposed to be for us.”
“They’re welcome to ’em” Marks said. “Fucking boondoggle waste of money, with all the problems they’ve had.”
Tooth muttered, “It’s a disgrace to let anyone else have anything made for the Corps.”
“Guys, just be careful who you say that around,” Bettis said.
Ronaldo acknowledged the older marine with a nod. He was right, of course, and with all the talk of civil war, they needed to watch their expression. The army, navy, and marines had yet to be absorbed by AMP, but Ronaldo’s gut told him it was just a matter of time.
As the convoy reached the edge of downtown, Ronaldo made the sign of the cross and prayed. For his family. For his country. And for all the people who were going to die in the aftermath of the dirty bomb in San Francisco.
“Good to see you putting your faith in God,” Bettis said. “We all should do that more often.” He looked pointedly at Tooth, who grinned.
“Much respect to you, old man, but I just don’t think God has anything to do with what happens on this planet.”
Ronaldo prepared for yet another theological debate, but this time, he was spared. Instead, another radio transmission distracted the group. Their convoy was being rerouted to Centennial Olympic Park, in the heart of downtown. Traffic on the opposite side of the freeway had come to a stop, and people were standing outside their cars in the midafternoon heat.
Emergency lights from police cars and state troopers flashed along the shoulder as officers did their best to keep the flow moving, but several stalled cars bottlenecked the mass exodus.
Ronaldo shifted his rifle against his shoulder. The thought of actually using it crossed his mind for the first time since he arrived back stateside. Could he do it? Could he really fire at Americans?
If they’re terrorists, hell yes.
What about rioters, though? Average people driven to do crazy shit out of desperation.
He shook away the thoughts as the convoy turned down a street that paralleled a railroad. Hundreds of people were marching across a bridge over the tracks.
Tooth took a left at the next turnoff, following the convoy’s path. Storefronts on the intersecting streets were already shattered, and the hull of a burned-out car smoldered where a city truck with a snow blade had pushed it off to the side.
On a
side street, a line of cops in riot gear held their ground against a mob of civilians wearing masks and carrying backpacks. They were chanting something he couldn’t make out.
Ronaldo checked his gear one last time as they drove toward the gate blocking off the marshaling area. Sandbags were stacked in front of the entrance, and he nodded back at an AMP soldier who raised a hand as the Humvee drove into a parking lot.
FEMA; the Red Cross; and local, state, and federal agencies had sent people to a massive lot on the west side of the railroad tracks.
The local greeting wasn’t the one Ronaldo had expected. He got out to the angry shouts and screams of several thousand disgruntled civilians on the other side of the fences. Most of them jobless and hungry—of course they were mad.
“All right, listen up!” shouted Lieutenant Tom Castle. The platoon leader’s commanding voice and presence even turned the heads of several police officers.
Marks, Ronaldo, Bettis, and Tooth stood side by side, rifles cradled as the other marines in the platoon gathered around.
“We got supplies coming in from the rail,” Castle said. “Our job is to protect those supplies and make sure they get to the people that need them. We’re not here to poke the hornets’ nest, so stay frosty.”
Ronaldo’s mind turned to his family. If the government didn’t turn things around, his children’s future would be postapocalyptic, like the books he had read during the long, lonely nights of his deployments.
“No one shoots unless I give the order,” Castle said. “I don’t care if you’re getting punched in your nut sack. Everyone got that?”
“Oo-rah!” the marines all yelled.
Castle went to work, splitting the men into teams. The Desert Snakes followed Marks toward a police officer who was busy barking orders at a group of cops who looked dog tired.
It was like being transported back to Baghdad, 2003.
The Black Hawks that had flown over the interstate earlier crossed the skyline again. Two more birds, both news choppers, hovered above the city.
“They want us up on that rooftop,” Marks said, glancing at a low-rise office building. He directed them across the staging area, stopping for a flatbed trailer. The truck crossed in front of them and rumbled onward.
At the top of the stairwell, the marines accessed the roof through an unlocked service door. Marks flashed hand signals, and the team split up, with Marks and Ronaldo moving to a ledge to set up position. Tooth and Bettis took the opposite corner, giving them an overview of several city blocks, including the tide of civilian protesters and rioters.
“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick,” Tooth muttered.
“Watch it, kid,” Bettis said, shooting him an angry glare.
“Sorry. How about—”
“How about you shut your mug and focus,” Marks called over.
To the east, a train hissed and squealed to a stop on the tracks, and crews lined up to start unloading the supplies from FEMA warehouses. Ronaldo doubted that the rations were going to calm these people down.
He pushed his scope up and zoomed in on the riot police they had passed on the way in. They were being pushed back into an intersection, closer to the entrance of the marshaling area.
“We got trouble,” he said.
Marks lifted a pair of binoculars.
Teargas canisters sailed away into the mass of rioters, swirling and billowing. But this just seemed to further enrage the mob. Several people wearing bandannas and masks charged through the line, throwing rocks and bricks.
The entire area was a tinderbox, and the rioters were doing their best to ignite it.
“Shit, this is jacked,” Tooth said. He raised his rifle, and Bettis put his hand on the barrel.
“Take it easy,” he said.
One of the officers in riot gear crumpled in the street, and his comrades pulled him to safety.
“Everyone, keep calm,” Marks said.
A gunshot came from the south, and Ronaldo turned to zoom in on the bridge, where people were using ropes to climb down.
“We got a security breach,” he said.
More gunfire came from the west, and three more riot police went down. Nonlethal deterrence had failed. The rioters were marching full steam ahead toward the gates. The tinder was alight.
Over the noise came the whoosh of a news chopper, coming in for a better view of the area. The two Black Hawks crossed over to intercept and chase it away.
The cops in riot gear retreated with their injured toward the armored vehicles. Ronaldo was impressed by their weapons discipline, especially after some of their own had been severely hurt. If they could maintain that kind of restraint, then it was just possible they could stop this from escalating.
A police loudspeaker sounded, telling the rioters to get back and that aid was on the way. This seemed to mollify some of the crowd, who began to disperse, but hundreds continued toward the staging area.
The Black Hawks circled the news chopper, but the civilian pilot wasn’t following orders. The bird continued to hover over the crowds, recording the entire thing.
A transmission from Castle crackled over the comms. “If those crowds hit the gates, we have permission to fire at hostiles to keep them back.”
He paused, as if questioning his orders, but then added, “Everyone, pick your targets cleanly if it comes to it.”
Ronaldo looked over at Marks, who couldn’t hide the shock on his normally stoic face.
“We really doing this, bro?” Ronaldo asked.
“God have mercy on our souls,” Bettis said.
Before anyone could question the orders, another round of gunfire cracked in the distance.
“Oh, shit!” Tooth yelled, pointing at the news chopper. Ronaldo watched in horror as it began to spin after taking several rounds.
The pilot fought to control the descent, but the tail rotor was dead, and the bird swirled and came crashing down at the west side of the staging area, exploding on impact. Marines, cops, and civilians dived for cover, but several were enveloped in the fireball.
The deafening blast forced Ronaldo down. As he ducked, automatic gunfire fire rang out. He glanced to the sky, where one of the Black Hawk crew chiefs had opened up with the M240. He fired right into the crowd, mowing down men and women, rioters and peaceful demonstrators.
“Tell that dumb motherfucker to hold his fire!” Marks yelled, waving both hands.
The AMP crew chief continued to rain hell down on the civilians, casually taking lives as if these weren’t real human beings. Screams of horror sounded from inside and outside the staging area, where the injured lay on the concrete, bleeding and crawling.
“Stop that gunner!” Marks yelled again.
The crew chief kept right on shooting at the crowd, cutting down more civilians as they fanned away from the gates.
Ronaldo knew there was only way to stop the bloodshed. He raised his rifle and put the AMP gunner in his crosshairs.
God forgive me, he thought as he squeezed the trigger.
-2-
While the world burned, Don Antonio Moretti sat in his office in Compton, just southeast of Los Angeles, working into the night to build a new empire. He and his brother had dreamed of it since growing up in the slums of Naples, Italy, long before the Morettis rose to power, and long before that power was stripped away in the ambush that left most of his family dead.
Christopher stood in front of the TV, puffing a cigar and stroking his graying goatee.
They both had a long way to go in achieving their dreams, and Antonio was starting to question whether coming here was the right move. Just over three hundred thousand Italian Americans lived in Los Angeles, yet the Mafia presence was almost nonexistent. But the Morettis and another Naples transplant family were changing that.
Sipping his espresso, he reflected on his life while the w
all-mounted TV streamed the dire news reports from America and all over the world. He was no stranger to war, political upheaval, or crime. Tragedy was part of the Moretti family history, and the bloodbath eight years ago, at their father’s funeral in Naples, had left wounds that never healed. Escaping to America had seemed like running. But running was the only way to keep his wife and son alive.
Things weren’t all bad here. After fleeing Naples, they had managed to keep in place their Colombian deal with the González family. The operation was small—mostly cocaine, pharmaceutical opioids, and marijuana—but the high-quality product made them a decent return on their investment. It helped keep them afloat while they dabbled in credit-card fraud and fencing the stolen merchandise they got in from Europe.
But things were hard, and the competition with the deeply rooted criminal gangs had them living off scraps. Breaking into the drug business in a big way was dangerous when every corner was owned by a rival organization.
Christopher stared at the only decoration in the room: a poster from the movie Raging Bull, a 1980 flick about a middleweight Italian boxer who lost everything. Antonio kept it there as a reminder of what he could lose if he wasn’t careful.
He had already lost much. Most of his family. His birth city. The gated compound they had called home, his luxury suits, the cars …
I’ll have my revenge. In this life or in hell.
“Have a seat, Chrissy,” Antonio said, looking at his watch. He would find out soon whether Lino and Zachary had succeeded on their mission to take out the rest of the Canavaro family.
He got up and closed the door to protect the dozens of racks of clothing brought in from the UK, which sat covered in plastic wrap. He didn’t want them smelling like smoke before he put them out on the black market.
Christopher sat down at the card table. “We survived the slums, war in the Middle East, and the war on our family in Naples for this shit?” he said in his deep Neapolitan accent.
Sons of War Page 3