Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “What the fuck did you say?” Christopher said, stepping forward.

  Craig walked out to meet him, and Antonio held up the bag to defuse the situation.

  “Here’s the cash,” he said.

  That stopped Craig in midstride.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Christopher murmured.

  “Where are the guns?” Antonio asked.

  Rush walked around the Humvee and opened the back, revealing several crates of M4A1 carbines. “Fifteen of ’em, just like you said. Plus twenty thousand rounds of ammunition. Enough for a small war.”

  Antonio gave a thin smile. Exactly. He and Lino looked into the back of the vehicle while Christopher watched the husky corporal.

  “You going to tell me what you want these for?” Rush asked.

  “Security,” Antonio said.

  “How do I know I’m not selling guns to someone who’s going to use them on American soldiers?” Rush asked. “I’m seeing too many reports of my brothers being gunned down at checkpoints and in the streets.”

  Antonio held the sergeant’s gaze. “Because I fought with American soldiers in the Middle East. We both did.” He nodded at Christopher. “You’re not our enemy; you’re our friends.”

  Craig chuckled. “You guys fought with Americans? Why do I not believe that?”

  “Corporal, shut your face,” Rush snapped.

  Craig stiffened, though his drooping gut lessened the effect.

  Rush scrutinized Antonio, looking for the lie.

  “Where did you boys fight?” he asked.

  “We spent six months in Afghanistan in 2006, on a special op to take out a ‘terrorist cell,’ as you call them.”

  Antonio left out a few details. The sergeant didn’t need to know that the guns were for more Moretti soldiers coming over from Italy. He looked at Christopher’s shotgun. What they had to arm themselves with now was pitiful.

  “Fifty thousand,” Antonio said, handing the bag over.

  Rush rifled through it and smiled. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Moretti.”

  “And with you.” After shaking hands, Antonio waved at the Escalade, and Yellowtail drove over and parked behind the Humvee.

  “I’ll help you load ’em,” Rush said. He and Lino moved the crated weapons and ammunition into the back of the Escalade while Antonio glanced at his watch. Still forty-five minutes to curfew—just enough time to get home.

  Lights swept across the parking lot, and a diesel engine clattered. Both Rush and Lino looked over at the approaching Humvee. Christopher brought up his shotgun, but Craig had his rifle trained on Christopher’s beak of a nose.

  “Don’t even think about it, you guinea prick,” Craig said. He flitted the barrel to Antonio, who had started to reach for his Glock. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  “What is this?” Rush asked, stepping away from the truck.

  “A business transaction,” Craig said with a cocky grin.

  Rush glared. “What the fuck did you do, Corporal?”

  “Took an opportunity,” Craig said.

  The second Humvee pulled up, and four men jumped out, all wearing face masks and black AMP uniforms.

  “You son of a bitch,” Rush said, reaching for his holstered M9.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Craig said. He pointed his carbine at the Escalade. “Get out of the vehicle.” Then he trained the weapon back on Christopher, who had already set his shotgun on the ground.

  Yellowtail looked at Antonio, and Antonio nodded for him to obey the order.

  The four new AMP soldiers fanned out, rifles up.

  “Weapons down!” one shouted.

  “That means you too,” Craig said to Rush.

  The sergeant gently pulled his hand away from his holstered gun as the AMP soldiers closed in, guns on Antonio, Yellowtail, Lino, and Christopher.

  None of them saw the two muzzle flashes from the Walmart rooftop. Two AMP soldiers slumped to the ground. The other two turned, probably in time to see the muzzle flash right before they each got a bullet in the forehead.

  Antonio brought up his Glock and shot the bewildered Craig twice in the chest. Craig slumped to his knees, gurgling from a punctured lung. His wide eyes roved and then locked on Antonio as he walked over and picked up the M4 the corporal had dropped.

  “A fine weapon,” he said, handing the M4 to Lino.

  Then he bent down in front of Craig. The corporal struggled to breathe, his lungs crackling.

  “You and I aren’t all that different,” Antonio said, “in the sense that we’re both opportunists. Unfortunately for you, I am also a paranoid son of a bitch.” He cracked a sly grin. “It’s the guinea golden rule.”

  Craig tried to talk, but only blood came out of his mouth. He toppled onto his side, and Antonio used the toe of his shoe to nudge him onto his back. Then he raised his Glock and fired four shots into the man’s ample gut. The impact from the rounds made his belly shake like Jell-O.

  Rush kept his hands in the air. “I had nothing to do with this,” he said. “I swear.”

  “I believe you,” Antonio said, pointing the Glock at Rush, “but you’re a witness now, and you know my name.”

  “You said you wouldn’t use those guns on soldiers,” Rush said, taking two steps back.

  “You’re right,” Antonio said. “I’m not, but I didn’t say anything about this one.”

  “Please,” Rush said. “I have a wife and kids.”

  “Cap him and let’s go,” Christopher said.

  The two snipers from the rooftop jogged over. Both men carried scope-mounted Remington 700 bolt-action rifles. Frankie and Carmine had also survived the night of the ambush almost eight years ago with their Moretti wives. They weren’t blood, but they had served Antonio well since moving to Los Angeles.

  Frankie had a wooden match in his mouth—a habit he had used to quit smoking.

  Antonio nodded at him and went to Carmine. The former sniper had also served in the Alpini and had put his skills to good use tonight.

  “Nice shooting,” Antonio said.

  Carmine spat a wad of tobacco juice on the ground and grinned proudly. He had one dimple; the other had been erased by grenade shrapnel that almost killed him and left a nasty scar as a memento.

  Antonio’s eyes flitted to the US flag on the back of the Humvee, and he recalled the pride he had felt when fighting with American soldiers in the Middle East. The sergeant in front of him was like the men he remembered over there.

  “You want a new job?” Antonio asked. “A better one?”

  Rush didn’t need to think it over. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I have a spot for a man like you, but cross me and you will end up like that fat fuck.”

  Antonio turned to his men and gave an order. Working quickly, they stripped the dead AMP soldiers of their weapons and gear.

  Frankie pulled up another car and opened the trunk. A muffled voice escaped, and Antonio walked over to see the squirming gangbanger in the back, with a bandanna tied around his mouth.

  “Get him up,” Antonio said.

  Frankie and Carmine reached in and hauled the guy out while Christopher watched.

  “Who the hell is that?” he asked.

  “Sureño dirtbag,” Carmine replied.

  The Latino banger jerked and fought in their grip, blood dripping from his battered face. Frankie had done a number on the guy.

  “What are you doing now?” Christopher asked.

  “Starting a war,” Antonio said. He raised the M4 again and fired a shot into the Sureño’s gut. Frankie and Carmine let go of him as he crashed to the pavement.

  Antonio let him crawl away. It needed to look real. The setup would work only if AMP believed it had happened, which meant Rush had to play along too.

  The gangbanger m
ade it all the way across the parking lot before finally collapsing. Frankie ran over, took the bandanna from his mouth, and tossed it to the ground.

  Antonio jumped in the Humvee with Rush and Christopher while his other men piled into the other vehicles. It felt odd riding in a military vehicle again, especially one with a flag other than the Italian green, white, and red. But only one flag mattered to Antonio now: the Moretti banner.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this is what you had planned?” Christopher asked.

  “Because you would have told me not to do it.”

  “You’re right about that,” Christopher replied. A half grin told Antonio his brother was finally starting to understand.

  “When this is all over, we’ll have a house in Los Cerritos like Enzo Sarcone, and a lot more.” Antonio clapped Christopher on the shoulder. “You’ll see, little brother. You will see.”

  -3-

  Dom watched the sky from the deck of their house in Downey, southeast of Los Angeles. The humble living conditions were a step up from being on a military base, and he loved having his own room.

  Having a backyard was also great. He stood there listening for the rumble of fighter jets. Ever since the squadron flew over the park, he had worried they would come back, and this time he feared they would drop their payloads on the innocent population in the City of Angels.

  And the not so innocent …

  The situation continued to crumble nationwide, with more people being injured or killed in waves of violence. Gangs murdering rivals, and civilians getting killed in the cross fire. Junkies overdosing and dying on the streets. People fighting over food and water, rioters taking out their rage on cops and soldiers.

  Over the past week alone, a team of AMP soldiers had been ambushed by a clique of Sureños. The mutilated corpses were found wrapped in black raven flags and hanging like bats from a highway overpass. Then a platoon of marines were shot at a checkpoint outside the Port of Long Beach by a group affiliated with the Norteño Mafia, who took their weapons, stripped them naked, and set them on fire.

  Men like Dom’s father, who were simply trying to help the government regain control of the United States.

  The distant pop of gunfire sounded as the sun slipped over the horizon—a reminder that control was slipping out of the government’s grip.

  It was especially bad in Los Angeles. The gangs were becoming more powerful and continued to organize, especially the Norteños, who thrived in anarchic situations like this.

  Dom sipped his bottled water and turned to check on his mother and sister. Just inside the door, Elena was cooking dinner—something involving a delicious-smelling pasta sauce. It wasn’t the same quality of noodles and homemade marinara sauce they had in the past, but it still smelled great.

  Monica sat at the kitchen table, reading a book. Behind them, a TV streamed the news on mute.

  Aside from the rationed food and missing their dad, it wasn’t all that different from how things used to be on a school night. His parents had done their best to make life “normal.” Buying the humble house away from base, teaching them to study and play sports. But Dom wasn’t sure things would ever go back to their version of normal. So much had changed over the past year.

  Instead of thinking about college, studying for exams, or training at his local gym, he was standing in his yard, with a shotgun slung over his back, and a pistol holstered on his belt. He would have much preferred to be playing basketball with Camilla and Moose or training for his next fight in the Octagon, but here he was, standing watch in his own backyard.

  A month ago, when Ronaldo arrived home from Afghanistan, he had looked Dom in the eye and told him the guns were his now and that he was the man of the house. As much as Dom didn’t want to accept it, he knew he would be put to the test sooner rather than later.

  How would he react if forced by circumstances to take a life?

  It was a question most young men never had to ask themselves, but one that Dom found himself pondering more than ever. The city continued to slip into anarchy, and until his father returned, it was his duty to protect his family.

  The sliding door whisked open, and Monica poked her head out.

  “Whatcha doin’, Dom?” she asked.

  “Nothing, just thinking.”

  She walked outside, all five feet two inches of her, a book tucked under her arm. Brushing back her long brown hair, she sat on the wicker couch and sighed. “When’s Dad coming home?”

  Dom took a seat in a chair across from her so he could talk and watch the sky at the same time. A new flurry of gunshots popped in the distance.

  Monica stiffened, her brown eyes wide. “Are those fireworks?”

  “No, but it’s okay,” Dom said. “Those shots are pretty far away.”

  Elena moved to the open doorway. She nodded but remained there, her black hair rustling in the fall breeze.

  He gave her a confident smile.

  Ever since Ronaldo had left, she seemed … different. The fight between the two of them the day of his departure had her rattled. Dom wasn’t used to hearing his father yell, especially at his mom, but the threat of the apocalypse rattled even the strongest.

  “I’m a marine—I can’t just decide which orders to follow and which ones to disobey!” Ronaldo had yelled when Elena told him not to go.

  Orders. Duty. Respect.

  Dom’s father had taught him about all these things. But Dom also understood why his mom didn’t want him to go. Selfishly, he, too, had wanted his father to stay in Los Angeles. Not because Dom was afraid to look after his sister and mother, but because he was worried his father wouldn’t come home.

  The riots, the terrorist attack in San Francisco, the desperation of everyday citizens. The entire country was going mad. Dom was used to violence in the Octagon—indeed, he craved it—but this was a different type.

  This wasn’t a sport. It wasn’t a game.

  Sirens wailed in the distance—officers and emergency crews responding to more chaos. The sounds of violence were no longer sporadic; they had become more of a continuous rumble.

  “At least, the police are still showing up to calls,” Monica said.

  “Yeah, but for how long?” Elena whispered it, as if she didn’t want her kids to hear her.

  Dom did hear his mom, though, and he didn’t disagree. The military and police were losing the fight. When the National Guard first showed up almost two months ago, before they were reorganized into AMP, there had been a strange calm in Los Angeles, and for a while Dom was optimistic.

  The schools were still open, and people who still had jobs went to work. The police were managing the best they could, but they didn’t have enough men and women on the force to push back the rioters and outlaws who had seized the opportunity to loot.

  Everything had spiraled out of control when terrorists hit San Francisco. A ship packed with fertilizer and low-grade radioactive material exploded in its berth just as military and port officials closed in. The government still didn’t know who was behind the terrorist attacks, but whoever was doing it was getting the result they wanted: half the nation hiding in fear. The other half were out fighting each other for dwindling resources while the military—most of it, anyway—tried not to add to the violence.

  Since the attack in San Francisco, hundreds of thousands had left Los Angeles, and more were streaming out every day to stay with family members in what were considered “green,” or safe, zones.

  He gripped his shotgun, feeling the burn of anxiety that came with uncertainty. It wasn’t a matter of if, but of when he would have to use the weapon.

  Monica went back to reading her book, and Elena walked back inside to finish dinner.

  “What is that?” Dom asked his sister. “Astronomy?”

  “Kind of …”

  He leaned forward to read the cover, but she pulled
it back.

  “It’s science fiction,” she said, grinning.

  “Ah, your guilty pleasure?”

  “I just finished a book about SETI.” When he didn’t respond she added, “SETI equals ‘search for extraterrestrial life.’ It’s really interesting to read about the hunt for aliens, but sometimes I’d rather read about fictional ones.”

  She turned the book over to show him the cover: an insectoid-looking alien, and a space marine in body armor.

  “Starship Troopers,” he said with a grin. “That’s mine.”

  “Figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it.”

  He sat back down and leaned the shotgun against the chair, still smiling at his sister. She spoke at a college level, but she was only thirteen years old. She also talked far too much, in his opinion. In first grade, her teacher had to move her desk away from the other kids because she wouldn’t stop yapping.

  “I wonder when they’re going to let us go back to school,” she said.

  “I think you might be the only kid your age who actually misses it.”

  She went back to reading. She wanted to be an astronaut someday, and Dom had no doubt she would, as long as their country recovered.

  While his sister was far beyond her years in education, she was still too young and naive to understand the implications of what was happening to their country. Dom wasn’t sure he understood. What he did know was that things were getting worse, and other countries weren’t coming to help them.

  Canada, Mexico, Europe, much of Asia and Africa—everyone was suffering from consecutive seasons of failed crops. The droughts and floods had destroyed billions of dollars’ worth of food, and half the world was starving. The countries that hadn’t collapsed were well on their way.

  Dom closed his eyes to daydream about better times and the simple things he missed. When his family was together and happy. Drives down the coast to hidden beaches, trips to the Santa Monica pier, chocolate shakes and french fries, and visits to Monica’s favorite place, the Griffith Observatory.

  She had been begging Dom to take her there for months, but it wasn’t safe. Nowhere in the city was safe right now. Angry shouting down the street confirmed that.