Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Sergeant Salvatore, your buddy you asked about—Sergeant Marks.”

  Ronaldo froze. “Yeah?”

  “Intel’s spotty with all the jamming we got going on, but I got word he may be with a squad that moved in to take that school in Anaheim. They got ambushed. I’m not sure if he is alive or not. I was going to send you with Team Hammerhead, but if you want in on this mission—”

  “I’m in, sir.” He spoke before he could think of his family. He had promised Elena he would be careful, and now he was volunteering for a battle.

  But Marks was out there and might be hurt. He couldn’t leave him.

  Blaze nodded. “We leave in ten minutes. Get with the armorer.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Ronaldo bolted out of the room and took off down the hall to the makeshift arms room. He kept checking his watch as he waited for the armorer to issue him a weapon, magazines, and ammunition. He got an old-school M16A1 and almost took off without signing the arms receipt.

  Then he raced through the school, not stopping until he was at the parking lot, where a dozen Humvees were being loaded up. He put on a helmet and body armor, then grabbed a headset. The ritual tap of magazines on helmets and the snap of them clicking into place carried across the parking lot.

  The convoy rolled out as the sun rose over the San Gabriel range.

  Ronaldo checked his comms. When he was good to go, he took the turret in his Humvee, happy to be up in the open. He wasn’t here to make new friends; all he cared about was surviving the mission and finding his brothers.

  Marks was still alive. He could feel it.

  The drive east to Anaheim made Ronaldo wonder. Fingers of smoke rose away from the fighting zones. There were no choppers or fighter jets in the airspace around the city.

  The navy controlled the airspace over California right now, and the fighting was mostly on the ground. But it was only a matter of time before the madman who had caused the Second Civil War would again strike civilian targets.

  This wasn’t going to end until President Elliot was dead or the Marine Corps and allied forces surrendered. And Devil Dogs don’t surrender.

  Ronaldo charged the M249 machine gun mounted atop the Humvee and aimed the muzzle east, adrenaline soaking his nerve fibers.

  He closed his eyes for a split second, putting his family out of his mind as he always did when going into combat.

  The convoy raced down the Santa Ana Freeway through light traffic—mostly law enforcement and civilians who had decided to flee the city before the day got going.

  Scars from the AMP air attack were everywhere: bridges blown in half, debris pushed to the side of the road, orange cones surrounding deep gouges in the asphalt.

  Framing the interstate, businesses, and residential areas were charred stretches of landscape from fires that had raged unchecked in a city without water pressure. Ronaldo spotted several city trucks with mounted plows pushing the remains of cars off the roads.

  Thirty minutes later, they entered Anaheim. Ronaldo took in a breath of smoky air. Rebel forces from across the city moved into position to help push out the final AMP resistance. If not for the hostages, the fight would already be over.

  The crack of gunfire sounded in the distance as the convoy pulled off the freeway and headed into the residential area surrounding the elementary school. Ronaldo jammed the butt of the M249 against his shoulder and looked for targets.

  The convoy turned down a street of mansions pocked by high-caliber rounds. One of the houses smoldered from a fire that had spread to the adjacent garage.

  A blackened car smoked in the middle of the road, where the battle had left a small team of marines pinned down behind vehicles without a safe exit route. Bodies lay crumpled in the street, and spent shell casings rested in the pools of blood.

  Ronaldo swallowed, wondering whether one of the fallen marines was Marks.

  The convoy slowed and was preparing to stop when a whistling noise broke the calm. A streak slammed into the Humvee ahead of Ronaldo—a direct hit from an AT-4 antitank rocket to the hood.

  The explosion blew out the front, and the truck bounced up from the street to crash back down in a smoldering heap.

  Shrapnel dinged off the turret’s armor, and smoke filled Ronaldo’s lungs. He bent down for cover as more shrapnel whizzed through the air.

  When he popped back up, the passenger door of the destroyed Humvee flung open, and the flaming body of a marine spun wildly, screaming for several seconds before crashing to the asphalt.

  “Move it, marines!” Blaze shouted over the comms.

  Ronaldo blinked away the shock, habit taking over. He scanned for targets and saw the silhouettes of two AMP soldiers on a rooftop.

  Don’t miss, he thought, aiming as one of them lifted a rocket tube.

  Ronaldo fired first, hitting his target in the chest with a burst. The tube fell back onto the roof, and the second man spun away from a second burst.

  “Rooftop clear!” Ronaldo shouted.

  Marines fanned out of the vehicles, and he squeezed off bursts of suppressive fire as they moved across the street to cover their exit. A muzzle flash alerted him to another AMP soldier in a second-story window.

  Ronaldo lined up the barrel and fired at window where he had seen the muzzle flash, riddling the frames high and low with rounds. But it was too late for the Army Ranger dragging a marine to safety on the road. A sniper hit him in the helmet and then in the chest. The marine got hit next and went limp in the street.

  Ronaldo held his fire, watching for the sniper. A muzzle flash winked from another window in the same building, and the ding of a bullet against the turret’s shield forced him down as the second sniper began firing on him.

  Inching back up, Ronaldo fired at the window until the frame and wall were riddled. The sniper had to be dead—a mouse couldn’t have survived in that fusillade.

  Ronaldo abandoned the turret, slid down into the Humvee, and joined the dozens of marines and soldiers running for cover. They found it behind a brick wall framing a driveway.

  “We clear this street, and then we move in!” Blaze shouted. He stood and then fell to his knees, his face erased by another sniper.

  Warm blood sprayed Ronaldo’s cheek. He blinked away the stars and looked around the corner of the wall at the shot-up window frame, where the sniper he had thought he killed was still shouldering a rifle.

  Two marines pulled Blaze away, not realizing that part of his head was missing. The rest of the team stood and opened fire on the window. A body slumped out, the rifle that had killed Blaze falling to the ground.

  “LT’s dead,” one of the marines said, looking up from his mangled corpse.

  The men behind the wall ducked down, trying to figure out who was in charge. One of them looked at Ronaldo—the young man who had asked all the questions during Blaze’s briefing. He met Ronaldo’s eyes and said, “You’re in charge now, Sergeant. What do we do?”

  In less than five minutes, Ronaldo had risen to ranking NCO of the platoon. He wiped the blood from his face and tamped down the fear.

  “Eyes up, everyone,” he ordered. “We move forward in overwatch teams. Find the rest of the snipers!”

  The ten marines divided into fire teams, with half of them moving out under a corporal’s command. Ronaldo took point with the other half and signaled for the men to advance into the houses. They had to get to cover and knock out the AMP snipers before they could advance to the school.

  With his fire team stacked behind him, Ronaldo bolted for a garage. He breached the side door with a kick, cleared his near corner, and ran the wall while his team filed in behind him. They had entered a three-car garage with a BMW still inside.

  His four marines followed him into the kitchen, stacking, breaching, and clearing as they moved. They confirmed that the first floor was empty,
and moved up a staircase to the second floor, where they split up to search the other rooms.

  Coming out of a bedroom, Ronaldo met his other team leader’s eyes and motioned that the room was clear. The corporal returned the sign. They had one room left to search.

  Ronaldo signaled his team to follow him into the last bedroom. Once they confirmed it clear, they pulled the shades back to look for the snipers. They were on the north side of the house, with a clear view of the school.

  Hundreds of soldiers and marines from supporting platoons were moving into position on the east side, having cleared the exterior AMP soldiers from the houses.

  “Got the last sniper,” came a voice over the comms.

  “Copy that,” Ronaldo said. “We’re good to go. Get to the highest floor and set up shop.”

  Ronaldo grabbed a pair of binos from one of his men and zoomed in on the elementary school. Four AMP soldiers led a group of civilians to the edge of the flat rooftop.

  “They aren’t going to surrender,” said the marine next to Ronaldo.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ronaldo whispered.

  He had to force himself to keep eyes on the scene.

  These were all Americans—the AMP soldiers, the civilians. How could it have come to this?

  “They won’t do it,” Ronaldo whispered. “They won’t execute hostages.”

  The whoosh of rotors broke through the sounds of war, and two Black Hawks cut across the skyline. They moved toward the rooftop, the gunners bringing their M240s to bear on the AMP troops.

  Watching the birds circle, Ronaldo glimpsed a soldier inside the troop hold with a bullhorn.

  “They’re going to negotiate,” Ronaldo said. He closed his eyes and said a prayer—the only thing he knew to do in this moment.

  When he opened them and brought the binos back up, the AMP soldiers lowered their weapons and raised their hands, and the yellow AMP flag came down.

  Ronaldo let out a sigh of relief.

  “Let’s go!” he said.

  The platoon finished clearing the houses and met back on the street. Wounded soldiers and marines lay in the grass, corpsmen tending to their injuries.

  Ronaldo cradled his rifle, realizing he hadn’t even fired a shot from it. He walked over to the dead and saw the burned body of Sergeant King, and the ruined face of Lieutenant Blaze.

  Two more marines dead. And for what?

  Ronaldo lowered his head, seeing the blood spatter on his uniform. He fell into a trance until a familiar voice called out.

  “Salvatore! Ronaldo, is that you?”

  He turned toward a group of marines walking up the street. Their fatigues were covered in ash and speckled with blood.

  “Bettis? ” Ronaldo shouted. He slung his rifle and ran toward his friend.

  He wasn’t alone. The other two Desert Snakes walked beside him.

  Marks stopped, lowering his cradled rifle.

  A wave of emotion gripped Ronaldo. His vision blurred, though he didn’t know whether the tears were of joy, or sorrow.

  -16-

  “The surviving members of AMP are on the run,” Christopher said.

  The fight for Los Angeles was over for now, and Antonio had lost his biggest customer. He stood in the office of his new house in Bel Air, hands cupped behind his back as he looked out the window at the lush foothills. The million- dollar view, and the fact that Enzo Sarcone was a rotting corpse, helped him relax.

  “There’s something else, Don Antonio,” Christopher said.

  Antonio’s brother looked uncharacteristically nervous.

  “One of our soldiers is missing. John Recelli didn’t show up last night, and his girlfriend said he never came home. We suspect he was kidnapped.”

  Antonio had known that it was just a matter of time before this happened. One enemy was erased, but a new, more dangerous one had taken its place.

  “This is why I waited to make my move,” he said. “The gangs know who we are now. This is their first play: take one of our men and torture information out of him.”

  Christopher said, “You think someone’s testing us?”

  “I would bet our new market on it.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We wait, and we keep preparing,” Antonio said. He changed the subject to other business. “Is the warehouse ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Get the men ready. I want to see it.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, what with this new security risk—”

  Antonio snorted. “We have the men to protect me. Don’t worry, brother.”

  “I’ll get the trucks ready.”

  Christopher shut the door, and Antonio sat down at his desk. Losing AMP had thrown a wrench into his long-term plans for expanding the business, but moving into the refugee camps had made up for the short-term hit.

  The growing Moretti army had already laid claim to the new territories and was distributing product as fast as Christopher could buy it from the González family.

  Within a week of making the move, his men were distributing drugs in every refugee camp in Los Angeles. Taking cash, jewelry, and whatever valuables people were willing to part with for a temporary respite from their bleak existence.

  But they had competition in the camps—competition that had already secured deals with the police.

  And now the Moretti organization had attracted even more attention.

  Chances were, John Recelli was suffering in some basement, being “interrogated” in all sorts of inventive ways for information on the Italians.

  Antonio slammed his hand down on his desk. This new enemy wasn’t intimidated by the street cred he had earned over the past few months. He would have to be more emphatic in demonstrating that the Morettis were not to be fucked with.

  He went downstairs to an early dinner with Lucia and Marco. Yellowtail, who was living with them while he recovered from his injuries, limped into the kitchen. Raff was at his normal spot standing near the glass door, watching the lawn with his shotgun. The man had done a superb job of caring for Antonio’s family, and Antonio was eternally grateful.

  “Raff, are you hungry?” Lucia asked.

  “No, ma’am, I’ll eat later. Thank you.”

  “How about you, Zachary, or do I need to ask?”

  Yellowtail grinned, and she got up to make him a plate of spaghetti.

  “Thank you,” he said, wincing as he reached out for the plate. His tank top exposed scars from his old wounds and the bandages still covering the new ones.

  Marco glanced over as he ate. “Did the bullets hurt?” he asked.

  “Nah, are you kidding? It felt great,” Yellowtail said, chuckling. He shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “It hurt like hell, kid, but then I didn’t feel much at all. They say if you don’t feel pain, that’s when you’re in real trouble.”

  “Oh,” Marco said.

  Yellowtail shrugged. “But it was worth it, you know?”

  Marco hesitated, unsure how to reply.

  “’Cause chicks dig scars, my man,” Yellowtail added.

  Lucia frowned. “Not true.”

  “It isn’t?” Antonio asked.

  She shot him an embarrassed look.

  After they finished, Antonio returned to his bedroom, where Lucia helped him dress in a new black Armani suit. She smiled as she tucked a red silk square into his pocket.

  “If I didn’t know better, I might be a little jealous seeing you go out of the house dressed like this,” she said.

  “You know my eyes are only for you.”

  Lucia nuzzled against his five o’clock shadow, breathing in his scent. The blood warmed in his veins as it traveled downward, but he pulled away and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I have to go, my love.”

/>   “Oh?” She pulled back her blouse, exposing her breasts for a glimpse of what awaited him when he returned home.

  “Your men can’t wait?”

  He cracked the cocky grin of a high-schooler on prom night.

  They made love in the same bed where his enemy had fucked his whores just a month ago. He didn’t bother trying to be quiet. Their room was halfway across the house, and Marco would never hear the headboard thumping against the wall, or his mother’s moans.

  Antonio finished and rolled off, wanting a smoke.

  She let out a sigh of pleasure. “You haven’t fucked me like that for a long time.”

  He slipped his suit pants back on as she lay catching her breath. By the time he was dressed, she had recovered, and helped him straighten his collar.

  “Come home early and I might give you round two,” she said.

  Antonio kissed her hard, then hurried downstairs. Raff was standing near the front entrance, looking out a window.

  “Don Antonio, your vehicle is ready,” he said.

  As Raff opened the door, Antonio saw their three new black Suburbans, stolen from an abandoned compound, sitting in the front drive. His men wore suits and held automatic rifles.

  “Be careful,” Raff said. “I’ll keep an eye on things around here.”

  “I know.” Antonio patted him on the arm. “Thank you, my friend. When this is all over, I want you to find a wife. You deserve to be happy.”

  Raff gave a smile so sad, Antonio knew that he would never experience the love of a woman again after losing his fiancée to cancer many years ago. His heart belonged to God now, and the family.

  “Don Antonio,” Frankie said. He opened the back door to the second SUV, and Antonio slid into the back seat. Lino took shotgun with Christopher behind the wheel. The other two vehicles boxed them in as they set out on the dangerous roads at dusk.

  Antonio couldn’t help but wonder what rich asshole had once ridden in this black chariot. Some B-list star, perhaps, or maybe an athlete who played for the Dodgers or the Lakers.

  Most of the stars had fled the city by now, leaving some of their riches unguarded. Looters had already taken all the easy pickings, but Antonio had a small team dedicated to finding what was left, and the Suburbans were a recent score.