Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Unit eleven-sixteen responding,” Moose said. “Eight minutes out.”

  He replaced the radio hand piece. “And the evening begins,” he said with a sigh.

  The sirens blared as he turned on the strobe and sped through a four-way stop. The light cross traffic waited as the squad car roared through.

  Moose turned onto Highway 605, heading northeast toward City of Industry and Mount Baldy. Fences and walls surrounded the houses in the affluent neighborhood off the interstate. Many were abandoned or taken over by squatters.

  “The gangs have abandoned their old stomping grounds and moved into this area,” Moose said.

  Dozens of squad cars were parked on a residential street. Several more were stacked in an intersection. Moose unbuckled the strap on his pistol.

  “Shit. Looks like we’re late to the party,” Moose said. He parked and looked over at Dom. “Stay close to me, bro.”

  Dom got out of the car, trying to grasp that this was the world they lived in now, where his best friend talked nonchalantly about violence, and people killed for a granola bar.

  This scene they arrived on looked more like a gang shootout. Multiple bodies lay sprawled in the street. Another hung halfway out of a bullet-riddled car.

  “We got a live one!” shouted a cop.

  He opened the back door of a black SUV and backed away with his shotgun angled into the back seat. Moose drew his pistol and motioned for Dom to get back.

  The officers swarmed the vehicle and quickly had the suspect cuffed facedown on the asphalt. He didn’t look like a gangbanger—a burly guy with an expensive suit, pointy shoes, and slicked-back hair that looked perfect even after he’d been tossed around. A dark stain on his suit told Dom he’d been injured in the shootout.

  “All clear,” said another officer.

  One of the wounded guy’s dead comrades still sat in the front seat, head slumped against the window. The other two vehicles were beater pickups that had slammed into the SUV in the intersection, in what appeared to be an ambush.

  Several bodies were in view. By their clothes, shaved heads, and tats, Dom put them with the Norteño Mafia.

  “All right, let’s bounce, man,” Moose said. “They got this covered.”

  “Who are those guys?”

  “MS-Thirteen or some shit, but I don’t know about the guy with the fancy shoes. He was cussing a blue streak in Italian when we found him. At least, I think it was Italian.”

  Dom watched the paramedics put the guy on a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance. He was lucky to receive treatment. In his limited experience, the emergency crews usually arrived long after the victim had bled out.

  Back in the squad car, Moose said, “Got a few minutes to burn. Wanna see the future of Los Angeles? It’s not far.”

  They took the interstate northeast, continuing toward Mount Baldy.

  “Power’s off, water is tainted, and refugees are coming in from all directions,” Moose said. “But the mayor and city council have a plan, I’m told.”

  They drove past City of Industry until the horizon lit up with the glow of floodlights. The chug and clatter of diesel engines grew louder, and as the squad car crested the next hill, Dom could see the source of the lights and noise. Dozens of industrial vehicles were busy working into the night.

  “What are they doing?” Dom asked, unable to see much through the cracked windshield.

  Moose pulled off atop the hill overlooking eastern LA County. They got out and walked to the side of the hill for a better view.

  “Are they …?”

  “Building a big-ass wall, man.”

  Dom frowned, puzzled. “But a third of the metro area is on the other side.”

  “Yup.” Moose folded his muscular arms over his chest. “City is preparing evacuation orders and telling residents to move to the refugee camps inside the new city limits. The barrier’s only gonna be twenty-five miles long—from the mountains above San Dimas down to Chino—but that’ll force most foot and vehicle traffic to take the more heavily watched routes into the city. And we’ll be watching.”

  In the distance, a crane lowered a shipping container onto a stack while clanking bulldozers pushed auto bodies to form a wall of metal.

  “We’re going to help save what’s left of Los Angeles,” Moose said. He slapped Dom on the shoulder. “I’m glad to have you with me, brother. You’re going to make a hell of a cop.”

  -17-

  Christopher parked the Suburban a block away from the LA Memorial Coliseum. The USC Trojans flag was gone, replaced by the Los Angeles Police Department logo.

  “This is crazy,” Vinny muttered. “You really agree with Don Antonio about these orders?”

  Christopher stroked his graying goatee. It wasn’t a yes or a no, and Vinny could see that his dad was too conflicted to answer one way or the other.

  “It’ll pay off in the end,” Christopher said. “Trust your uncle. He’s the leader of this family and he hasn’t led us astray yet. This is the path to your button.”

  Vinny breathed in deeply. “All right. I’ll do what it takes.”

  “There’s something else,” Christopher said, grabbing him by the arm. “One of our convoys got ambushed last night. Vito survived, but the cops grabbed him. We want to know where they’re holding him.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to find that out?”

  “Just figure it out, Vin; you’re a smart … young man.” Christopher slapped him on the cheek. “Now, go. Do your duty.”

  Vinny got out of the SUV and walked toward the stadium with his hands in his hoodie pockets. Generator-powered lights filled the empty stands with a white glow, illuminating the haggard faces of five hundred people who had answered the recruiting call.

  At eight in the evening, he joined the recruits in the chilly evening air on the grass inside the coliseum, listening to some asshole LAPD captain with a megaphone against his porn ’stache blather on about what duty and sacrifice meant.

  Yeah, dude, I know. That’s why I’m here listening to this shit.

  Around him, men and women of all races and ages stood listening intently, thrilled at the prospect of a paycheck even if it meant putting themselves in harm’s way. Cops in uniform and staff members sat at tables around the edges of the field, where they would start conducting interviews in a few minutes.

  Little did the officers know that a Moretti scout was here in their presence. He doubted they even knew who the family was—yet. The only Italian crime syndicate these officers would have heard of in Los Angeles was the now-extinct Sarcone family. Unless Vito was talking, and Vinny doubted that was the case. He was a fat fuck, but not a fat rat fuck.

  “The City of Los Angeles needs men and women to defend its borders during the war and to deal with the rampant violence and crime from criminal gangs inside our borders,” the captain said. “Make no mistake, this is a dangerous job, but we need you now more than ever.”

  Vinny had heard there was another recruiting effort, by the rebels, going on across town today. Before Christopher dropped him off, they had seen the line outside. Thousands were waiting to sign up.

  It was either join the police or join the military. The only others hiring were the gangs.

  Vinny still couldn’t quite believe he was here. He just had to keep in mind his father’s words. Trust your uncle.

  He did trust his uncle and his dad too, but their plan worried him. If it failed, he could end up in jail with Vito, or worse. But if he succeeded, he would be a made man, finally. No longer just an errand boy.

  Vinny stiffened with pride. He would do what it took to earn his button.

  After the introduction by the captain, the recruits were all herded to the tables set up around the field, for initial interviews. Most of the people manning the tables were older men and women who had probably come out of r
etirement to make a much-needed buck.

  Minutes turned into an hour, and an hour became two. By the time Vinny got to the front of a line, it was nearing ten o’clock. His feet ached, and he was starving, not to mention thirsty.

  The older cop sitting at the table hardly looked up from his notebook as Vinny approached. He reached out lazily and said, “ID.”

  Vinny handed his over.

  The officer’s gray brows scrunched, and he glanced up. Dark, suspicious eyes studied Vinny, the old investigator catching the scent.

  “Nathan Sarcone, huh?”

  “Yes sir,” Vinny replied.

  “As in the Sarcone crime family?” The cop shifted uneasily in his plastic chair.

  Vinny let him wait a moment before nodding. “Yes, sir. Enzo Sarcone was my uncle.”

  “Was?”

  “He was killed by the American Military Patriots, sir.”

  The cop slowly got up, his joints creaking, or maybe that was the chair. He held the ID and looked at Vinny. “Stay here a minute.” He moved away from the table, then paused. “Don’t move, okay?”

  Vinny shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to calm his kicking heart. The ID was real, and while he looked a lot like Nathan Sarcone, he was twenty pounds lighter. If anyone asked, Vinny could always point out that everyone in the country had lost a few pounds.

  Trust your uncle.

  Don Antonio was betting the cops would never know the difference—not now that the real Nathan Sarcone lay buried in a rubble heap near Los Alamitos. Before anyone ever found him, Vinny’s job would be complete.

  But what if the cops saw through his story? What if they knew he was lying?

  To take his mind off such troubling questions, Vinny scanned the faces in the line to his right. He watched a woman with short white hair and a baseball cap, who had finally made it to the front of a table. She stiffened, trying to hide her crooked back.

  The officer shook his head as soon as he laid eyes on her.

  “Ma’am, you’re too old,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” the woman pleaded. “I can work. I can fight.”

  The cop shook his head again, annoyed. Then he raised a hand and motioned the next person forward.

  A woman half the age of the one in the ball cap stepped up, giving the cop a seductive grin. Vinny had seen a lot of that lately. People used whatever resources they had to survive. It was human nature.

  The older woman wasn’t having it. She bumped the younger girl out of the way and put her palms on the table. “I can work as a dispatcher, or at crime scenes. I have a background in—”

  The officer stood, his annoyance turning to anger. “Ma’am, please, you need to leave,” he said. “I can’t help you. Report to a refugee camp. They might have something for you.”

  “I just stood here for three hours!” she snapped.

  “Not my problem, ma’am. Now, please make way for the next person in line.” He gestured again for the younger girl, but the woman doubled down.

  “Listen, asshole, I know there is something I can do for the LAPD, and I’m not leaving until you at least give me the chance of an interview.”

  The recruiter frowned, then waved at a uniformed officer, who hurried over with his hand on his baton, prepared to escort the woman away the hard way or the easy way.

  She looked over at Vinny as she chose the latter option. Eyes glazed with tears, she let her back relax into its normal bent posture. He wondered how long it had been since her last meal.

  Vinny swallowed the vestige of empathy he felt. Moretti soldiers didn’t have time for such emotions. His dad had taught him that, and if he wanted to be made, he had to act like a made man.

  “Nathan Sarcone,” said a deep voice.

  Vinny pivoted back to the table, pulling his hands from his pocket.

  Another cop in uniform now stood in the older guy’s place. The big black man with linebacker shoulders and a square face directed kind eyes at Vinny. Not the eyes he expected in a cop who looked like a Special Forces operator.

  “I’m … Nathan Sarcone,” Vinny said, catching himself.

  “This way,” the big officer said.

  Every face in the lines seemed to focus on Vinny as he walked between the two metal tables and followed the officer into the bowels of the stadium. They entered a hallway where the USC Trojans had once streamed onto the field. Vinny took in as much as he could while the cop led him past a locker room and into a block of offices.

  Lanterns lit the way, but the farther they walked, the darker it got. Anxiety made Vinny jumpy. He suddenly felt like a prisoner being led into a dungeon.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “You want a job?” the linebacker said, looking over his shoulder at him.

  Vinny nodded.

  “Then keep walking.”

  They finally stopped outside an office. The cop knocked on the door.

  “It’s open,” said a voice.

  “Go on in,” the cop said, opening the door.

  Vinny stepped into a room thick with smoke. There was a single desk with a wooden chair in front of it. Behind the desk sat the captain who had spoken to the crowd earlier. He slid a pack of smokes across his desk.

  Vinny took one and thanked him.

  “As you know, I’m Captain Brian Stone,” the man said. “You can call me ‘Captain’ or ‘sir.’” He reached across the desk with a lighter and lit Vinny’s cigarette, then nodded at the big cop still standing in the doorway.

  The door clicked shut.

  Vinny took a drag while the captain watched.

  “Not many of those left in this city,” Stone said. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and sat back in his leather chair.

  “So tell me, Nathan, why do you want to join the LAPD?”

  “Easy,” Vinny replied.

  Stone waited for Vinny to take another drag and exhale. The smoke rose toward the ceiling, and Vinny took a seat in the chair and leaned forward to flick his ash in the glass bowl.

  “Revenge,” he said.

  The captain’s white handlebar mustache curled slightly.

  “My great-uncle was killed by AMP, but now that they are defeated in Los Angeles, I want to go after the rival gangs that hunted and killed the rest of my family like we were dogs.” Vinny knew what the next question would be. “I survived by hiding, and waiting,” he said. “Now’s my time.”

  The captain still looked at Vinny as if he was a suspect.

  “And why should I trust you?” he asked.

  Vinny shrugged. “Because I’m not my great-uncle and I’m probably the only guy left in this city who knows more about the gangs than your officers do. I know because my job for Uncle Enzo was to keep tallies on his enemies. They called me ‘the auditor.’”

  Stone folded his hands together and arched one brow. The guy reminded Vinny of some old-school cattleman.

  “I’ve been jumping from camp to camp since my family was murdered,” Vinny said, “and I’ve taken my skills with me.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been watching. Waiting. Planning. In the Bel Air camps, for example, the Sureños and Norteño Mafia are dealing drugs to refugees.”

  Captain Stone nodded once, and Vinny felt the truth of his story like a fire in his chest. It was always easier to fool people when you had the facts on your side. Stone motioned for him to continue, and he did.

  “At the camp in Santa Monica, three more groups are doing the same thing. You got the Bloods operating in the Compton camp and around there. The Russians, led by Nevksy, have infiltrated the camps in Santa Ana, Irvine, and Long Beach …”

  Vinny continued rattling off dozens of gangs that had risen from the ashes. He had baited the hook and cast th
e line into the water. Now he had to wait and see whether his real uncle was right about all this and whether Stone would bite.

  If Don Antonio was correct, then Vinny would be on a fast track into the upper tiers of the LAPD, but if his uncle was wrong, the guy who had brought him here would be leading him away in handcuffs.

  He was nearly finished when Stone put up a hand and said, “Normally you’d make a good CI.” Stone stood behind his desk. “But I think you might come in handier working in a different role. First, though, you’re going to answer some more questions.”

  * * *

  Dom got home in the predawn as Ronaldo was leaving for his patrol. Seeing his son wearing a police vest snapped him awake.

  “How’d it go?” Ronaldo asked.

  Dom shut the door, careful about the noise. “About what you’d expect,” he said, taking off his vest. “Started off with a drive-by gang shooting, and then Moose took me to see the wall we’re building.” He frowned. “Did you know they’re basically cutting off everyone east of Industry?”

  “Yes,” Ronaldo said, “but let’s talk about it tonight when I get home.”

  “I’m going back out with Moose tonight and meeting with his CO,” Dom said. “Moose thinks they’ll approve me for on-the-job training based on grades, character, and MMA history.”

  It didn’t surprise Ronaldo. The police were looking for fighters, and there was little time to sit in classrooms and read manuals while the city bled.

  “Son,” he said, “we haven’t even had a chance to talk about this yet, and I want to know more before you make any—”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Elena stood in the hallway, in her nightgown. Dom went over to give his mom a hug. Monica shuffled in, yawning.

  “You sure you’re not too tired to watch them?” Ronaldo asked Dom.

  “We’ll be fine for a few hours,” Elena said. “He can catch a few—”

  “No. I want Dom on guard until sunup.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” said Dom, trying to mask his fatigue. “Wide awake, actually.”

  “Let me see if I have a little coffee left.” Elena walked into the kitchen.