“That all depends on what you tell me,” Antonio said.
“I don’t know notheen’,” he said. “I swear. I’m just a driver—un trabajador.”
Antonio shook his head and held out his hand. Carmine handed over the bandanna. The man’s gaze flitted back and forth, then locked on Christopher, who held a canister of gasoline.
“Oh, no,” the man moaned. “Por Dios, no.”
“Cut the shit,” Antonio said. “I know you work for Esteban Vega, and I want to know where he’s hiding. I also want to know who his contact is in the LAPD.”
Antonio knew that it wasn’t the sergeant. It had to be someone above him, and Vinny was never going to get access to that information.
That left one option.
Antonio nodded, and Christopher doused the bandanna with gasoline. The Vega soldier squirmed and moaned. Raff lowered his arms, and his lips moved, but he didn’t protest.
“Do you like flank steak?” Antonio asked.
“No, por favor, jefe,” the prisoner pleaded.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Antonio said, his eyes on Raff.
Raff nodded as if to give him permission.
Antonio nodded back and walked over to the long kitchen table, the prisoner’s wide eyes following his every move. First, he picked up a long filleting knife. Then he checked out a serrated knife for cutting bread. He held up each blade, turning it from side to side.
He had learned the art of torture while in Afghanistan—not from the Italian military, but from the jihadists they fought. He had lost a brother to the brutal bastards, who hacked the young soldier apart while videotaping the entire thing.
But of all the barbaric acts he had seen, it was the American torture technique of waterboarding that seemed to work best. And Antonio was about to take it to a new level.
“Last chance,” Antonio said. “Where are Esteban Vega and his brother Miguel? And who is their contact in the LAPD?”
The man sobbed and put his head against his chest—praying, perhaps, or just unable to watch his fate approach.
Frankie yanked his head back, and Antonio draped the gasoline-soaked bandanna over his weathered features while Carmine helped hold him down.
Then Antonio took the red cannister and poured it over the lumps that made up the Vega prisoner’s nose and lips. He fought and fought, twisting and turning, spitting, and snorting out the liquid that made it into his orifices.
After a quarter of the canister was gone, Antonio let up.
“Where the fuck is Esteban hiding?” he screamed. “And who is his contact?”
The Vega soldier spat and gasped for air. He had managed not to swallow the gasoline, but he could hold his breath only so long.
“I don’t know,” he said between breaths. “Please … ¡Por Dios! ”
Antonio looked at Carmine and Frankie.
They pulled him back again, and he repeated the process, draining another third of the precious gasoline on the already soaked bandanna, sprinkling it back and forth over his eyes, nose, and lips.
“Looks like it’s flank steak tonight, boys!” Christopher shouted.
The guy finally cracked. “Stop,” he choked. “No more! I’ll talk!”
Antonio stepped back and nodded to his men. They pulled off the bandanna, allowing the guy to catch his breath and spit out the gasoline that had seeped into his mouth. His red eyes blinked at the lantern, trying to see despite the burn.
“Esteban and Miguel split from the Norteño Mafia,” he mumbled. “He’s starting his own organization, working with some captain in the police.”
Antonio smiled. This guy spoke way better English than he had pretended.
“What’s his name?” Antonio asked.
“Stone, I think. I don’t know …”
Antonio wasn’t sure he believed it. Stone was the guy who brought Vinny in, which made sense, but he had figured it was someone higher on the totem pole, maybe even Chief Walt Diamond himself.
“The Vegas did take out the Sureños at the meat plant,” Christopher said. “There’s definitely a turf war going on.”
Antonio considered these revelations. The Norteño Mafia, one of the most powerful criminal organizations, was crumbling, with Esteban Vega rising from the rubble.
“Where are Esteban and his family hiding?” he asked.
The man shook his head again. “I don’t know. I swear.”
Hard-soled shoes clicked into the room, and Antonio glanced into the shadows behind the table.
“Please, I swear on my daughter,” the prisoner begged.
“Okay, I believe you,” Antonio said, patting the man on the head the way he might pet a dog. He walked to the table and put the gasoline can down, nodding at the Moretti soldier in the shadows.
The Vega soldier let out a heavy sigh and lowered his head. “Please, let me go. I’ll find out where Esteban and his family are and I’ll tell you.”
Antonio smirked, then walked back to the prisoner and bent down. He didn’t trust a word this guy said, not even about having a daughter. The only thing he did believe was that Captain Stone was the contact. It made sense, and how else would the man know his name?
“It’s okay,” Antonio said.
At the sound of clicking shoes, the red-faced prisoner twisted, trying to look at the Moretti soldier who came out of the shadows to stand behind his chair.
He walked into the lantern light, wearing an expensive suit and a bandage on his chin and throat.
“Good to see you, Lino,” Antonio said.
“And you as well, Don Antonio,” Lino replied in a gruff voice.
Raff walked up next to Lino.
The Vega man glanced at them in turn, then looked to Antonio, who handed Lino the bread knife.
“No!” the man cried. “You said you would let me go!”
This time Raff grabbed the squirming soldier, pulling his head back by his hair so he could see Lino’s face clearly.
Antonio stepped back and folded his arms across his chest to watch Lino take his revenge. There was only one way to win this war.
The Moretti family had to be more brutal than its enemies.
“Nooooo!” The man’s muffled scream turned to a howl that cut short as Lino sawed a smile across his neck with the dull serrated blade.
-22-
It wasn’t the funeral the Clarke family deserved, but it was the best they could do with the resources available. Dom and his mother had helped make the arrangements. The closest thing they could find to a priest was Bettis, and the only available burial plot that didn’t require driving for miles was at Hollydale Regional Park.
Dom stared at the basketball courts where he had played with Moose and his brother Ray just a couple of months ago. Camilla had been there too and was by his side now.
“Such a shame,” she said. “His parents were good people.”
“The best,” Dom said.
They walked on to the open green space on the other edge of the courts. Fresh mounds of dirt covered dozens of graves, and hibiscus flowers rustled in the smoky breeze.
A small group had already gathered behind a freshly dug grave. Moose helped his grandma walk over to the hole where they would bury her son and daughter-in-law. At ninety-four years old, the woman had outlived both her children.
Bettis clutched a Bible against his uniform, waiting for Ray to show up so they could begin the ceremony.
Not far away, another elderly person had come to the cemetery to bury a loved one. Dom knew that it was the man’s wife wrapped in the blanket on the ground only because he had helped dig the hole. His dad, Marks, and Tooth had helped, too, when they’d arrived earlier with Bettis. The guy sat by her corpse now, sobbing, unable to finish the act of putting her body in the ground.
Dom found a spot to stand between Camilla and his sister. She
looked up at him, her eyes already tearing up.
“Are you okay?” Dom asked her.
“Yes,” Monica choked out.
Dom put his arm around her and pulled her closer. Elena stood beside Ronaldo, their hands intertwined for the first time in as long as Dom could remember.
Sometimes, it took death to remember what was important in life.
Screeching tires shattered the moment. It came from the parking lot near the courts, where a police car jolted to a stop. Ray, in uniform, got out and jogged over, sweat dripping down his dark forehead.
He carried a purple velvet bag containing the remains of his parents, gold strings knotted to keep the ashes from spilling.
They still didn’t know which gang had burned their house down with their parents inside. But it wasn’t a random accident or a crazed junkie.
The evidence all pointed to the house being targeted because Moose and Ray were cops. Their parents, like so many other families, had just been collateral damage.
“Please gather around,” Bettis said, holding his arms out wide.
Dom exchanged a nod with Ray as he joined the group. Their little squabble on the basketball court was in the past. Today they stood here as brothers—brothers in uniform, including Moose.
The big guy wasn’t taking things well. He stood with his chin up and chest out, obviously doing his best to hold back the tears. He helped his grandmother stand as Bettis began the ceremony honoring two people who had played a vital role in their community.
“In their life together, John and Patrice raised two fine men,” he said. “Both Raymond and Andre are proudly serving as police officers in these troubling times. They loved their boys more than anything and worked second jobs during another difficult time, when the country was in the throes of the Great Recession.”
“My mom always worked two jobs,” Ray recalled. “Her whole life—my dad too. Hardest-working people I ever knew.”
Dom felt Camilla’s soft hand brush against his. He took it and gave it a squeeze.
Bettis held up a picture of John and Patrice. “The Clarkes were a pillar in this community,” he said. “Had their lives not been cut short, I have no doubt they would have helped the city in its recovery. They have gone on to the Lord’s care. It falls to us to honor their memory and to see that their commitment to justice is not forgotten.”
“I’ll find justice,” Moose said. “One way or another.”
Dom wasn’t used to seeing his happy-go-lucky friend so enraged.
Bettis opened the Bible. “Let us pray.”
Dom said a short prayer for his friend while the group joined hands in front of the burial plot. When they finished, Ray and Moose lowered the velvet bag into the ground.
People approached in ones and twos to pay their final respects. Then Moose and Ray shoveled the dirt gently back into the hole. They embraced before turning to their family and friends.
“Really appreciate you guys coming out,” Ray said to the marines. “Corporal Bettis, thank you for the words—beautiful send-off for my folks.”
Bettis nodded.
Dom shook Moose’s hand, then hugged him hard.
“My parents always said you were the best influence,” Moose said. “Much better than Ray here.”
They shared a solemn laugh, and Camilla chuckled nervously.
Dom reached out to Ray and said, “I’m going to help find those responsible.”
Ray seemed distracted for a moment. After a short pause, he shook Dom’s hand and said, “Thanks, bro. Glad you joined up.”
“Me too,” Camilla said.
The family and friends departed the park-turned-graveyard and got in the van they had carpooled in. Moose helped his grandma in, then Elena and Monica. The marines walked back to their Humvee, ready to head back to the border.
“I’ll see you guys later,” Camilla said, waving. She got into her squad car to return to work. Dom watched her go, praying she would be safe.
Then he joined Moose and Ray at his squad car. He didn’t need to ask what their plan was for the rest of the day. They were going back on the beat for revenge. And Dom was going with them.
“You got any new leads?” Moose asked Ray.
“I know that Captain Stone and the anti-gang task force are starting to believe one gang is responsible for most of the cop killings, but we don’t know who.”
“Camilla said something like that,” Dom said. “How cops that won’t work with the gangs are being hunted.”
“Cam doesn’t know shit, and this ain’t her business or yours,” Ray shot back.
Dom held up a hand. “Sorry. Just trying to help.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t nothin’ you can do, bro,” Ray said. “Leave this to me. I’ll find who’s responsible.”
He turned and walked to his car.
There were no goodbyes, no reminders to take care or watch out for yourself. Just an abrupt end to the conversation.
Moose watched his brother go. “He’s just upset,” he said. “Don’t take it personal, Dom.”
“I’m not. I understand.”
They got into the car and drove to the station. Dom strapped on his assigned primary weapon, a Glock 19. He still didn’t have a badge, but a weapon was part of the on-the-job training he had been approved for.
Already halfway through their shift, they hit the streets.
Dom looked over at this best friend as they set out. “You sure you’re okay to go out here today?” he asked Moose.
“I’ll be okay when I bury the motherfuckers who killed my parents.”
As the afternoon sun warmed the city, the calls started coming fast. While Moose drove, eyes glued to the road, he explained how to rank them by priority.
“Sometimes, you report to a shooting instead of a stabbing,” he said. “Depends on your location, but the main idea is to deal with the biggest threat first.”
The afternoon went fast as they responded to several assaults, a robbery, a fire, a shooting. At four in the afternoon, a call came in about gunshots in the refugee center at Downey Promenade Mall.
“Great,” Moose said. “I never liked the mall even when it was just for shopping, but now it really sucks.”
He turned on the sirens and pushed the pedal to the floor.
Dom’s heart thumped when he saw the shopping center. Since the fallout, most of the refugees in Downey had been moved here, where they laid out their sleeping bags and cots inside the walls.
The tents that had littered the parking lots were gone now, destroyed after the radioactive fallout polluted them. In their place were dozens of FEMA trailers, and new aid trucks that had brought in food from the rails.
“There’s our problem,” Moose said.
A fence blocked off the semitrailers, but a swarm of people had surrounded the perimeter.
“Got another potential riot on our hands,” he said. “Stay close.”
Dom felt a flash of anxiety. He wasn’t trained for this, and Moose must have sensed his reservations.
“Don’t worry, man, I got you,” he said. “And this is hella good street experience.”
Moose parked by two other police cars that had just arrived. He grabbed his shotgun and acknowledged the other six officers who had responded to the call.
They appeared better prepared, dressed in riot gear and carrying AR-15s. One of them, a patrol sergeant, carried an automatic M4 carbine.
“We’ve got an officer down somewhere behind that crowd, and another who’s been injured,” said the sergeant. “First priority is to get them out of that horde.”
The horde he spoke of was three hundred angry refugees who had surrounded the fence. Several aid workers were on the roof of a trailer, yelling for people to back up, and somewhere on the ground near the truck was one of two officers assigned to help oversee the food
distribution.
“Stay calm,” said the patrol sergeant as the group of officers approached.
Moose either didn’t hear the order or didn’t care. He pumped his shotgun and fired it into the air. That got everyone’s attention.
Hundreds of faces turned toward them, stopping the other officers in their tracks, including the patrol sergeant, who shouldered his carbine. But Moose kept walking, and Dom stayed by his side, a hand on his holstered weapon.
“Back the fuck up!” Moose shouted.
Several people shouted back at him—curse words and even some racist bullshit.
This is not the day to piss my man off, Dom thought.
“Mind if I say something?” he asked.
Moose shrugged his linebacker shoulders. “Be my guest.”
They stopped a hundred feet from the edge of the crowd, and Dom recalled something his MMA coach had taught him about street altercations.
Fight anger with empathy. If that fails, make sure you are angrier than the other guy.
He also recalled what his father had said in the forest when the men touched Elena.
Sometimes, you have to use evil to fight evil.
Dom used his authoritative police voice. “I watched my friend here bury his parents today, and we really don’t want this to end with anyone else having to go to a funeral.”
He paused a second to let it sink in.
“I know you’re all hungry, and I know you’re mad. I am too. But we’re here to help you, and we need you all to get out of the way so we can get our brother medical help. Then we will hand out meals in an orderly and fair fashion. Okay?”
“A pig killed my brother!” someone yelled.
“The fuckers beat my uncle!” another added.
Moose glanced over, shaking his head wearily as if to say, I told you so.
“You have every right to be angry,” Dom said. “But we aren’t the enemy. Fact is, we’re being targeted for trying to help you. Being hunted by the gangs. Just help us help you, so we can focus on the real bad guys.”
The crowd went quiet aside from a few hushed voices. Desperate, half-crazed eyes were on him. Many here had lost seven-figure portfolios and bank accounts, and they were not happy about their new lifestyle.
Sons of War Page 30