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OTHER BOOKS BY NICHOLAS SANSBURY SMITH
Blackstone Publishing
SONS OF WAR SERIES
Sons of War
Sons of War 2: Saints
Sons of War 3: Sinners
THE HELL DIVERS SERIES
Hell Divers
Hell Divers II: Ghosts
Hell Divers III: Deliverance
Hell Divers IV: Wolves
Hell Divers V: Captives
Hell Divers VI: Allegiance
Hell Divers VII: Warriors
Orbit
THE EXTINCTION CYCLE SERIES (SEASON ONE)
Extinction Horizon
Extinction Edge
Extinction Age
Extinction Evolution
Extinction End
Extinction Aftermath
Extinction Lost (A Team Ghost short story)
Extinction War
Great Wave Ink Publishing
THE EXTINCTION CYCLE:
DARK AGE SERIES (SEASON TWO)
Extinction Shadow
Extinction Inferno
Extinction Ashes
THE TRACKERS SERIES
Trackers
Trackers 2: The Hunted
Trackers 3: The Storm
Trackers 4: The Damned
THE ORBS SERIES
Solar Storms (An Orbs Prequel)
White Sands (An Orbs Prequel)
Red Sands (An Orbs Prequel)
Orbs
Orbs II: Stranded
Orbs III: Redemption
Orbs IV: Exodus
Copyright © 2021 by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by K. Jones
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of
the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book 978-1-5385-5706-8
Library e-book 978-1-5385-5705-1
Fiction / Science Fiction / Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
To Don Winslow, who inspires me every day,
and Ray Porter, who brought this series to life with his talented voice.
“Do not underestimate these men. They are not sheep like the other cops in this city. These men are wolves.”
—Don Antonio Moretti
“Sometimes, it feels like we’re the only soldiers fighting for justice. My father told me before I left with Ronaldo that justice was a rare thing in this new world.”
—Saint Namid Mata
-PROLOGUE-
The raiders hunting refugees in the deserts tonight would have a hard time spotting the Toyota pickup covered by a tarp the color of the sand.
To further protect their camp’s location, the three men had nestled the truck against a rock outcropping. Anyone searching the terrain would see just another rusty-hued boulder under the jeweled sky.
But the raiders weren’t the only hunters. The real hunters were undercover officers Dominic Salvatore, Andre “Moose” Clarke, and their guide, Namid Mata, a Mojave Indian from a reservation forty miles away.
Darkness had fallen an hour ago, ending the hunt for the day. Now Dom sat on the truck bed while Namid cooked dinner and Moose held watch on the other side of the jumbled rocks.
A shooting star blazed across the sky, faded, and vanished.
Dom jumped down to the dirt, where his three-legged red-nosed pit bull, Cayenne, watched Namid pinch seasoning into a boiling pot. She hardly even looked up when Dom rubbed her muscular neck.
Cayenne didn’t seem worried about the raiders they had tracked earlier today. Her attention was on food, and Dom’s was on something that happened out here three years ago.
“Do you think you could find where my father died?” Dom asked.
Namid looked up from the stew pot. “All due respect, but why would you want to see where he fell in battle?”
Dom wasn’t sure exactly.
“Your father put up a hell of a fight that day, like he did every time we did battle with evil men,” Namid said. “He was as great a warrior as I’ve ever had the honor of fighting with. My father saw it in him. That’s why he sent me with the Desert Snakes before he, too, was killed.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Dom never met Tomson, but he had raised an honorable son in Namid, and the two had formed a strong bond over the past few years.
“We should remember not how our fathers died, but how they lived,” Namid said.
Dom nodded. Normally, he did remember his dad for the man he was before he died. But he had always wondered about that fateful day when Vega sicarios gunned Ronaldo down in the desert.
Namid looked at the sky and let out a sigh, no doubt reliving a painful memory of the day he lost his father to raiders on the reservation.
The two men shared more than the loss of their fathers. They each had lost a sister too. In a cruel twist of fate, their losses had brought them together in a fight against evil.
“Regrets will eat us alive,” Dom admitted. “You’re right about remembering our loved ones for who they were, and honoring them by fighting for justice.”
Dom pulled out a flask of vodka, welcoming the burn. He offered it to Namid, who declined.
“Sometimes, it feels like we’re the only soldiers fighting for justice,” Namid said. He crouched back to the fire and stirred the broth. “My father told me before I left with Ronaldo that justice was a rare thing in this new world.”
The three years since he lost his father were a whirlwind. He had led the Saints, a small task force of brave men and women, to do what the LAPD couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do: fight back against the crime families and gangs. And to take down the Vega brothers, who were responsible for killing his dad and probably for taking his sister in their trafficking network known as the Shepherds.
Dom had their attention now. The narcos had their own nickname for the Saints: las ratas—the rats.
He had the attention of the Italian mafiosi too. The mobsters called them rabbits, or conigli, which basically meant they were cowards.
Dom understood the irony better than anyone in the city. The real rats and rabbits were the crime families and the cops on their payroll.
“We will find justice, in this life or the next,” Namid said.
Dom thought about raising a toast to that too, but he saw Namid watching. Twisting the top back on, he stuffed the flask back in his vest, and Namid went back to stirring the soup.
“Your father would be proud of you,” he said. “You’ve done a heck of a job poking the hornets’ nest without bringing the entire swarm down on us.”
It was a balancing act, fighting the crime families without drawing too much attention, but so far, he had kept his team alive. Lieutenant Zed Marks had certainly helped by keeping their identities protected and giving them fake jobs at Refugee Processing Center 4, a facility under the umbrella of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
But Dom knew that it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.
For every gangster they took off the streets, three more would step up to take his place, eager to make money and feed their families. And every time the Saints destroyed a shipment of drugs, more would come flooding into the city.
Using their guerrilla tactics, they won battle after battle, but they weren’t any closer to winning the war.
He had needed a vacation from fighting in the city, so he headed to the desert after Namid agreed to lead them to the same black hole that swallowed his sister years ago.
This trip to Las Vegas wasn’t a vacation. It was a continuation of the search for Monica. And this time, he had a faint lead that Lieutenant Marks had given them after interrogating two Vega sicarios. There was a small chance his sister had been taken to a place in Sin City that he couldn’t even bear to think about.
While he went there to search with Namid and Moose, the rest of their small undercover task force waited back in Los Angeles. Dom had left William Bettis in charge of the team, with Camilla Santiago second in command. Thanks to his former high school Spanish partner turned cop, they knew the best routes to Las Vegas, and how to stay alive once they got there.
“You got the map? I want to take a look,” Dom said.
Namid reached into his vest and pulled out the map Camilla had given them—a present from her uncle Álvaro, who ran a smuggling operation.
Unlike the Shepherds and other human traffickers, Álvaro helped people get across the desert to safety, not into slavery. And the man had memorized all the good roads and most of the bad ones.
“Glad we have this,” Namid said, handing the map over. “A lot’s changed since I was out here last.”
Cayenne hopped over to the soup, sniffed the air, and whined. Dom looked up from the chart, unable to see much by the thin moonlight.
“Okay, okay,” he said to the dog. “I’ll feed you.”
Tail whipping back and forth, she followed Dom to the back of the truck, where he rummaged through his gear until he found her food. She wedged her massive head between his arms as he lowered the plastic bowl, and was eating before it touched the ground.
Her tail suddenly dropped as she chewed, and instead of going back in for another bite, she growled.
“What is it?” he whispered.
Dom unholstered the SIG Sauer 1911 Nightmare that had belonged to his father, then relaxed when he saw it was just Moose.
Cradling his shotgun, he stepped from behind a Joshua tree with branches jutting out like the spiky dreadlocks on his head.
“Something smells dope, and I’m starving, baby,” he said. “Hope the raiders can’t smell it.”
“That’s why you’re supposed to be on watch,” Dom said.
“I’ll return to my post with a bowl, boss, don’t worry.”
Namid laughed. “Help yourself. I’ll take your place. I’m not really hungry.”
He grabbed his rifle and set off. Moose didn’t complain. He filled a bowl and sucked the hot soup down. Dom filled a bowl too, taking his time and admiring the dazzling star-filled sky as he ate.
He took solace in the vastness of space. It reminded him how precious and transitory life was, and the beautiful view brought questions to mind. He couldn’t help wondering whether there was something else out there, beyond this life—a heaven where you could see your loved ones again.
“Nice out here, right?” Moose said, cheerful as ever. “Never thought I’d be in the desert camping with you, bro. Then again, I never thought I’d be married with a kid at twenty-two.”
He scraped at his bowl, then looked covetously at Dom’s. “Help yourself, man.”
“You sure?” Moose asked.
“I’m not really hungry, either.”
Dom took out his flask again and swished the vodka around in his mouth. He was happy for Moose and his brother Ray for moving on, marrying, and starting families, just as Namid had done. But Dom couldn’t bring himself to move on. He had spent the past three years doing everything he could to bring his mother back from the darkness, but their relationship continued to deteriorate. There was nothing he could do to help her.
Moose spooned food into his mouth. “Did I tell you Ray and his wife are talking about having a third kid?” he asked. “Not sure how he’s going to pay for another mouth to feed.”
Dom shrugged. He didn’t want to approach the subject of Moose’s detective brother, who had been skimming off the top for years. Probably working with the same people the Saints were trying to bring down.
“Crazy,” Dom said.
He got up, and Moose lowered his bowl. “Where you going?”
“To get Namid,” Dom replied. “He should eat. I’ll hold watch.” He whistled at Cayenne, and she hopped after him to another cluster of rocks that would give them a panoramic view of the area.
Nearing the top, he heard Namid’s low whistle.
“Go back and eat before Moose polishes off that entire pot,” Dom said.
Namid chuckled on his way down.
As soon as Dom was alone with his dog, a sense of dread washed over him. Being out here, not far from where his father had died, affected him in a way he hadn’t expected.
“I miss you, Dad,” he said. “I wish you were here.”
He wondered whether his father would be proud of him, as Namid had said. Would Ronaldo approve of the way he led the Saints?
Dom idolized his father, not just because he was a warrior, but because he never gave up. He still didn’t know exactly what had happened to his dad in the desert before he died, and part of him had never wanted to know.
But tonight, he wanted more than ever to know where his father had taken his last breaths. He wanted to see where the warrior had fallen, where he had handed Tooth and Bettis the note.
Dom took another drink of vodka and put it away. Then he pulled out a plastic sleeve protecting the crinkled note stained brown with blood.
If you’re reading this, I failed. I failed you both. But you must go on, Dominic. You must find your sister no matter how long it takes you. I will be there with you in spirit, fighting in your heart.
With love,
your father
Dom put the note away.
Cayenne pressed against his leg, sensing his anguish. She knew him better than anyone besides Moose. And tonight, she could feel his heart hurt.
He bent down, and she licked his face.
Dom still couldn’t believe how mild-mannered the dog was after the trauma of being torn up in a fighting ring and thrown in the street to die.
She was the kindest animal Dom had ever known, but when someone messed with either of them, she could be ferocious, even on three legs.
“I love you too, girl,” Dom said.
Standing, he scanned the terrain.
Cayenne got up too, and after a few minutes, he gestured for her to follow him back to camp.
By the time he got back, Namid and Moose were both in their sleeping bags, but neither was asleep.
“Something wrong?” Moose asked, sitting up.
Namid reached for his rifle.
“No, just wanted to let you know we’re taking a detour in the morning,” Dom said. “Namid, I want you to show me where my father died.”
* * *
The next morning, fingers of smoke rose with the sun.
Dom and his men had packed up camp and set off for the place his father died fighting the Vega traffickers. But it was the sight of another bat
tle that made Dom pause.
Not a battle—a slaughter.
The raiders had attacked a caravan of refugees heading west to California. The travelers had camped in an abandoned gas station not far from Sandy Valley and only miles from the California line, not far from where his father died.
“Should we check for survivors? Moose asked.
Namid looked at Dom for orders. Cayenne tilted her head.
“Yeah,” Dom said.
They drove within a mile of the smoke. Buzzards had found the grisly scene, circling over the smoldering gas station and surrounding buildings.
Moose parked and killed the engine.
“Stay here, girl,” Dom said. He put Cayenne on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Then he grabbed his M1A SOCOM 16 rifle and hopped out. The wind whistled through his fatigues, sandblasting any exposed skin.
He closed the door and glassed the area for signs of life. Bodies lay in the dirt and sand, burned to charcoal. A skinned, limbless corpse was nailed to a shed wall. The sight told Dom the raiders were the worst kind: the kind that ate human flesh.
Cannibalism had started to spread a few years back, when things got really bad in other states. Desperation changed people.
Namid joined Dom. “I’ve seen this before,” he said.
A buzzard flew down to peck at charred flesh.
“Maybe we should bury them,” Dom said.
“Too dangerous,” Namid said. “We should go see where your dad fell in battle.”
Dom shook his head. “Not now. If there are raiders close by, that could be dangerous too. I don’t want to put us at risk if it doesn’t get us closer to Monica. My dad would want me to do what we came here for.”
Namid put a hand on his shoulder. “Good decision.”
They sped away from the grisly but not uncommon scene in the wastes. Dom put his dad out of mind, and their mission in focus. He pulled out the map to make sure they stayed off the worst of the roads. The journey to Vegas from LA was only five or six hours if you took the highway and avoided the raiders. But travelers who did cross their path seldom lived to tell the tale.
Some, like the caravan they had just seen, did everything right but were still murdered. It was a gamble either way.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 1
