Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  “You’ll need my financial support.” Antonio looked over as Christopher opened the vault door.

  Inside were shelves of silver, gold, and foreign currencies.

  Antonio got up and entered the walk-in safe as Stone hung up the phone. He had over twenty million dollars in here alone, and he wanted the mayor and the chief to see it.

  They looked in, wide-eyed as country boys in a strip club.

  Antonio picked up a gold bar, hefted the weight, and returned it to the stack. Thank you, Yamazakis. Much of the gold had gone to Eduardo Nina, but Antonio was now paying in silver.

  The wind shook the window as he closed the vault and secured it.

  Christopher stood by his side, hands over the front of his suit.

  “Well?” Antonio asked.

  “They’ll move her at dusk tomorrow,” Stone said. “Storm or no storm.”

  Antonio scrutinized the two men who had been partners since near the beginning of his rise to power.

  “Join me,” he said.

  They stepped up to the window. Antonio couldn’t see the Hollywood Bowl, but he remembered every detail from the night Carmine assassinated Chief Walt Diamond.

  “I really hope we don’t have another Hollywood Bowl event,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Stone said.

  “You promised me the heads of the Vegas eight years ago,” Antonio said. “If something goes wrong with the Mariana transfer . . .”

  He didn’t need to complete the thought.

  Stone and Buren had helped Antonio become a rich man over the years, and they, too, had become very wealthy. But his patience with them was wearing thin.

  “I want you to personally make sure your men are part of that caravan to transfer her,” he said.

  “I will, Don Antonio,” Stone said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Good.”

  The mayor took a sip of whiskey, placed it on the table, and stood, indicating that the meeting was over. But Antonio shook his head, reminding him who was in charge.

  “Schedule a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new water infrastructure announcement,” Antonio said. “And invite the other candidates for mayor. Show them who’s boss.”

  Buren smiled. “I like how you think, Don Antonio.”

  “Leave me,” he said.

  Antonio turned back to the window as the chief and the mayor left. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked out at the storm engulfing the city.

  In a few nights, he would receive the biggest drug shipment yet from Eduardo Nina, and he would have the fallen narco queen to use as bait, to draw out the only remaining threat to the Moretti organization.

  Soon, the Vega brothers would be gone, and he would be king.

  * * *

  Ray Clarke was a dirty cop with a good heart. Not uncommon for officers working in a city controlled by gangsters, narcos, and bangers.

  He had watched the city become a third world country after the Second Civil War tore the United States of America to shreds.

  There were exceptions to the rule, of course. Men like his younger brother, Andre.

  They sat together at the Flying Crow, a bar just two blocks from Memorial Coliseum, where the Dodgers used to play. The stadium was now a modern gladiatorial fighting ground called the Diamond Arena.

  Moose was one of those lawmen who risked their lives every day to keep the city safe yet never took bribes.

  Ray had always thought of his younger brother as a larger-than-life beast, like his namesake animal.

  He was the kind of man Ray had always wanted to be. A man who fought against the evil instead of helping it poison one of the last cities standing in America. A man who loved as passionately as he fought.

  But Moose had only two kids. Ray had four. It was a lot of mouths to feed, especially when half his money went to the antiradiation doses that his youngest required to survive. It didn’t help that he also had more expensive tastes than his brother. Things he couldn’t do without, like his black Audi A8 with red leather seats and a sound system that turned heads and rattled windows.

  And Ray couldn’t help that he liked to drink and smoke. He worked hard, and this was how he unwound.

  He held a filthy glass up to the dangling yellow light bulb. Most bars in Los Angeles were dives—holes in the wall that most people wouldn’t have set foot in before the war. But things had changed drastically, and shitholes like this were gathering places for cops, gangsters, and locals.

  “I miss American beer,” Ray said.

  Moose laughed on the stool next to him. “Let’s not start with the ‘I miss shit’ game. ’Cause I could play it all damn night.” He took a slug of Negra Modelo and wiped his lips. “Mexican beer ain’t so bad, though. Japanese too.”

  Ray watched the bubbles rising in his Guinness and thought about something they rarely discussed. They never did find the bastards responsible for killing their parents.

  “Yeah, not bad,” Ray said, taking another drink. “But it’s not American beer. I can still remember what a Bud tastes like.”

  He took another gulp and scooted his stool closer to his brother. “So how are things at Refugee Processing Four and patrolling the borders?” he asked.

  “Been a bad week, bro. Raiders hit a roadblock with a convoy of six vehicles. We lost three deputies. The attacks are becoming more coordinated. Eventually, they’re going to happen in the city. Just a matter of time.”

  “Then they get to face the crime families—and me,” Ray said. He fingered out the speck floating in his beer, then took a long pull as he considered what his brother had just said.

  In a few nights, Ray was headed outside the walls to do a drop-off and pickup for the Morettis, but first he had another mission that came straight from the top.

  “You hear about Portland and Salem?” Moose asked.

  Ray belched. “Yeah. You bracing for refugees?”

  “Hard to believe there are so few cities left,” Moose said. He lowered his head, wagging his antler-styled dreads. “Say, how’s Lolo doin’?”

  Ray massaged his diamond-studded earlobe, thinking about his daughter. “She’s good. Hasn’t had any problems since going on the antiradiation rations.”

  “We’ve been praying for you guys,” Moose said.

  Ray turned to scrutinize his brother. He had always been a bit jealous of him. When they were in high school, Moose had started a promising career as an actor. He was also a talented soccer player who could have gone pro. But all those dreams blew up in the apocalypse. And Moose never complained.

  “I’ll put my foot in my mouth and tell you something I do miss,” Moose said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I miss this, man.” Moose slapped the bar. “Back in the day when we used to be able to chill, shoot the shit, get tipsy. And all those late nights on the field, kicking ass.”

  “We grew up,” Ray said. “Or you did.”

  Moose laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You grew up too. You’re doing good shit, man. I heard you took down Tiny.”

  You have no idea the kind of man I am. “Tiny played with fire too long. Had that bullet coming, for sure.”

  Moose raised his glass and clinked it against Ray’s. What he hadn’t told his brother was that he shot Tiny, a dealer with the Bloods, in the back when he threatened to rat him out for not giving him a bigger piece of the pie on a bust.

  Ray used to wonder whether his brother or Dominic had ever stolen from a crime scene or taken a bribe. Judging by the slums where they lived, he doubted it. They lived like peasants, and he lived like a prince.

  “You up for another round?” Moose asked.

  Ray held up his gold watch. “Man, I’d love to, but duty calls.”

  “Must be important. Never heard you turn down a drink, even for work.”

  “It is.” He reached into his pocket and put a handful of silver coins on the counter—more than enough to pay for their drinks. T
he older gentleman tending the bar walked over and wiped the scratched wood surface after grabbing the money.

  Moose got off his stool, towering a good six inches over Ray.

  “Be safe out there, Ray Money,” Moose said.

  “That’s a new one.”

  “You’re a rich man now, apparently.”

  Ray flashed his dazzling white grin, and they did their special handshake. Just like old times.

  “Later, bro,” Moose said.

  Ray walked through the dimly lit bar, avoiding eye contact with the patrons. The Latino kid he had paid to watch his Audi was leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest, like a little boss.

  “Gracias, jefe,” Ray said, tossing the kid a coin.

  He caught it and took off.

  Ray ran a hand over the hood, where the boy had put his filthy jacket, leaving behind some dust. He wiped the dust with his sleeve, annoyed because he had just washed the car after last night’s storm.

  He couldn’t be too mad, though. Ray liked being generous with the youngsters. It made up for some of his sins and helped him sleep at night.

  He checked the wide off-road tires before getting in. The tread helped soften the ride on potholed roads, and he was glad he threw down the extra coin for them. He would need them for traction in the desert a few nights from now. He might even need them tonight.

  Ray started the drive across town, feeling a light buzz. Still with two hours to burn, he turned on the strobe. Blue and red flashed in the back window.

  Most people knew Detective Ray Clarke and his black Audi A8, and they knew he worked for the Morettis. That meant he was not to be fucked with. But the lights were for anyone who didn’t know who he was.

  An hour later, he pulled up at the border of Los Alamitos, or what the locals called the Malice Wastes. Shotgunned radiation-warning signs marked the boundary. Radiation and chemical toxins made the former military base one of the most dangerous places in the city.

  That was exactly why the government had built a prison here. The concrete fortress known as Casa del Diablo, or House of the Devil, was the one sign of civilization on the demolished former base.

  Ten thousand inmates lived within the high razor-wire fences, including one Mariana López, the sicario queen who was once allied with the Vega brothers.

  Guard towers looked over the acres of cracked earth. Any prisoner who somehow escaped and made it past the guard towers and the dogs would then have to navigate a minefield. And after that, a radioactive wasteland.

  Ray hated this place, not because of the men and women he had sent here to die, but because he was terrified that someday he might call this place home.

  Never. I’ll die before I go there.

  Shaking the thought away, he pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. By the time the text came, his buzz had worn off and he was starting to feel tired.

  Ray hadn’t seen his wife or kids in almost three days. But after he finished securing this shipment, he would go home, kiss his kids, make love to his wife, and pass the hell out.

  He turned the engine back on and pulled onto Valley Street, heading away from the prison. A few miles later, he spotted the convoy of police cruisers. A Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department pickup truck followed the caravan, which was odd to Ray.

  This was supposed to be LAPD only.

  He followed them into the night, entering an area where the grid was down. His job was simple: make sure the Morettis didn’t have any problems out here.

  But the sheriff truck was a major problem.

  His phone buzzed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Take care of that sheriff truck, but don’t hurt the deputies,” said a voice that sounded a lot like Chief Stone.

  “Who’s this?” Ray asked.

  “Just do it, Detective Clarke, or you’ll be serving raccoon burgers to junkies, and I doubt that will pay for the RX-Four you need for your kid.”

  The line severed, and Ray resisted the urge to toss the phone out the window.

  No one threatened him, not even the chief of police.

  He pushed the pedal down. As he sped to find an intercept point, he tried to think of a way to avoid being spotted by the deputies. He didn’t care about the cops, but the deputies, like his brother, lived in a different world. They had little interaction with the corruption of the city. Their main job was to protect the borders and the prison, and he didn’t want to hurt them. They were good men like his brother and Dominic.

  Ray sped a mile ahead of the convoy and pulled behind an abandoned gas station. The area looked empty, but he hated getting out of his car.

  With no other choice, he hopped out and opened his trunk to pull out a ten-gallon gas container and a flare gun. Under the cover of darkness, he lugged it to the side of the road and placed it against the shell of a car.

  He ran back to his Audi. The convoy of two cruisers, a van, and the pickup was nearing the ambush point.

  Ray aimed the flare gun, waiting for the cars and van to pass.

  But then he saw a group of headlights spear the darkness behind the convoy. Then came the rumble of motorcycles. Not crotch rockets, but old-school Harleys and even a couple of British bikes.

  “Shit.” He was already too late.

  Ray jumped back into his car and watched as a group of bikes zoomed down the street in front of four rusted SUVs that had pulled ahead of the riders. The vehicles came up alongside the Sheriff’s Department pickup.

  These weren’t Morettis. From what he could tell, this was a motorcycle gang that worked with the Vegas.

  Somehow, they had found out about the transfer.

  No. Don’t do this.

  Muzzle flashes came from the two SUVs, and the pickup truck suddenly braked and swerved into the ditch. Ray watched as the doors opened and deputies piled out, injured and running for cover.

  Relieved, he mashed the pedal and squealed out of the parking lot and back onto the road to follow the convoy. But then he saw that several of the bikers had stopped to deal with the deputies.

  If these were Vegas, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill them and start a war with Sheriff Benson.

  Heart pounding, he raced to catch up with the convoy, although he had no idea what he would do once he got there. By the time he rounded a corner and saw the caravan again, it had stopped.

  A second group of trucks had cut them off.

  He slowed and pulled to the side of the road to take in the scene, trying to figure out what he was seeing.

  A group of masked men stood guard, weapons aimed in his direction and at the police vehicles. The cops were getting out with their hands up.

  Two masked men opened the back door to the van and grabbed a woman in cuffs. Then they pulled out the cops guarding her and shoved them to the ground.

  Ray watched in horror—not over the rough treatment of his brothers in blue, but because the Morettis were going to be furious and so was Chief Stone.

  His job was to make sure Mariana was picked up by the Morettis. But what could he do now?

  An Escalade suddenly swerved away and drove in his direction. He put the car in reverse and started a bootleg turn, but the SUV cut him off.

  He kept his hands on the wheel, not making any movements.

  The SUV stopped, and the window rolled down. But no muzzle flashed, and no bullets blew through his brain or even his car door. He slowly took his left hand off the wheel and pushed the button to roll down the window.

  The man in the passenger seat of the Escalade pushed up his mask, and Ray saw the face of a Moretti. And not just any Moretti.

  “Hola, Detective Clarke,” Antonio said.

  “Uh, sir, I . . .”

  “You saw a gang of vigilantes rob this convoy tonight.”

  Ray didn’t reply.

  “Right, Detective?”

  “Right, sir.”

  Antonio started to roll up the window, then stopped.

  “Oh, and Detective, make sure you get
me my guns tomorrow night. I’ll be needing those very soon.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Ray watched the Escalade drive away.

  If it wasn’t official before, it was now—Ray Clarke didn’t just work for the Morettis; he was their go-to guy—their favorite corrupt cop in the City of Angels.

  -2-

  A magenta sunset bled through the storm clouds hovering over postwar Los Angeles. A brown wall rolled toward the barriers and roadblocks constructed around the four zones of the city. To Dom, it looked like the beginning of the end of the world.

  But end-times had already swept through the United States, and the City of Angels was one of the few metropolises still functioning. The Griffith Observatory provided a hilltop view of the damaged city.

  Today, it also gave a perfect view of yet another storm threatening those who still called this place home.

  Most citizens would be taking shelter, but not Dom and his team. Today, most of them were here to support him. Andre “Moose” Clarke, Callum “Tooth” McCloud, “Chaplain” William Bettis, Camilla Santiago, and the youngest member of the team, Thomas Bartone, known simply as “Rocky” for his muscular build and boxing skills, sat inside the twenty-year-old Ford Explorer.

  Namid and a new member of the team, Karl “Pork Chop” Watts, were back at the safe house in City of Industry, fixing a pickup for their next mission.

  The Saints were all heroes like Dom’s father, in a world where heroes were an endangered breed.

  Dom pulled his goggles down off his brown baseball cap and buttoned his jacket up to his chin. It would protect him against the flying grit for now. He grabbed the door handle.

  “You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  With a bundle of flowers in one hand, and his father’s SIG Sauer 1911 Nightmare in the other, Dom got out and started down the cracked concrete path.

  In the distance, the turbines powering the city spun in the toxic wind. The first gusts stirred dirt up into the sky as the storm slammed through the ruined mansions and estates perched on the bluffs.

  The view reminded him how much he had once loved this city. The ball games at Dodger Stadium with his family, and the smell of peanuts and freshly mown grass. The way the sand at Long Beach felt on his bare feet. The open-air concerts. Watching Ferraris rumble down Hollywood Boulevard and trying to glimpse a celebrity behind the wheel. It was all gone now—erased like a memory you could never seem to recall.