The wall of dust rolled over a farm of solar panels next, but city engineers had already battened down the expensive technology. Dom adjusted the breathing apparatus covering his face and velcroed the cuff of his brown uniform down over a sliver of exposed flesh.
Once a tourist hot spot that attracted thousands of visitors a day, the observatory was dark and sealed off by boards and chains. Like most of the city’s historical-cultural landmarks, it had been raided years ago for valuables and artwork.
Monica had loved the observatory. Most kids back then asked their parents to go to Disneyland, Universal Studios, or the Santa Monica Pier. But Monica was different from most kids her age. She had always begged their mom and dad to take her to see the science displays here. His sister was set on becoming a scientist, but like most children of her generation, she never got the chance to reach for her dreams.
Storms would eventually bury this place with the bones of the other structures that had already perished. Until that happened, he would keep coming here on her birthday, to ask for her forgiveness in the place she so loved.
“I’m sorry, Monica,” he said, gently laying the flowers down.
After all these years, he still had no idea where she was. He had searched every dive and brothel in Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Now all he could do was avenge his father and sister by hunting the Vega narcos and the other crime families that poisoned this city.
He missed them both now more than ever, feeling the loss like a wound that wouldn’t scab over. To make it more painful, his mom, Elena, had lost her sanity from the years of grief and now lived in a mental hospital.
An air-raid siren went off in the distance, the sound building from a low whine to a blare—a warning for residents to get inside, and another reminder of the past.
Dom closed his eyes, picturing a squadron of F-35 fighter jets tearing through the skies and dropping payloads on the cities their pilots had sworn to protect, during the first days of the nearly six-month war. The sirens had gone off then, but with hardly enough time for anyone to seek shelter.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the damage from missiles that left the skyscrapers looking like the jagged, crumbling teeth of a meth head. Hundreds of other buildings had collapsed entirely, along with bridges and whole sections of freeway.
A brown wave crested the hills in the distance. There was no reason to put his team at risk. He started back toward the Explorer, which was tucked behind an abandoned RV in the parking lot.
The flowers he had left were whipping wildly under a rock that Tooth had put down to anchor them. Dom nearly broke at the sight. He would never forgive himself for losing Monica. The sadness turned to rage.
He forced his eyes away from the flowers to the dust wall bearing down on the cluster of desalination plants and buildings in the distance. The technology was the main reason Los Angeles had stayed on the map. It provided water to citizens within the borders, and there were plans to build more infrastructure, to deliver the water to refugee camps along the border.
But another war was coming. Whichever crime organization won the battle for the four zones would then make a play for the desal plants.
The Saints couldn’t let that happen. For the people out here, water was life. Whoever controlled the flow would control Los Angeles.
Dom lowered his head against the wind as he made his way back to the truck. In the distance, he glimpsed another letter of the Hollywood sign tear away. The second O sailed toward the Japanese-owned cell and radio towers before spinning off into the screaming storm.
“Someone’s coming!” Moose shouted over the sirens’ wail.
Dom spotted a pair of headlights in the distance—a cloud of dust kicking up behind a dark vehicle. He moved quickly back to the Explorer, and Tooth handed him his trusty M1 Scout rifle.
The vehicle raced down the street, heading right for the observatory. Who would be coming out here?
The storm hit him like a sandblaster, but he kept his weapon on the approaching vehicle. The other team members did the same.
There was nowhere to run in a storm that would soon be strong enough to take skin off bone, and the only road out of here was the one the vehicle was coming up.
Visibility worsened by the second, and he lost the target. His heart quickened as the black SUV reappeared. The same type that had taken Monica.
He blinked, following the vehicle in the brown sea of swirling grit. The SUV hurtled up the road, away from the onslaught of dust.
Dom aimed at the windshield.
A dozen thoughts warred for primacy, but he fixed on the one that truly chilled him. Had their enemies finally discovered their identities?
The SUV slowed as it approached the RV and the Explorer. Visibility was down to a hundred feet now, and the storm was screaming so loud Dom couldn’t hear the air-raid sirens.
His finger moved inside the trigger guard, ready to fire a 7.62 mm round into the SUV as it slowed to a stop.
A voice called out. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t make it out over the howling storm.
Someone walked away from the driver’s door, hands in the air.
Dom squinted and reached up with one glove, wiping his goggles clear.
“Don’t shoot!” the man shouted.
“What the hell . . . ?” Dom muttered. He ran out to meet Lieutenant Zed Marks, his father’s old friend and brother marine.
Marks pointed to the passenger side of the SUV, and Dom jumped inside while the Saints climbed back into the Explorer.
“What the hell are you doing here, Lieutenant?” Dom asked. He pulled his face mask down and pushed his googles up into his hair.
“I’d ask you the same question, but I know what today is.”
Dom reached out and shook Marks’s hand. “Good memory.”
“I’d never forget Monica’s birthday.”
“How’s your mom?” Marks asked.
Dom shrugged. “Not good.”
“Tooth and Bettis doing okay?” Marks asked.
“We’re all hanging in there. Want me to grab them?”
“No, that’s okay. You can relay what I’m about to tell you.”
Dom waited for the news that brought Marks out here. They hadn’t spoken in months, and whatever it was had to be important.
“You hear about Saint Louis?” Marks asked.
Dom shook his head.
“The Executive Council has cut off all supplies and aid.”
“What!”
“Decided to write the city off as another loss, I guess.”
“There’s a quarter-million people still living there.”
“Raleigh’s in bad shape too. So is Salem. I’m afraid the flag is going to lose a few more stars soon.”
Dom could hear the emotion in Marks’s voice. He was a lot like Dom’s father—able to show strength even in the darkest situation. This was one of them.
The American flag was down to just nine stars, and they no longer represented states—just the remaining capital cities.
“You didn’t come here to talk to me about this, did you?” Dom asked.
Marks reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper with a single name.
“Goomah?” Dom asked.
“It’s a ship, and it’s coming into the port in two nights. Pier nine.”
“What’s the cargo?”
“A shipment from Mexico,” he said. “More of Eduardo Nina’s infamous hybrid opiates and some Chinese RX-Four.”
“Who else knows?
“Enough people that I don’t have to worry about it coming back to me.”
Dom tucked the piece of paper into a pocket and looked over at the Explorer. Visibility was so low, he could see only the outline of the RV blocking the vehicle.
“The Saints will take care of this,” he said.
“Don’t forget there are still laws you have to follow, Dom. That’s what sets you and me apart from the gangsters. Do not spill innocent blood, and don’t kill cop
s, even if they’re dirty.”
“Yeah, got it.”
“We are different, and I don’t want to see you follow in your father’s footsteps. That’s what got him killed, and I don’t want to lose you too.”
Marks looked down as if gripped by a sad memory.
“Ronaldo used to think that to defeat evil we must embrace it. He did that in his search for your sister, and he lost part of what made him a good lawman.”
The words stung, but only because they were true.
“Your dad would be proud of you for taking down these evil men as you have. But remember, if you become one of them, you’ll lose the battle just like your dad.”
Dom nodded.
“Good luck at the port.”
“Thanks.”
Marks reached out as Dom went to open the car door.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Someone kidnapped Mariana López when she was being transferred to a medical facility. They had inside help from the LAPD, which tells me this was the Morettis’ work.”
“Must have something to do with the Vegas.”
“Same thought I had.”
“Camilla won’t be happy,” Dom said, recalling the night she was shot in the stomach at the cemetery where they nabbed Mariana.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Dom said.
He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if my bosses are more corrupt than the gangsters.”
“I hear that.”
Dom hopped out and returned to the Explorer. Camilla put a hand on his shoulder, and Moose gave him a solemn nod before firing up the vehicle.
As they drove away, Dom remembered his sister again.
The flower petals were gone, ripped from the stems, just as Monica was torn from their family that day.
He would be back in a year, but meanwhile, he and his team had some work to do to keep more drugs from flooding the streets.
“Marks has a mission for us,” Dom said. “Most important one yet. In two nights, we’re headed to the ports to wipe some of the Moretti cancer out of this city.”
He looked to Camilla. “And we’re going to remove some Vega cancer while we’re at it.”
* * *
Vinny Moretti took a bite of warm cheese pastry and washed it down with a sip of espresso. The ocean breeze rustled the collar of his expensive black shirt as he enjoyed his breakfast with Daniel “Doberman” Pedretti at the fanciest coffee shop left in Los Angeles. The patio overlooked the gentle breakers off Long Beach.
Less than a decade earlier, the well-to-do would flock here to get caffeinated in the early morning hours.
The coffee shop, though renovated and reopened, still showed signs of the war. The siding had several bullet holes, and in place of the Teslas and expensive sports cars were three black Range Rovers with black rims, and Moretti soldiers standing guard. Their eyes were on the pedestrians on the sidewalks, and the civilians lounging on the beaches.
Potential threats were everywhere. These trained men treated anyone over ten years old as a security risk, just as Don Antonio had taught them. The associates kept a close eye to make sure no one bothered Vinny and Doberman as they enjoyed their food and coffee.
Today was his first day off in months, and Vinny needed a break from the stress of being a Moretti soldier. The war with Esteban Vega and his brother Miguel continued to claim the lives of soldiers on both sides and civilians caught in the cross fire.
Eight long years of fighting had taken its toll on all. Vinny hoped kidnapping Mariana López would help the Morettis win the war, but he wasn’t sure what his uncle had in mind.
The deal Don Antonio had with Chief Stone was the only reason the LAPD continued to turn a blind eye to the madness. Eventually, it would bring both organizations down. Hell, it had almost killed Vinny and Doberman. They both had fresh battle wounds from their most recent run-in at a Vega dealing spot a week ago, when Vinny led an attack that killed three sicarios. A bullet had narrowly missed his head.
It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last.
Over the years, Vinny had been shot twice, once in the leg and once in the wrist. Both wounds had healed, but Doberman still had painful scars from eight years ago, when Isao Yamazaki slashed his face with a sword.
They both were lucky to be alive. Vinny had made it to his twenty-seventh birthday and was on a fast track to make captain—something his uncle and his father had promised him years ago.
He had already amassed more wealth than he could ever have imagined for his young age, and if he could continue dodging bullets, he might live to enjoy it.
He took in a breath of crisp salt air, trying to relax as he picked up the weekly Los Angeles Times. Just ten pages, but it was the only option for news in the city.
“You see this shit?” he asked.
Doberman looked away from his cell phone to check the front page.
“‘Mayoral candidate Ryan Colt vows clean water for everyone in the city, including refugees,’ ” Doberman read.
Vinny scanned the first paragraph and shook his head. “This says he has refrained from commenting on the ‘gang violence.’ ”
“Gang violence?” said Doberman. “Makes us sound like thugs.”
A car pulled up out front. Frankie Trentino got out, his long hair blowing in the breeze. Vito Moretti, fatter than ever, shut the driver’s door and waddled over. The cocaine-mixing expert was at greater risk of a heart attack than of getting shot.
“Great,” Vinny said, closing the paper.
Doberman frowned.
Getting up from his chair, Vinny embraced his second cousin Vito first—a peck on each cheek—then Frankie. Doberman pulled up chairs for the made men as a sign of respect.
“What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?” Vinny asked.
Frankie lit a cigarette while Vito grabbed Vinny’s half-eaten pastry.
“You mind, Vin?” he asked.
Vinny narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. The obese slob with greasy hair took a huge bite, raining confectioner’s sugar over his open shirt and into his sweat-matted chest hair.
“Did you get the shipment?” Frankie asked.
“Yes,” Vinny replied. “My man secured all the guns we requested. He will deliver them before the new food comes in.”
Frankie nodded happily, and Vito finished off the pastry in one mouthful. He wiped his hands on his pants.
“Molto buona,” Vito said through a mouthful of pastry.
Vinny tried to hide his disgust.
“This next shipment from Nina is our biggest yet,” said Frankie. “We also got several loads of RX-Four on the boat, and I don’t want any problems.”
“There won’t be,” Doberman said.
“No one’s talking to you,” Frankie replied without looking at Doberman.
“Doberman’s right,” Vinny said. “There won’t be any problems.”
“Good.” Frankie got up from the chair. “Make sure the guns are delivered by noon tomorrow.”
“See ya later, girlies,” Vito said. He got up and followed Frankie into the coffee shop to order. As soon as the door shut, Doberman grunted.
“What a fucking pig,” Vinny said.
He finished his espresso and watched the ocean lapping the beach. A red kite soared and dipped, a child holding the string as a man coached him.
“Call Ray and tell him we need the guns now,” Vinny said.
“You got it.” Doberman pulled out a burner phone and stepped away to make the call. Vinny sat there another moment, contemplating their relationship with the detective. Ray was a condescending asshole, but he did good work and always came through.
For the past eight years, Vinny had worked with Ray to make sure the cops held up their end of the bargain at the Four Diamonds slum, in the process making Ray a very wealthy man.
Doberman put the phone away and joined Vinny.
“Well?” Vinny asked.
“He said noon tomorrow will be no problem,” Doberman s
aid.
“Better not be, or . . .”
The whine of a crotch rocket cut Vinny off. Frankie and Vito were walking out of the coffee shop toward their vehicles, but both stopped to watch a motorcycle race through traffic. The rider lobbed something through the air, toward the patio.
“Get down! Down!” yelled one of the guards by the vehicles.
Vinny pulled his pistol and aimed at the rider wearing a skull mask—the symbol of the Vegas. The bike swerved, throwing off his aim just as an explosion boomed behind the bike.
Someone slammed into Vinny, knocking him to the patio floor.
Screams sounded in all directions—muffled, terrified voices. A dull ringing pervaded everything. Vinny tried to get up but couldn’t move with the body still on top of him.
Smoke burned his nostrils as he took a deep breath. Through the swirling gray, he saw bodies sprawled on the patio. Several lay crumpled, bleeding from shrapnel wounds.
A Moretti soldier wailed on the ground, holding the stump where his right leg had been taken off below the knee. Two men next to him were down and not moving.
Vinny tried to get up, but he was still pinned down by a body. He pushed harder when he heard the crescendoing whine of the motorcycle.
The rider was returning, and this time he had what looked like an Uzi.
“Watch out!” Vinny yelled too late.
The Vega sicario sprayed several Moretti men near the Range Rovers. One of them took multiple rounds to the body. Another man took one to the kneecap, screaming in agony as he dropped to the concrete.
The pressure on Vinny finally let up, and he rolled over to see Vito stagger to his feet. The big guy gripped his arm, where blood trickled from two holes.
“You good?” he asked Vinny.
Only then did he realize that his cousin had pushed him down to save his life.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Vinny said.
He looked for Doberman and found him sitting up, holding his head—dazed but alive. Frankie had his pistol out and ran toward the street.
Vinny got up and bolted after him, both of them firing at the motorcycle. The rider stopped in the distance and turned, coming back in for another run.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 4
