“Oh, damn right we will.”
Dom looked away from the sunset and faced his friend. He knew her well, and she wasn’t here to talk about her brother or his sister. He and Camilla had fought together since the beginning, and he loved her—not in a romantic way, even though he sometimes couldn’t help imagining what it would be like. But that could never happen between them.
“Something I need to tell you,” he said.
Camilla’s brows went up. “Yeah?”
“Someone kidnapped Mariana López.”
“What?”
Dom braced himself, but Camilla just stared at him. “She was being transferred to a medical facility, and Vegas hit the convoy, or so I’m told.”
Camilla shook her head. “I told you we should have killed that bitch.”
“You’ve got to let this go and focus on the mission, okay? All that matters is taking down the Vega brothers and Don Antonio.”
She didn’t reply.
“Cam,” he said.
“Yeah, I heard you. I’m focused.”
“Good. Let’s head back inside.”
They took the rooftop doorway down the stairs to the inside of the safe house. Tooth was sleeping on a couch, and Bettis lay slumped in a chair.
Dom went to the garage where they stored their vehicles. The Chevy Tahoe was on a lift, one of its wheels missing. An old Ford 150 pickup truck and a very old Jeep Cherokee sat nearby.
Moose was lifting free weights, and Rocky was in the boxing ring, practicing his footwork. The youngest member of the team reminded Dom of himself at the beginning of the war.
One of the garage doors opened, and a pickup pulled inside. Namid and Karl “Pork Chop” Watts got out. The two couldn’t look more different. Pork Chop sported flaming orange mutton chops on his square jaw. Namid had cut off his long hair and had it styled in a neat, conservative do.
Despite their wildly different appearances, they were the best of friends.
“Good, you’re here,” Dom said. “Gather round. I’ve got news.”
Camilla went to wake Tooth and Bettis up, and Moose put the massive barbell back on its rack. Rocky climbed down from the ring, catching Dom’s thrown towel in midair. Dom tossed another one to Moose.
“Thanks, boss,” Rocky said. He wiped off his ripped physique and winked at Camilla when she returned. She gave him a good eye roll.
The kid had the same fighting spirit as Dom but all the maturity of Tooth. He was a younger version of both men combined.
The team gathered around the table where they had planned so many of their guerrilla ambushes over the years. This was going to be their biggest yet.
“Tomorrow night, we hit the biggest shipment of opioids the city has ever seen, as well as a load of RX-Four,” Dom said. “When the ship arrives, Moose, Tooth, Bettis, and I will go in and take it out with Russian RPGs while Namid and Pork Chop steal the RX-Four.”
“What about me?” Camilla asked.
Dom pulled out a note and an address. “You have another mission.”
She took the note and smiled. He was hoping it would make her happy, especially after the info about Mariana’s abduction.
“Tomorrow night, we hit the Morettis and the Vegas,” Dom said. “Tomorrow night, we remind them who the Saints are.”
“Hell yeah,” Moose said.
The team spent the next few hours around the table, planning out their attacks. At midnight, they called it a wrap, and Dom drove with Moose to their apartment complex not far from the Angel Pyramids.
The already dilapidated concrete buildings rose over thirty stories into the sky and housed over fifty thousand people, crammed in like cattle in a feedlot.
Rumor had it that Miguel Vega still lived in one of the buildings, but no one knew where Esteban was now. Unlike the Morettis, the elusive narco liked to move around.
On the next corner, several drug dealers hung out on park benches, handing out sealed bags of opiates in the darkness.
Half-naked kids, some without shoes, served as lookouts. The highly addictive hybrid opiates they sold were cheap, and half the city was addicted, using it to combat the pain the RX-4 caused. The medicine had its side effects, and half the people who took it were constantly sick from nausea and dizziness.
Dom and Moose walked through a parking lot where people stood around a wood fire burning inside a rusted auto body. They drank from paper sacks and stared blankly at the flames. Coursing through their veins was the real currency of the City of Angels.
Thanks to the dust storms, only a small portion of the metropolis had power tonight. The slums were all on curtailment, which meant no one but the gangsters and the citizens with old money had lights.
Dom and Moose walked with their heads down, trying to avoid attention. He had his SIG Sauer 1911 Nightmare, a microcompact SIG Sauer P365, and a knife strapped to his right ankle. Moose had switched out his submachine guns for a sawed-off shotgun and two M9s under his windbreaker.
There were a lot of threats in the slums, and living there was incredibly dangerous, but it was even more dangerous to live where the city officials, cops, and rich folks lived. That was what made this the best place to hide. Their enemies would never think to look here for a Saint.
Dom walked through the gated entrance and hurried over to the outdoor stairwell that led up to their floor.
“I hope Yolanda didn’t wait up for me,” Moose said.
Dom watched their back in case anyone had followed them, while Moose pulled out the key to his apartment.
A growl met them as he unlocked the heavy steel door.
“It’s okay, girl,” Dom said. Cayenne hopped over, wagging her tail. He bent down and massaged the back of the dog’s muscular brown neck.
“Long night?” said a female voice inside.
Yolanda stood in the living room, arms folded across her tank top.
“Hey, baby girl,” Moose said, going inside to embrace his wife, whose head came only to his chest.
“Thanks for looking after Cayenne,” Dom said when they pulled apart.
Yolanda nodded, and pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. She was a good-looking, smart, strong woman, and Moose loved her fiercely.
Two small figures appeared in the dark hallway connecting to the living room.
“Go back to sleep,” Yolanda said to Bryon, six, and Tamara, five.
“But we want to say hi to Uncle Dom,” Bryon said.
“Hey, guys,” Dom said. He gave them each a hug and let them pet Cayenne.
Yolanda cleared her throat, indicating the reunion was over.
“Say good night to Uncle Dom and Cayenne and go back to your rooms.”
“See you later, and thanks again,” Dom said before leaving the apartment.
“Anytime,” Yolanda replied with a smile.
Dom led his dog outside and over to their place, five doors down.
Going in, he reached behind the couch and pulled the drapes across the barred window. This was home. It wasn’t much, but he didn’t care about supersized TVs, fast cars, designer clothes, or expensive booze. He was hardly ever here, and if he did have free time from the hunt, he took Cayenne on runs or to the park. Even with three legs, she could get around about as well as any other dog.
She wagged her tail and followed him past the small kitchen, where he stopped to give her water. He didn’t bother checking the fridge. With the energy curtailments happening nearly every day, there was no point keeping food that could spoil.
The dog stopped to growl at her food bowl.
“You hungry?” he asked, filling it from a bag of kibble—the only thing he kept in the pantry besides some canned food. She never ate when Dom was out.
While Cayenne practically inhaled her food, she watched him and then followed him to the bathroom.
“Eat,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She hesitated, then walked back out, stopping in the hall to look back at him.
He turned to look at the cr
acked mirror. A few grays had sneaked into the sides of his thick brown hair. Even in the dim lighting, he could see the first creases of crow’s-feet and the hump on his nose, broken twice as a teenager when he fought mixed martial arts. For a twenty-seven-year-old, he was starting to look pretty rough.
This was what hunting gangsters did to you. It was also the reason his bed had one pillow.
Nights like this reminded him why he didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend.
He had been in love once, a long time ago, at least he thought it was love, but maybe he was too young to know. Now love would only be a dangerous distraction. He still didn’t know how Moose could function knowing he had Yolanda and his kids waiting for him at home.
Always waiting, and always worrying. And always at risk.
He went to his closet-sized bedroom and turned on the lantern. Sitting on the edge of his mattress, he set his guns down. Then he took off his shoes and patted the bed. Cayenne jumped up and curled up next to him, letting out a long sigh.
“Good night,” Dom whispered.
He reached over to shut off the lantern but stopped to look at the only framed picture he had in his apartment: a photo of his family at the beach.
The image transported him back to a time when he had known the love of a family. Hard to fathom, but it was all gone now.
And while he still had his mother, not much remained of the mom he remembered. She had numbed her grief over losing Monica and Ronaldo, using the same drugs Dom worked so hard to get off the streets.
He used to feel a deep pain when he saw the picture or when he read the note his dad left him, but now he hardly felt anything. He, too, was numb. He could feel anger and hate, though.
Monica was gone forever; Dom knew that now. He would never find her, never save her. All he could do was avenge her and his dad by removing the evil that was part of this new world—the Vegas, the Morettis, and everyone else who poisoned what good was still left.
Leaning back onto his pillow, he waited for the fatigue to take him. Tired though he was, after a few minutes, he knew that sleep was out of his reach. His heart pounded hard again, thoughts of revenge filling him with adrenaline.
He trudged back to the sink and splashed water on his face.
It was time to do something he hadn’t done in months. As soon as he was done with the port mission, he would go and see his mom.
-4-
Don Antonio Moretti and his brother, Christopher, walked through the iron gate with their two most trusted bodyguards. Christopher’s son, Vinny, was also with them tonight. The young soldier had risen through the Moretti ranks quickly, proving himself many times over the years, and Antonio wanted him in this sit-down with Esteban Vega.
Antonio had asked for a truce while he and Christopher flew to Naples to kill the last of the backstabbing Canavaros, and the Vegas had granted it. Now it was Esteban coming with an olive branch, seeking not just a truce, but actual peace.
Antonio smiled. The eight-year war between the two families had taken a toll on both sides, and he had agreed to meet with the narco king—not to hammer out a peace deal, but to probe for whatever weakness would allow him to finish Esteban off for good.
He already had his secret leverage in Mariana, but perhaps he wouldn’t need to use her.
Antonio glanced over his shoulder at the small army they had brought with them to this dangerous meeting. Out in front of the dozen soldiers was Captain Carmine Barese, holding one of the new Beretta ARX160 rifles they had recently acquired thanks to Vinny and Detective Ray Clarke.
The rest of the guns and muscle were at the port, where his men were guarding the biggest shipment of drugs he had yet purchased from Eduardo Nina and several loads of the precious RX-4 antirad med that so many people needed to stay alive.
The Vegas now controlled half the drug traffic in Los Angeles. The Norteño Mafia, Zetas, Latin Kings, and MS-13 were no more, and the surviving members had rallied under Esteban’s banner, desperate for a piece of what was left, willing to let go of old enmities and blood oaths just to survive in this new world.
The narco brothers also understood how to invest dirty money, using it to build legitimate businesses that the cops and government could never touch.
Every crime family had them, including the Morettis, who were into everything from strip clubs and casinos to prime real estate and expensive clothing.
This evening, Antonio wore something straight off the ship from his birthplace: a three-piece Armani suit. He had shaved his beard and combed his thinning hair.
A sit-down like this was like going on a first date. Everyone had to look their best, even if they wanted to kill each other.
Three Vega men waited at a second pair of iron doors inside the compound. Candles in glass sconces on the adobe walls illuminated tattooed sicarios, their features hidden behind Day of the Dead masks with colorful designs.
The guy on the right wore a white skull with red paint around empty black eye sockets, and white stitches holding the black lips together. Red roses decorated the crest of the skull.
Antonio tightened his white tie, raised his glittering Rolex, and said to the three men, “Don’t waste my time.”
A guard in a mask with snakes wrapped around the jaw reached out and opened the door while the other two frisked Antonio and then the rest of their group.
“Guns stay here. You can collect them later, Don Antonio,” said a soft feminine voice through the open door.
A Latina wearing a strapless, form-fitting crimson dress stood there, arms by her sides. The biggest ruby Antonio had ever seen hung from a gold chain just above her cleavage.
“You must be Elsa Vega,” Antonio said. He took her hand and kissed it. “You are even more beautiful than I’ve heard.”
“Gracias, Don Antonio,” she said.
Most women would have blushed at a compliment from such a powerful man, but she simply gestured for them to come inside the brightly lit living space with high ceilings. Animal trophies—rhino, polar bear, cape buffalo, sable—were mounted on the walls.
From what Antonio had heard, Esteban and Miguel came from the ghettos of Mexico City, much as he and Christopher had come from the slums in Naples to the ruins of Hollywood. Since those days, both families had built impressive empires—empires they wanted to protect.
Antonio gave Christopher a nod, and they walked into the center of the room furnished with leather couches, Indian rugs, and a long oak table set with china, silver, and gold-rimmed glasses.
A man not much older than Vinny stood in front of the table. He offered a warm dimpled smile, spreading his arms out in a welcoming manner. Antonio recognized him. He was there the night of the Morettis’ ambush at the Chevron oil refinery, when Antonio’s men had almost killed both Esteban and Miguel. But the two brothers had escaped, and so had their nephew.
“Welcome to Casa Vega,” he said. “I’m Pedro Vega, son of Elsa Vega, but you can call me Negro. My uncle Esteban will be with us shortly. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink, Don Antonio?”
Antonio folded his arms across his chest, looking at Negro. “I don’t drink margaritas.”
Yellowtail laughed, and Negro, still smiling, said, “We do have plenty of other offerings, including some of the finest wine in the country.”
“Pinot noir,” Antonio said.
Elsa walked into a connecting kitchen with blue and red backsplashes and matching, intricately tiled countertops. Antonio turned as three men came down the stairs behind them.
While the Morettis dressed like modern gangsters, the Vegas looked more like rich cowboys. The men wore leather pants or designer jeans, large belt buckles, and Western hats. One of them stopped on the bottom step, directly in the light, and Antonio got his first view of the narco king in over eight years.
A large, drooping nose reflected his indigenous ancestry, and those sharp dark eyes had seen a lot of death.
Esteban reached down and gripped his wide
platinum belt buckle. The two men flanking him each had a neck tattoo of a dagger with a ruby in the hilt. It was the mark of a Vega sicario.
“Welcome,” Esteban finally said, walking over to Don Antonio. “It’s been far too long since we saw each other, and I’m pleased that this time it’s under more cordial circumstances.”
The last time, Esteban had tried to kill Antonio; but this was business, and in business you had to put transgressions aside, even if you couldn’t forgive them.
Like Raff’s murder.
Elsa joined Esteban as he crossed the center of the room to stand in front of Antonio. The two men faced each other, two modern kings—and two mortal enemies.
Both men had clawed their way to the top of the food chain in the largest metropolis of the postwar United States.
“Thank you for making the journey,” Esteban said. “I know it took a lot of faith.”
“If something happens to me, you die too,” Antonio said.
Esteban smiled, revealing two gold teeth. “No one’s dying tonight, mi amigo.”
He stretched out a weathered hand.
Antonio wanted to cut it off and stuff it up his culo, but he did what any businessman would do.
He shook it like a man here to make a deal. But there couldn’t be a deal without Miguel, and Antonio didn’t see Esteban’s younger brother yet. It had to be because of Mariana.
The brother knew that Antonio was behind the grab. Good. She was their guarantee that they all walk out of here.
“I’m getting older and cherish my time, so let’s get on with this,” Antonio said.
“You and me both, cuate.” Esteban’s smile widened, showing off more gold.
The Vegas loved their gold and their rubies, but Antonio wasn’t one to judge. The Morettis had their vices too: cars, clothes, women.
Two housemaids, both beautiful black-haired Latinas, carried plates of meat-filled tamales, a celebratory dish.
It was a reminder of Esteban’s roots—a world of dirt and death that he had turned into great wealth.
As the meeting continued, the tamales were replaced with chicken mole, bowls of pozole, chile verde, and carne asada.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 6
