-8-
The moon broke through the clouds over Central Los Angeles, then quickly hid again.
Dom rolled down the window of their burner vehicle, a black pickup sporting a brush guard and oversized tires. They had parked on South Vermont Avenue, on the left side of the street next to Machado Lake and the cracked dirt of an old park. A junkie staggered and jerked through the shadows like some kind of zombie. He found a park bench and curled up to sleep. Dom filled his lungs with sultry air carrying a bouquet of jasmine and rotting garbage.
Sweet and putrid—that was the scent of Los Angeles.
It was going on three in the morning, but Dom wasn’t tired. After the successful raid on the port, he was still riding high on adrenaline. Or maybe it was the last of the Dexedrine pills.
He didn’t need more to stay awake. Knowing that the Morettis had woken their leader in the middle of the night with the disastrous news of the attack was enough to keep Dom going.
But the text from Lieutenant Marks kept resurfacing in his mind. He had disobeyed a direct order from his commanding officer, a man he respected like a second father.
He checked his phone again and found a text message from Camilla.
Back home. Got three good tips tonight.
He smiled. She had taken out three Vega sicarios. The Saints were having a monster night.
Nice, he texted back.
Moose looked over at the cell phone. “That Cam?”
“Yeah, and she did good. Real good.”
“Yeah, baby, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Moose rubbed his hands together. “We’re on fire.”
“The night isn’t over yet.”
While most of the team was already back at the safe house, Dom and Moose were out here, making sure the stolen RX-4 got to those who needed it most.
“Namid and Pork Chop should be here any minute,” Dom said, glancing down at his watch.
He checked the road again when he heard the slow hum of a Mosquito. The city-operated truck with the Horizon Bio-Limited logo slowly rounded the corner, bristles sweeping the street under the belly of the vehicle. Oscillating sprinklers on the bed sprayed chemical mist from a blue tank into the air to neutralize toxic chemicals.
Rumor had it that Antonio Moretti was fueling a significant portion of the operation, which helped him look like a philanthropist to those who didn’t know him. It seemed he was trying to be the Pablo Escobar of Los Angeles since the Vega family clearly wasn’t interested in the role.
And you’ll die like Pablo, Dom thought.
He checked the west side of the street. Harbor College, now a housing project, had been turned into a campground. Tents were scattered over the dry lawn where the overflow of refugees slept. All across the city, the processing centers, where some people waited months to find placement, were bulging at the seams.
“Poor bastards,” Moose said.
Dom checked his cell phone. A message buzzed from Namid. They were on their way. The Mosquito hummed by, cleaning the streets and the air.
He rolled up his window and tightened the filtration mask on his face. He didn’t know how the chemical shit worked, and he didn’t like breathing it in on some city official’s blithe assurances that it was safe.
An engine rumbled in the distance.
“Here we go,” Dom said.
He ducked at the sound of a second car, this one with a supercharged engine.
“That ain’t Namid,” Moose said, leaning out of view.
Two black Mercedes sedans raced down the road. They zipped past the pickup and swerved around the next corner.
“Morettis,” Dom said.
“They’re all over the place.”
They sat up, and Dom put the pickup in gear.
Another pair of headlights hit the road a few minutes later. He recognized the brown truck instantly. It was one of several they had stolen from an old warehouse. The UPS label was still visible on the side.
Namid and Pork Chop sat in the front seats, looking ahead as they passed the pickup. Pulling onto the road, Dom followed them.
Several cars drove toward them. One swerved into the center lane, then back, and Moose readied his Beretta PMX submachine gun just in case they stopped.
The first car passed, and someone leaned out the window, screaming.
Dom reached over to Moose as he raised his weapon.
“Just some teenagers,” he said.
“Dangerous place to be at three a.m.,” Moose said, relaxing in his seat.
“We all did stupid shit back in the day. Remember that time your bro and I about got into it on the basketball courts at one in the morning after sharing a case of beer?”
“Which time?” Moose laughed. “I remember a bunch of late nights I had to stop you from beating each other’s asses.”
They chuckled as Dom followed the delivery truck down another street toward their destination: the former Kaiser Permanente South Bay Medical Center complex, now a city-operated hospital the locals called Hope Hotel.
It was one of the most overcrowded and understaffed hospitals left in the city. Most of its patients suffered from radiation poisoning, so Dom made sure they were supplied with RX-4 as often as possible.
He had already made a call on his burner phone to let his doctor friend, Abdul, know that the shipment was coming, but Namid and Pork Chop knew better than to drive right up and park outside.
Two hospital employees smoking on the corner outside paid no attention to the brown truck pulling up on the street outside the entrance bay to the ER.
Dom drove the pickup to a parking lot, secluded from view. He looked at the hospital for a moment, wondering how his mom was doing inside. This was home for her now.
He tried not to think about her—how the grief had finally driven her crazy, sending her outside to search for Monica. All those days outside without a mask. Now she was here, kept alive by the very drug they were now delivering.
“Stay with the truck,” he said to Moose. “And watch our back.”
Moose kept the truck running as Dom hopped out and crossed the parking lot.
A guy in scrubs walked out of the ER. “You can’t park there!” he yelled.
A security guard followed the doctor outside.
Headlights hit the road, stopping Dom before he could cross. He fiddled with his dust mask and pulled the bill of his baseball cap down.
Another doctor wearing a mask and scrubs showed up at the entrance to the ER. Dom recognized the caramel skin of his old friend Abdul. He jogged out and waved to a drop-off zone.
The doc looked down the street in both directions before stepping back into the shadows. Pork Chop and Namid drove the truck back into the open bay, and Dom crossed over to the parking lot, nodding at the two Saints. He couldn’t see their features, and they couldn’t see his, but they wore the same gear and recognized him by that alone.
“You got somewhere safe to store this?” Pork Chop asked the doctor.
Abdul stepped into the light, eyes flitting from mask to mask. Then he ran a hand through his graying hair. He was one of the best docs in the city, practically living in the hospital. He had patched Dom up after a bullet a year ago, and they had been friends ever since.
Dom trusted the guy with his life—and with his secret, which meant basically the same thing.
Pork Chop and Namid opened the back doors, exposing the interior of the delivery van, stacked with the RX-4 boxes.
“Make sure this gets to the people that need it most,” Pork Chop said.
Abdul smiled warmly. “Thank you. I’ll make sure.”
The other doctor, some twenty years younger, looked away. “I don’t want any part of this.”
“We’re doctors, Javier,” Abdul said. “We’re here to save lives, and this will save a lot. Now, get back inside and keep quiet.”
Javier looked at them all in turn and folded his arms across his chest.
“Better keep this between us,” Namid said.
�
��Yeah,” Pork Chop replied, taking a step toward the doctor.
Javier dropped his arms to his side and started walking back to the parking lot. He was halfway there when screeching tires sounded.
The five of them turned to look down the street, where the two Moretti Mercedeses came squealing around the corner.
Dom reached for the sidearm tucked under his shirt.
Only ten minutes had passed, and someone had already sold them out from inside the hospital. But the Saints knew what to do.
“Namid, grab our weapons,” Pork Chop said.
The Mojave warrior jumped inside the back of the delivery truck and pulled out two automatic rifles. He tossed one to Pork Chop before moving for cover.
“Get out of here!” Dom shouted to Abdul, waving. “We’ll deal with these guys.”
Namid shouldered his rifle and fired. Rounds spiderwebbed the windshield of the first car. The driver threw on the brakes, screeching to a stop.
The doors swung open, and shooters jumped out using them as cover.
Namid held his fire until one of the men popped up to return fire. A head shot knocked him right back down. Pork Chop fired a burst into the other door, dropping the hidden soldier.
The second car stopped and disgorged four more Moretti men.
Automatic gunfire chattered in the night. Rounds punched through metal and shattered glass.
Dom squeezed off calculated shots and then dived for cover behind a parked car. A flurry of bullets chased him, deflating both rear tires.
He looked back at the loading bay where Abdul had taken refuge. He hit the door and leaned down, waving at Javier.
“Javier, get in here!” he yelled.
The other doctor, Javier, was trapped in the parking lot a few cars ahead of Dom.
“I’ll cover you!” Dom shouted.
The young doc hesitated, then nodded.
“Go!” Dom yelled. He stood and fired off several rounds, giving the guy a chance to get into the bay. He rolled under just as the door closed.
“Changing!” Namid yelled.
Pork Chop and Dom laid down suppressive fire as they dashed across the parking lot. Car windows shattered all around them, and alarms blared.
The four Moretti soldiers were tactically trained, taking turns to fire and keeping the Saints pinned down. And Dom knew that it was just a matter of time before reinforcements joined them.
He cursed as he punched in a new magazine. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out, but someone in the hospital was a fucking rat.
The Morettis had moles everywhere. Dom prayed that none of them had seen Abdul or Javier.
He looked over at Namid, who bolted for the vehicle Dom was hiding behind. A flanking Moretti soldier made a run for their position with a rifle.
“Down!” Dom yelled. He grabbed Namid, pulling him to cover as bullets ripped through the tire and chipped the pavement.
Dom got up and fired several rounds. A few cars down, Pork Chop stood and fired at the approaching Moretti soldier, hitting him in the neck and face, but not before he got off a shot. It hit Dom square in the chest, knocking him on his butt.
He felt as if a mule had kicked him in the ribs. He could hear Namid yelling over the din of gunfire, but he couldn’t answer. Dom had been shot before, but he didn’t remember it hurting this bad.
A good sign, he realized. The last time, he was in shock and hardly felt anything. This time, his vest had taken all the impact.
Namid helped him sit up, and Dom opened his eyes to the same postapocalyptic cityscape—the jagged edges of bombed high-rises in the distance, torched vehicles and crumbling streets, and gunfire.
He blinked away the stars, still trying to catch his breath.
Namid fired off several bursts. “They’re closing in,” he said in the respite.
He looked down at Dom, fear in his eyes. But Dom knew that the Mojave tracker wasn’t afraid for himself—he feared leaving his four-year-old kid and his pregnant wife.
Dom forced himself up, fighting the pain. He glanced around the bumper to see a Moretti soldier striding toward them, shoulder-firing a rifle. Two more remained at the car, using the doors as cover.
A bullet zipped past Dom’s head, and he pulled back.
Motion flashed in the parking lot across the road. He sneaked another look as the high beams from a pickup dazzled the Moretti shooters. The guy on the driver’s side of the Mercedes turned to fire, but too late. The truck’s brush guard crushed him against the car.
Moose leaned out the window, his hat catching on the side and falling onto the street. He angled a sawed-off shotgun at the other two men and fired a blast into each, knocking them off their feet.
Namid bent down and helped Dom up and across the parking lot, where Pork Chop met them, sweeping with his rifle for contacts.
They hurried to the street, where Moose backed the truck up.
“Get in!” he yelled.
With Namid’s help, Dom climbed in on the passenger side. Then he jumped into the back with Pork Chop.
Moose hit it, and the tires squealed. He sped away from the hospital, leaving the lifesaving RX-4 drugs and a pile of dead Morettis behind.
“Hell yeah, baby!” Moose yelled, pounding the wheel.
Dom cracked a pained smile.
Tonight was a good night, a much-needed win for the Saints. But it would take more than a few dead Moretti soldiers to reclaim the city from evil.
* * *
Vinny sat at a blackjack table at the Golden Oyster, looking out at the degenerates around him. Quite a few for this early hour.
It was almost four, and he had decided to come here after the disaster at the port, and the meeting that followed back at the compound. Across town, Moretti soldiers were looking for the missing RX-4 shipment, and he was monitoring the situation from the blackjack table.
Vinny looked over at the Moretti associates standing guard nearby, then at the other tables—guys in business suits at one, hoodies and sweats at the others. Businessmen and gangsters, all trying to squeeze in a gambling win and a bit more alcohol before the sun came up on another day.
But Vinny wasn’t here for either of those things. He had come for the one thing that gave him comfort: Adriana. She was working the night shift, serving cocktails to men and a few women who were partying with the associates and rich businessmen.
Some came from other countries; others were contractors who had survived the war and had come to rebuild housing complexes that weren’t much better than slums.
Vinny tried not to watch Adriana as she brought more drinks to a group of Chinese men who owned construction companies that had built the Four Diamonds. They were here for a new project, looking to cash in on a massive complex that would help with the refugee crisis—something the Chinese knew a lot about.
“Mr. Moretti, it’s your turn,” said the dealer. He tapped the felt, then smiled politely, his mustache curling around his lips.
“When you’re ready, sir,” he said.
Vinny looked down at a jack and a deuce in front of him. The dealer had a queen next to a card facedown.
“Hit me,” Vinny said.
The dealer peeled an ace off the deck. Vinny cursed under his breath and checked the three hundred dollars in chips he had wagered on the hand.
“Hit m—”
A voice boomed behind him. “Vin!”
He turned in his chair to see Doberman running over.
“What?” Vinny said.
Doberman panted, bending over slightly. The dealer and the three other blackjack players looked over.
“What, dude?” Vinny asked.
Doberman glanced around at the onlookers, then jerked his chin for Vinny to follow. He looked back at the table one last time to see a six, giving him nineteen.
“Stay,” Vinny said.
The dealer flipped over his facedown card to reveal another queen. “Sorry, Mr. Moretti,” he said.
Vinny
cursed again as the dealer scooped his chips away. He took his remaining chips and followed Doberman toward the lobby, sneaking one last look at Adriana as she bent down to place a cocktail on the table.
That got his attention, and he halted.
“Vin!” Doberman shouted.
She looked over at him but didn’t raise a hand, which could attract some unwanted attention.
“God damn it,” Doberman said. “We got a major fucking problem, man!”
Vinny followed him into the lobby and then outside.
“What is so important?”
Doberman shook his head. “I just got word about that missing RX-Four shipment. It was dropped off at Hope Hotel.”
“Dropped off?”
“One of our guys at the hospital called it in to Joey’s crew. When he showed up, they were ambushed. Six of our guys are dead, and the RX-Four is inside the hospital now, out of our reach.”
“Wait, back up,” Vinny said. “Joey’s dead?”
Doberman nodded.
“Let’s go,” Vinny said.
He led them into the parking lot. Just when the violence was supposed to end with the new Vega peace treaty, another enemy had wiped out an entire crew.
Doberman drove them away from the Golden Oyster and down the brightly lit strip of the Goldilocks Zone. Intoxicated rich customers walked down the sidewalks, leaving the clubs with their bodyguards.
Vinny ignored them, his heart pounding.
For eight years, he had achieved success after success: infiltrating the LAPD without getting killed; kidnapping Carly Sarcone and killing her father, Enzo. Traveling to Mexico, where he almost died at the hands of pirates first and then the Mexican military, only to secure their current deal with Eduardo Nina, mortal enemy of Esteban Vega.
And he had done evil things that still haunted him. From killing Isao Yamazaki after guaranteeing his safety, to pouring acid down Chuy’s throat—a man who had been Vinny’s friend.
All those sacrifices, crimes, and close calls would count for nil if the Saints got their way. Making captain was fading away before his eyes, and at this rate Doberman would never get made. The elusive vigilantes had destroyed a huge shipment of drugs, stolen the RX-4, and killed Joey and his crew.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 11
