Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Sounds like an idiot to me,” Pork Chop said.

  “We’re going to find out.” Namid unbuckled his seat belt. “Pork Chop, let’s go wait for him outside the courts.”

  “Don’t spook him,” Camilla said.

  “We ain’t gonna spook him,” Pork Chop said, rolling his eyes. “Just going to watch him.”

  Namid tied a bandanna over his perfectly combed hair. He was the OCD type—everything always had to be perfect. It made him a good cop, but it also annoyed the hell out of Camilla.

  The two Saints took off toward the park, blending in with the civilians who were about. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, burning through a cut. She took off her shades and dripped some water on her sleeve, then dabbed her forehead.

  She had patched herself up and would have the scars to show for it.

  A car raced by, distracting her, and she looked away from the mirror. The city was busier than normal. People were enjoying the heat and the absence of blowing dust.

  She sometimes wondered what it was like across the world, in places where life had continued to progress. Where people raised their families in peace and had normal nine-to-five jobs.

  She never wanted that life. Some of the guys, like Namid and Pork Chop, were fighting for just that. But she wasn’t.

  Camilla had joined the Saints for revenge—something Dom promised. By the time it was over, she would have a lot more scars or she would be six feet under.

  “Hey, baby,” said a deep voice.

  She looked to the right of the car, where a Latino man had seen her sitting in the Jeep.

  “You all alone?” he asked.

  She gave him the bird.

  The guy just stared at her, as if unsure what to do. Then he frowned. “You got too many scars, anyways.”

  He walked away, and Camilla almost got out and yelled at him, but something about the way he said that made her feel . . . broken.

  She leaned back for a view of the park. Forget that asshole.

  Hundreds of people were out, surrounding the courts or chilling in the dry grass. Most of them wore face masks and bandannas, which helped Namid and Pork Chop blend in. They took a seat on a park bench and watched a pickup game.

  After a few minutes, the teams took a break, and Sammy moved over to a row of backpacks lying near the fence. He was in his early twenties, but with his acne, he could pass for a teenager. His tender age didn’t deceive Camilla. The “kid” was smart enough to land a job at the port at sixteen and work his way up to supervising shipments by the time he was twenty.

  Apparently, Marks had brought him in on a burglary charge a year ago and offered him a way to avoid a stint in Casa de los Diablos: help them take down the Moretti organization by telling them when the big shipments were coming in.

  Last night, the kid had finally come through.

  Sammy tipped back a bottle of water and handed it to another tall, skinny guy who had joined him. They laughed and then walked over to the gate.

  Namid and Pork Chop stood and followed them away from the courts. Camilla had to turn to get a look, but they appeared to be heading to the bathroom.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what Namid and Pork Chop had planned. They normally didn’t try to talk to the kid during the day.

  His friend went into the single-hole bathroom while Sammy stayed outside. Namid and Pork Chop walked across the lawn, under some trees.

  “What the hell are you doing . . . ?” Camilla whispered.

  The other guy finished in the bathroom and closed the door. Sammy handed him a joint, and they set off back toward the courts. Namid and Pork Chop followed alongside the path.

  Five kids on skateboards flew down the sidewalk. Sammy and his friend jumped out of the way. They both turned and yelled at the punks just as gunfire sounded.

  Camilla twisted for a better view, reaching for her weapon at the same time.

  The kids on skateboards took off running with their boards under their arms, and she didn’t see any of them firing. Sammy had fallen to the ground, but his friend stood on the side of the path, looking at the trees.

  Not the trees, Camilla realized. The kid was looking at a man with a gun, which he pointed and fired. Sammy scrambled away as his friend jerked from the bullets ripping into him.

  He dropped to the ground, trying to crawl.

  The shooter walked over and fired two more shots point-blank into his skull. Before Namid and Pork Chop could get a shot, the assassin took off running, sprinting like a track star toward the crowd of fleeing civilians.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Camilla said. She put the Jeep into reverse and backed up, one tire going up on the curb. Then she put it in drive and did a bootleg turn across the road.

  Namid and Pork Chop had decided not to pursue the shooter and were running after Sammy. She pulled into the parking lot choked with cars and civilians trying to escape. A car tried to back up, but she cut in front of it, laying down the horn.

  On the other side of the lot, Namid had almost caught up to Sammy. Pork Chop was busy flanking them.

  She found a gap between the cars pulling out and weaved in and out all the way to the other side of the parking lot, where she reached over and opened the door just in time to see Namid tackle Sammy.

  “Get in!” she shouted.

  Pork Chop helped Namid pick Sammy up and haul him over to the Jeep. In the chaos, no one seemed to notice the gun Namid put in Sammy’s back.

  They tossed him into the back seat, and Pork Chop slid in. Namid got in the front passenger seat. Before he had even closed the door, she hit the gas and squealed away.

  “Let me go!” Sammy shouted.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, man,” Pork Chop said, “so calm the fuck down.”

  But Sammy didn’t listen. He grabbed the door handle and tried to open it. Pork Chop grabbed for him, and Sammy threw an elbow, hitting him in the nose.

  A hammer clicked, and Sammy froze.

  “Don’t fucking do that again,” Namid said, training his revolver between Sammy’s eyes.

  Camilla looked in the rearview mirror to check on Pork Chop. He held his head back to keep the blood from pouring out of his nose. Sammy held up his hands.

  “All right, all right,” he said.

  “Try anything else, and I’ll give you a three-fifty-seven Magnum ear piercing,” Namid said.

  -11-

  “This is what you told your dad you had in motion?” Vinny said. He shook his head. “I wanted to interrogate Jason first!”

  Marco sat slumped in the back seat.

  “Jesus, man! How’d you screw this up so bad?”

  “My guy wasn’t supposed to kill him,” Marco said. “I paid him to grab him and bring him to us. But, dude, what does it matter? Jason’s dead. He isn’t going to be leaking any more port shipments to anyone.”

  Vinny wanted to slap him. His cousin couldn’t really be that stupid. But apparently, he was.

  How the fuck did I end up on Marco duty? Vinny wondered. Oh right, because of the damn port.

  Now Vinny knew how Raff had felt looking after Marco all those years. Or maybe not, since Marco was just a boy back then.

  Thinking of Raff made Vinny miss the quiet old soldier. He drew in a deep breath as his mind shifted back to their new problem.

  “You might have just whacked the only guy that knows the true identities of the Saints,” Vinny said. “This is why we use our own people, not some shit-for-brains gangbangers. If you want to catch the Saints, you’re going to have to start listening. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  A moment of silence passed between the two of them. Doberman, who had driven them out of the compound this afternoon, kept his eyes on the road. He knew his place. This was the second day Vinny had taken Marco under his wing, and so far, it was like teaching a deaf old dog new tricks.

  “Where are we going?” Marco asked.

  “My contact at the hospital. He called in the stolen RX-Four to Joey�
��s crew last night and gave me the name of the doctor that was with the Saints. If anyone knows where that RX-Four is or who the Saints are, it’s going to be him.”

  Marco brightened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t screw this up.”

  “I know you won’t, because you’re staying in the car.”

  Doberman parked outside an apartment complex.

  “Watch my ride,” Doberman said to Marco.

  “Fuck that, I ain’t no babysitter,” Marco said. “And you’re not my boss, Vin.”

  “I know. I’m your babysitter.”

  Doberman chuckled, and Marco fumed.

  Vinny scratched at the back of his neck and looked down at his cousin’s clenched fist.

  “Seriously, dude?” he said. “After the stunt your hired dog pulled in Lincoln Heights, you might want to lighten up.”

  “Or what? You going to rat me out?”

  “I’m no rat, Marco, and hitting me isn’t your best option.”

  Marco opened the car door and got out.

  “What you wanna do?” Doberman asked, looking over at Vinny.

  After a few choice Italian expletives, Vinny pulled his black mask over his face and opened the door. He met Doberman at the trunk, where they fished out a stolen police vest. Vinny handed it to Marco.

  “Put this on,” he said.

  After cinching up their vests, they walked through the parking lot toward a building much nicer than the government projects in the slums. The people who lived here were the 1 percent, mostly doctors and business owners.

  Solar panels covered the roofs, and vegetable gardens grew outside the three brick buildings. Several people were weeding and watering. They paid no attention as the three men went in the back door.

  Unlike most apartment buildings in Los Angeles, this one didn’t smell like piss. But they kept their masks up as they climbed the stairwell to the third floor.

  “Number three fourteen,” he said.

  A woman was locking her door around the next corner.

  “Police, ma’am, please watch out,” Doberman said.

  When they were clear, Vinny pulled the slide back on his suppressed pistol. He hated wearing the stolen vests, not because they were hot but because they represented something that seemed fake to him.

  At least the gangsters didn’t pretend to be the good guys. And at least his family gave back to the community. Most of the cops just took their cut and sat on their asses.

  At apartment 314, Vinny took up position on the left side of the door, and Marco on the right.

  Doberman knocked. “Police. Open up, Dr. Hogan.”

  Another rap, and still no answer.

  Vinny gave Doberman a nod. These doors weren’t made of steel like the ones in the slums, because security usually prevented anyone undesirable from getting inside. But the police vests had solved that problem.

  Doberman twisted the knob, and surprisingly, it opened.

  What kind of idiot keeps his door unlocked?

  They swept the small kitchen, the living room, and then the two bedrooms.

  “In here,” Doberman said.

  Vinny and Marco hovered behind Doberman, staring into the small bathroom. Dr. Abdul Hogan—what was left of him—lay in the bathtub.

  “What the fuck, man?” Marco said, turning away.

  Doberman moved aside to let Vinny into the room. He knelt next to the bathtub. The right arm, no longer connected to the torso, was still handcuffed to a metal handrail inside the tub.

  Whoever killed him had tortured him first, and from the looks of it, they took their time. The brutality of the wounds, and the severed limb, had the markings of a Vega job. But not quite.

  Vinny bent down to examine the corpse.

  “We better get out of here,” Marco said.

  “Hold up,” Vinny replied. He grabbed the severed arm and turned the wrist to look at the handcuffs. Sure enough, they were standard LAPD issue.

  This wasn’t the Vegas, the Russians, or some gangbanger junkie. A cop, or someone who knew how cops worked, had done this. Were the Saints trying to cover their tracks? Vinny shook his head. It made no sense.

  “We’re really screwed now,” he muttered. “The only two guys that might have known who the Saints are have already been whacked.”

  * * *

  Dom stood in the safe house’s office, studying pictures of the crime families they were trying to bring down. Cayenne slept on the floor, looking up every few minutes to make sure he was still there.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Dom said.

  Camilla, Pork Chop, and Namid would soon return from Lincoln Heights with their CI. They were just supposed to follow him and see what he was up to, not kidnap him and bring him back here. But maybe this was better. Sammy was important, and they had to keep him safe now that the Morettis were clearly after him.

  Dom checked the video equipment in the corner. Rocky had designed the security system, and it had worked thus far. Junkies would sometimes stumble into the area, triggering an alarm, but no one had come close to discovering the safe house.

  He looked at the don’s picture. If Max Sammartino had kidnapped Monica, then it was under Antonio Moretti’s orders.

  “I’ll get you soon, shithead,” Dom said.

  He gestured to Cayenne, who was camped out on the floor. She hopped after him to the stairwell.

  Tooth stood guard on the rooftop, smoking a cigarette. The alkaline dust was starting to fly in the rising wind. Dom pulled up his face mask and looked around.

  Tooth sucked on his cigarette and pointed to the west. “Here they come.”

  “Let me see those,” Dom said, taking the binoculars from around Tooth’s neck.

  He zoomed in on the Jeep racing down the street, then checked to make sure they didn’t have a tail. The road looked clear—nothing but scorched vehicles and blowing trash. That was exactly why he had chosen this place for their safe house.

  “You really think bringing the kid here is a good idea?” Tooth asked. He used his thumbnail to pick between his impressive front teeth.

  “After what happened in Lincoln Heights? Yeah, I do,” Dom replied. “The kid’s too valuable to us. We can’t let him get killed.”

  “Do you think the shooter whacked the wrong guy, and Sammy was the real target?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

  Cayenne wagged her tail and sank down on her belly, resting her red muzzle on one paw.

  Tooth pointed at the horizon, where the distant shapes of the Moretti empire could be seen. Then he made a gun of his hand, using his thumb as the hammer.

  “Boom, motherfuckers,” he said, drawing a look from Cayenne.

  “Keep watch,” Dom said. “I’m going back in to meet them.”

  He opened the door, and Cayenne followed him inside.

  This wasn’t just a hideout. It was a barracks, armory, and garage, and Dom had created several more, just in case they needed to escape or lie low for a few days. Today was one of those days.

  His team thought him paranoid, but that paranoia had kept them all alive. So far.

  They passed the living space, where Rocky was snoring on a cot. Bettis was on his knees in the corner, praying.

  “Need to talk when you’re done, Chaplain,” Dom said.

  Cayenne hopped after him into the open garage. Camilla stood in front of her locker, behind the boxing ring and weight benches.

  “Where’s Sammy?” he asked.

  “Pork Chop and Namid took him to the cell.”

  “Were you followed here?” Dom asked her.

  She shook her bandaged head.

  Bettis stepped into the garage. “You need to see me?”

  “In a sec,” Dom said.

  Pork Chop and Namid returned.

  “Got to say, I’m ready for a beer,” Pork Chop said.

  Rocky joined them in the garage, rubbing his eyes like a kid waking up from a nap—which, Dom realized, he was.

  “Eve
ryone, grab a beer,” Dom said. “You deserve it. Bettis and I will talk to Sammy first, then we’ll join you guys.”

  Dom stopped on his way out of the garage.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked Camilla.

  She gave him a playful punch. “You worry too much, Dom.”

  “You still haven’t explained exactly what happened at the Catalina.”

  “I will when we have time” she said. “Just focus on the kid. He’s our most valuable asset.”

  He knew she could take care of herself, but it was his nature to want to protect her, especially after failing to protect his kid sister.

  They both wanted justice for their siblings. It bound them, in some ways even more tightly than Dom was to the other members of the team.

  “See you in a bit,” he said to Camilla. He looked down at Cayenne. “Stay here, girl.”

  Dom and Bettis went to the single jail cell, an old bathroom they had repurposed with bars and a door dividing the space in half. A narrow window high in the wall let in a sliver of light. Sammy sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, back to the wall. Bettis closed the door behind them.

  “You guys gotta let me go,” Sammy said. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, and my old lady’s gonna have my ass if I don’t come home soon.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere for a while,” Dom said.

  “Who the fuck are you guys?” Sammy said, standing up and coming to the bars.

  “Friends. And you’re here for your own good,” Dom said. “After what happened at Lincoln Heights, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Who was your friend?” Bettis asked.

  Sammy’s eyes lowered to the ground. “Jason. He was one of the port guys in charge of last night’s shipment.”

  “The Morettis killed him,” Bettis said. “Same guys you’ve been helping at the port.”

  “If they got to him, it’s just a matter of time before they get to you. We have enough on you to take you in,” Dom lied. “Might be a better option, going to jail. Then again, the Morettis have guys on the inside too. I know from experience.”

  Sammy looked up. “Experience?”

  Dom didn’t reply.

  “This fucking bullshit is so unfair!” Sammy said.

  “Tell that to all the people suffering in this city because dirtbags like you help the Morettis,” Bettis said. “They will kill anyone that gets in their way.”