“I only help with the shit from Europe,” Sammy said. “Got nothing to do with the drugs from Mexico. Why do you think I’m still alive? If they thought I’d helped Jason, I woulda got capped too.”
Dom looked at Bettis. The kid had a point, but it was also possible he was the target and the assassins had failed.
“I blame the cops for what happened to Jason,” the kid said. “I told Lieutenant Marks about the shipment, and look what fucking happened. Cops show up at the port, guns blazing.”
Dom and Bettis stayed silent.
“I bet it was the Saints,” Sammy said. “No one else is crazy enough to fuck with a Moretti shipment.”
The kid had balls. But that came with youth. Dom remembered how invincible he had felt when he was younger. It wasn’t until Abdul had patched him up in the ER for a second time that Dom had been reminded that he was mortal.
Sammy backed away from the bars to sit on the bench.
“You guys think I’m some kinda animal, but I’m just trying to survive. I’ve been taking care of my mom four years now. Wanted to go to school, but she got sick and I got a job.”
Dom listened. He wanted to hear what Sammy had to say.
“My mom hates this city. Always wanted to get out, but then my pops died. My older brother got gunned down, so we’re stranded here.”
Bettis looked over at Dom, who kept listening.
“I shoulda never helped the cops,” Sammy said. “The Morettis will come for me, and before they kill me, they’ll torture me. Probably my mom too.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Dom reminded him. “For your own good.”
Sammy got up from the bench. “Who the fuck are—” He reared back. “Wait a damn second.”
“We’re the only ones fighting evil in this city,” Dom said. “And we’re the only ones who can help you.”
“Wow,” Sammy said, raising a hand. “Holy shit. You guys are Saints? Whoa! I’d be better off selling you to the Morettis. You guys are seriously whacked, you realize that?”
“Back up,” Bettis said. “First off, you don’t know who we are, and you don’t know where you are right now. So enough threats.”
“We want to help you, kid,” Dom said.
Sammy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Why would you want to help me?”
“Because you’re a good kid,” Dom said. “Because your mom raised you right. That’s why you work at the port to look after her and you’re not off with the other kids your age doing H or running with some gang.”
“The alternative is to get locked away in Casa de los Diablos,” Bettis said. “You’ve seen it, right?”
Of course you have. Everyone knew that shithole that swallowed people whole. It was a society within a society, controlled more by the inmates than by the guards, much as LA was controlled by the gangsters, not the cops.
“We can put you in isolation there so no one gets to you,” Dom lied.
Sammy seemed to consider his options. Dom and Bettis waited for him to finish scratching his ear.
“How can I help you guys?”
“By helping us take down the Morettis,” Dom said. “If you do, I’ll make sure you and your mom get out of LA, to one of the communes out east.”
Sammy gave Dom a cockeyed look, then went back to scratching his ear.
“Did you hear me?” Dom asked.
Sammy stepped up to the bars. “If I’m going to trust you, I need to see your face. My dad always said you gotta see a man’s face before you can decide whether to trust him.”
Bettis shook his head. “No way, kid.”
Normally, Dom wouldn’t have considered pulling down his mask, but there was something about Sammy that he liked. It was like looking into a mirror from ten years ago.
He reached up to his mask.
“What are you doing, boss?” Bettis protested, holding up his hand.
“Not you,” Sammy said. He pointed to Bettis. “I want to see his face. My dad also said you can’t trust a man that isn’t willing to take a risk.”
Bettis said nothing, waiting for a decision.
Dom thought on it, then gave the nod that would expose him to a kid they couldn’t trust but needed more than ever.
“All right,” Dom said as Bettis lowered his mask. “Happy?”
“Yeah,” Sammy replied.
“Hungry?” Dom asked.
Sammy nodded.
“I’ll be back in a bit with some food,” Dom said.
He walked down the hallway with Bettis, who actually cursed.
“Relax,” Dom said. “The kid isn’t going anywhere.”
In the garage, Tooth and Rocky were sparring.
“Told you I’d beat your ass,” Tooth said.
Rocky answered with a punch to the jaw.
“Damn,” Dom said, impressed.
Tooth put his glove up to his cheek in shock. “Oh, it’s on, little man,” he said, heavy on the Irish accent. He swung, and Rocky ducked.
Namid and Camilla sat at the card table, playing poker and laughing. Across the space, Pork Chop worked on the Chevy Tahoe, showering sparks on the floor as he welded on a panel.
Moose was in their gym as usual, bench-pressing. He pushed the weights up, the bar bowing slightly in the middle. Gangster rap played over the speakers: Rocky’s custom mix track of old-school 50 Cent, Tupac, Lil Wayne, and Ice Cube.
“Guys,” Namid said, standing up from the table.
The Saints all stopped what they were doing and stood. Namid handed Dom a beer.
“What’s this about?” Dom asked.
“We couldn’t toast the other night,” Camilla said. “Thought we should take a few minutes today, before you send us back out there.”
Dom popped his beer and raised it.
“Congratulations, boss!” Moose said.
Pork Chop turned up the bass.
“Check it,” Tooth said, pointing at Rocky.
The kid was starting his infamous robot dance.
“Yeah, baby!” Moose yelled.
“Get it, Rock!” Camilla shouted.
Cayenne whipped her tail and ran over to the ring, wanting in on the action. Rocky dropped to the mat and started break dancing.
As the team celebrated, Dom made the rounds, thanking each member before walking over and turning the music off.
“The port was a huge victory for us,” Dom said. “I’ve got some planning to do, so everybody gets the rest of the day and night off.”
“Woot, woot!” Camilla said.
“I’m gonna sleep the entire time,” Tooth said.
“Not before our rematch,” Rocky said.
They went back to boxing, and Pork Chop and Bettis joined Namid and Camilla at their card game. Moose watched the boxing for a few minutes, then walked over to Dom.
“You got something you need help with?” he asked.
Dom shook his head. He still hadn’t told Moose about the lead on Monica, and he wouldn’t until Marks called with access to the prison.
“You sure?” Moose asked, pulling out his phone.
“Sure,” Dom said.
“Gotta take this.” Moose stepped away.
Dom finished his beer and refilled Cayenne’s bowls with fresh water and kibble. Her tail whipped against the cabinet as she wolfed down the chow. He crouched and stroked the dog as she ate.
A shadow loomed over them, and he looked up at Moose. The big man wiped the sweat from his face with a towel.
Dom stood waited for bad news. “What?”
“My brother,” Moose said. “Ray just got word there’s a two-million-dollar bounty on the head of every Saint in the city. Asked me if I knew anything about it.”
Dom nodded at Pork Chop to turn the music down.
“Hey, turn that back on,” Rocky said. He and Tooth came over to the ropes of the boxing ring.
“What’s going on?” Camilla asked, looking up from her cards.
For a moment, Dom thought about keeping this from the team for no
w. They all desperately needed to rest and have some fun without worrying about torture and death.
But this was something he couldn’t keep from them. Mindful of Sammy in the cell, Dom gathered the team around him and spoke in a whisper.
“Don Antonio didn’t bite on the RPGs,” Dom said. “The son of a bitch has a bounty on all our heads.”
“How much?” Tooth asked.
“Two million in silver.”
“Two fucking million?” Rocky said. “Who knew I was worth that much!”
Camilla tossed her cards on the table. “It was just a matter of time.”
Bettis made a cross over his tattooed chest.
“Changes nothing,” Pork Chop said.
“Nothing?” Namid leaned back in his chair. “This changes everything.”
“Yup, we’re pretty well fucked,” Rocky said. “Everyone in the freaking city’s going to be looking for us.”
“Maybe it’s time to go see my uncle,” Camilla said. “Just in case we have to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Who said anything about leaving?” Dom said. “This is when we double down.”
“We could hide out at the rez if we need,” Namid said. “They would take us all in.”
Camilla shrugged. “It’s good to have a backup plan, you know. Just in case shit goes south.”
Dom looked around him. “If anybody wants out, that’s fine. But I’m just getting started, and I’ll stop when Don Antonio and Esteban Vega are in the ground.”
-12-
Ray sat on the tattered leather couch of his three-bedroom apartment, swigging from a forty. The bland lager was one of the cheap imports from China, like almost everything else you could buy in what passed for a grocery store in postwar Los Angeles.
He used to get Mexican stuff, but Mexico wasn’t in much better shape than the United States. So it was Japanese beer. Tonight, he didn’t care that it tasted like carbonated piss. He was just happy to be at home with his family.
His six- and seven-year-old boys, Jamal and Will, were outside playing basketball, and the two youngest were on the floor in front of him, arguing over a doll’s wardrobe.
“Lolo, Maddie, knock that shit off,” Ray said.
His wife, Alicia, walked inside from the balcony, where she was pulling dry laundry off a line.
“What I tell you about language, Ray?” she said.
“Sorry, babe, been a long day.”
He gulped down a quarter of the beer, set it on the table, and sat down on the floor with Maddie and Lolo. Both girls glanced up, curious.
“Wanna play with us?” Maddie asked.
“Maybe later,” Ray replied.
Maddie went back to braiding the doll’s hair while her little sister looked on.
“See, just like this,” Maddie said.
Lolo leaned down, exposing the thinning hair on the back of her scalp.
“Sweetie, did you take your medicine today?” Ray asked.
“Do I have to?” she whined.
Leaning in, Ray kissed her on the forehead, just above the scar from the first and only open sore she ever got.
He kissed Maddie on the head next, then got up and went to the safe in the bedroom. He brought back the RX-4 syringe.
Lolo knew the drill. She stood and lifted up her shirt to let Ray inject the needle into her tummy fat. She winced, then smiled at Ray.
“All done, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you and Maddie go play video games.”
Lolo perked up. “Really?”
Maddie grinned.
“Yeah,” Ray said. They scrambled over to the TV, and he walked out to the balcony with his beer in hand.
“You okay?” Alicia asked.
He took another swig. “Yeah, baby. I’m good.”
They never talked about his work. It was better that way. She wouldn’t understand, anyway, and she had enough to worry about with four kids living in the slums.
He looked out over their complex, and she went back into the kitchen. The courtyard below was packed full of people. Most of them were probably discussing the attack on the port. Everyone had heard about it, and most people suspected it was probably the Saints. But with rumors flying about the Russians, law enforcement didn’t seem so sure.
But Ray was. He knew about the RX-4 delivered to Hope Hotel. It had to be the Saints. No one but those vigilantes would give away the precious medicine.
He cursed under his breath as he thought back to what little Jackie had told him at the radiation ward of the hospital. The boy had described seeing a Saint with hair like antlers. The dude was big and black, like Ray.
Plenty of other guys in the city wore their hair like Moose, but how many cops?
His gut sank at the prospect of his brother being one of the Saints. Not because he hated them for their vigilante quest to bring down the Morettis, Vegas, and all the other corrupt crime families, but because he knew what would happen to Moose if he was a Saint and he ever got caught.
But he couldn’t see his brother doing something so stupid, not with a family to think about. He had worked as a deputy with Dom for years—ever since Dom’s dad got killed outside the border.
Nah, Ray didn’t believe his bro and his bro’s friend were the men behind the masks. But someone on the LAPD had to be helping the Saints, and he was going to find out who.
“Alicia, I’ll be back later,” he said.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He walked into the kitchen, where she had a dinner of champions cooking: government-issue macaroni noodles with hunks of Spam.
“Looks delicious,” he lied. “Save a plate for me. I’ll be back later.”
“When?” She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her brown eyes at him.
Damn, you still look sexy when you’re mad.
He had fallen in love with those exotic eyes. They married eight years ago and started making their beautiful babies a year later. But life in Los Angeles, and his job, had driven a wedge between them.
“Soon as I can, babe,” he said.
She shrugged. “Be safe,” she said, almost as if she meant it.
He had expected an argument, but this was a welcome surprise. Hurrying out of the kitchen before she changed her mind, he didn’t stop except to kiss his daughters again.
“Bye, Daddy,” Maddie said. “I hope you catch some bad guys.”
Lolo smiled, revealing two missing baby teeth. His girls were adorable, just like their mom. Everything he did out there was for his family.
Ray drove across the city, still working on the forty, his mind racing. The Mosquitos were out tonight, spraying the air with chemicals. So were the kids on their scooters and mopeds, and the biker gangs.
Engines rumbled as old-school motorcycles vroomed by. They were bounty hunters and guns for hire. Most of the time, they left the cops alone, but tonight they were probably out looking for the Saints, salivating over that $2-million-a-head bounty.
Ray drove for over an hour—past the Port of Long Beach and all the way to Anaheim, where Angel Stadium was now a refugee camp. Thousands of people lived in the tent city set up inside, where the Angels once played, and in the parking lots outside.
Ray had trouble believing that this was one of the most civilized places left in the country. The other cities still standing were in far worse shape. At least the crime families gave some sort of organization to the madness.
Of all the sights, though, it was always the concrete fortress in the Malice Wastes that hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because he had sent hundreds of men to die there over the years.
Or maybe it was because the idea of being imprisoned there terrified him.
The House of the Devil.
Ray knew a few cops serving time in the massive facility. Most of them would never see daylight again. Some had already been murdered by the same scum they had put away.
He couldn’t think of a much worse fate than going insid
e those walls. The place was a den of living, breathing evil, from raiders captured attacking the walls, to the gangsters and thugs who pressed their luck one too many times—or failed to pay off the cops.
Finishing off the last of the forty, he tossed it out the window and drove away. The alcohol warmed his gut, and he pushed the pedal, racing down the highway at a hundred miles an hour.
The beams bounced up and down over several potholes, but he kept his foot down, going faster. The Audi raced by a rusted sedan going half its speed.
Maybe the job had finally cracked him—maybe the last spark of good in his heart had gone out, and maybe his family would be better off if he was dead.
The next car in the right lane was a police cruiser. They turned on their lights, then turned them off.
He felt a little flutter inside, not because he was worried about getting pulled over, but because he realized he had a freaking death wish.
He took his foot off the pedal at the thought of leaving his family behind. All his side deals, all the hustling, all the bodies left in excavations and landfills—all of it was to provide for them. They had food on the table, clothes to wear, RX-4 for Lolo, a video game system they played on a television that had cost him a week’s pay.
But life wasn’t like the video games his kids played. He got only one life, which meant he had to keep being smart and never give up. He had to keep fighting for Alicia, Jamal, Will, Lolo, and Maddie.
He took the next exit and pulled out his cell phone. A missed call from his CO. Ignoring it, he dialed his brother instead.
“ ’Sup?” Moose answered.
“Wanna grab a beer?”
“Already had a few. Heading back to my crib soon. You good, man?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“ ’Cause you don’t usually call me twice in a day, bro,” Moose said.
“Yeah, just thinking about old times.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Maybe in a few days, man—been busy at work.”
“Yeah, me too. Talk later, brother.”
Ray ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. His brother was hiding something. He could hear it in his voice, and he had seen it at the barbecue a few days ago. But that didn’t mean he was a Saint.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 15
