Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Soon. I’ll talk to him about this soon.

  First he had some more business to take care of. He dialed his CO back. The lieutenant sounded nervous when he answered.

  “Hey, Ray, we need to meet up. Where you at?”

  “Just leaving Anaheim.”

  “What the fuck’d you go there for?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “Dangerous place to be tonight. Meet me at the usual spot in thirty minutes.”

  His CO hung up, and Ray tucked the cell phone back into his pocket. He got on the interstate and headed north. The ride gave him plenty of time to think about everything that had happened over the past week. First, his partner getting shot, then the attack on the port and the Saints hitting the RX-4 shipment.

  Normally, he had control over shit. He didn’t let people get the drop on him. Ray Clarke got the drop on them.

  But things were spiraling out of control. The Saints were screwing everything up. They had to go, and if his brother was one of them, Ray was going to face a choice.

  The headlights hit the dirt industrial area surrounding the abandoned Inglewood oil field. He turned onto the frontage road. His off-road tires handled well on the bumpy path, and he sped down the winding trails.

  Seeing the warehouse, he slowed down to make sure his P320 was full, with one in the pipe. The area looked clear, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The edge Ray had heard in the lieutenant’s voice made him uneasy, even though it wasn’t unusual to meet out here late at night.

  He pulled up next to the black Cadillac and rolled his window down. Lieutenant Best sat in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigar. He took a puff, making his fat cheeks seem to shrink.

  “What’s up, Lieutenant?” Ray asked.

  Best blew out the smoke and reached over to the passenger seat. Ray pointed his P320 at the door, ready to fire if this turned out to be an ambush. He didn’t trust the guy for shit.

  “Here’s your cut from the port last night,” Best said. He grabbed an envelope and handed it out through the window. Keeping the pistol in his right hand, Ray grabbed it with his left.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, what you been hearing out there today? Anything from our Italian friends?” Best asked.

  “I heard about the two million price tag on each Saint’s head, but I haven’t talked to Vinny. Figured I’d let shit die down after the port.”

  “Better them than us . . .” Best took another drag before looking over, fear in his gaze. “I heard there were Russian RPGs used in the attack.”

  “I heard that too,” Ray said. “I don’t think Don Antonio is going to think you’re stupid enough to have been involved. Chances are, he’ll go after the Russians and the Saints.”

  Best grinned and tossed the cigar on the ground. “The Morettis aren’t the only ones looking for Robin Hood and his merry band of assholes. Chief Stone has ordered the boys and girls of the LAPD to find and bring them in.”

  * * *

  At 7:00 p.m., Dom pulled out his buzzing phone to find a text message from Lieutenant Marks.

  Got tickets for you and one other person. Tomorrow morning.

  Marks had found a way to get Dom and Moose into the secure prison, the House of the Devil. Putting the phone away, he took a breath and walked into the hospital to see his mom.

  Camilla had offered to join him, but he felt her time was better spent visiting her uncle. She was right—the Saints needed a backup plan. Namid could always go home to the Mojave reservation, but the rest of them would never be safe there.

  The huge bounty was a game changer, but Dom was trying not to worry about it too much. The money didn’t matter to the people who knew their identities, and that was only a handful besides Lieutenant Marks and Councilman Castle.

  And Sammy. The new CI had seen Bettis’s face. But he was locked away at their safe house and wasn’t going anywhere.

  Dom took in a deeper breath when he got to the mental health ward. He hated this place—the smell of disinfectants, the same white walls, the too-bright fluorescent lights. Mostly, he hated that his mom lived here, that he couldn’t take care of her anymore.

  The nurse—a new one he didn’t recognize—buzzed him in. She had curly red hair and big black-rimmed glasses.

  “Dominic Salvatore here to see Elena Salvatore,” he said.

  “Go on in.”

  He made his way through the halls with the night guard, Blake. He wore white scrubs like the rest of the staff but carried a black nightstick, like the one Dom had been issued when he joined the LAPD.

  “How’s she been?” Dom asked.

  Blake frowned. “She’s displaying more psychotic behavior since your last visit.”

  “And she’s been taking all her RX-Four doses?”

  “Yup, we supervise each one.”

  A doctor Dom hadn’t seen before walked down the hallway, and Blake waved him over.

  “Dr. Watts, you got a moment to talk to Mr. Salvatore?”

  “Sure,” Watts said.

  “How you doin’, Doc?” Dom said.

  “Good. You’re here to see Elena?”

  Dom nodded. “Blake said she’s been displaying some concerning behaviors.”

  The doctor brought up her file on his tablet. “The antiviral agent is preventing the genetically modified virus from further damaging her immune system, and she has no symptoms of thickened nerves or lesions, which leads me to believe the behavior is caused mostly by mental illness.”

  “In other words, she’s just crazy,” Dom replied.

  Watts pursed his lips, then nodded. “She has extreme mental health issues, and we’re focusing on helping her with coping mechanisms.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He nodded and continued his rounds as Blake pulled out a pair of keys to unlock the door.

  “Don’t get her all worked up,” he said. “We just got her to sleep about an hour ago.”

  “Okay.”

  Blake opened the door. “Take as much time as you want.”

  The door clicked shut behind Dom, and he walked over to his mom’s bedside. She was curled up in a fetal position, clutching something to her chest. He stopped a few feet from the bed, watching her in the glow of moonlight coming in the window.

  She looked so . . . small. Like a child.

  He didn’t want to wake her when she looked so peaceful, so he sat in the chair by her bed and watched her for a few minutes. He could see her face clearly: the scars from the lesions, the wrinkles from endless hours of crying, and her thin gray hair.

  And he could also see the tattered stuffed elephant she clutched to her chest like a pillow. Seeing Mumbo, Monica’s favorite stuffed animal, nearly brought Dom to tears.

  The past eight years had been hell for him and his mom, literally driving her insane from the grief. The drugs didn’t help, especially the opioids that she used to numb the pain. But she was being weaned off them, and she was still alive thanks to the miraculous RX-4.

  Most weren’t so lucky. Of all the people in the city with mental health problems, only a fraction had medical support like this. He paid a lot for her care here, but it was the only thing he could do for her. There was no way he could care for her back at his apartment.

  The fact that she hated him didn’t help matters. Every time he came here, he hoped she would forgive him for losing Monica and failing to find her since that day, but she never changed.

  She would never forgive him or his dad.

  He watched her torso’s even rise and fall, her vertebrae protruding against her white gown like the spines of some ancient reptile. Seeing her sleep made him tired, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

  A low voice woke him.

  “Dominic, is that you?”

  He looked over at the bed, where his mom had sat up, still gripping Mumbo against her chest like a baby.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said, forcing a smile. “How are you doing?”

  Her eyes narrowed, forming a mask of wrinkles.
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  “Did you find her?”

  Dom resisted the urge to sigh. He almost told her about Max, but that would only upset her further and result in endless questions. Besides, he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t repeat it to anyone.

  “Did you find Monica?” she asked again.

  “No, Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “I told you not to come back until you bring Monica. I miss my baby.” Elena rolled away, turning her back to him. “Now, go. Go and get your sister.”

  “Mom . . .” Dom said. He got up and moved over to the other side of the bed. “Mom, don’t you miss me, too? I sure miss you, and I thought I’d come see how you’re doing. I might not be able to come back for a while.”

  She looked up, glaring at him, rage and confusion in her eyes.

  “I don’t want to see you until you bring Monica home.”

  Dom sighed. “Okay, Mom.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. She let him do that, and for a moment her eyes seemed to brighten.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She blinked, as if trying to focus. Then she reached out a bony hand, brushing Dom’s arm ever so slightly. “I love you, Dominic,” she whispered.

  Sighing, she looked away, hugging the stuffed animal tightly. Her words and the change of demeanor nearly broke Dom. He remained there for a moment, watching her as she drifted off to sleep.

  Part of his mom was still in there, and he would do whatever it took to keep her from drifting into the darkness, even if it meant that he himself had to slip deeper into it.

  “I’m going to kill the men who took Monica,” he whispered. “I promise you that.”

  Elena stirred but didn’t turn, either not hearing him or not wanting to say anything further.

  “Bye, Mom,” he said.

  Dom left the mental ward as fast as he could walk, but he didn’t leave the hospital right away. He wanted to talk to Abdul about his mom’s treatment, maybe even grab a spot and talk about the RX-4.

  He stopped at the ER desk on the ground floor.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The receptionist looked up from a pile of papers. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Is Dr. Hogan in?”

  The receptionist shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “If he’s busy, I can wait,” Dom said.

  A nurse standing behind the desk came over. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Hogan didn’t show up for his shift today. We sent someone to check on him, and they found him . . .”

  “Found him?” Dom said.

  The nurse nodded ruefully. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Hogan was murdered yesterday.”

  -13-

  “Be careful,” said Bettis. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” Camilla said. She pulled up her face mask and her hood and set off toward the Los Angeles River.

  Chatsworth had looked a lot different when she first came with her family from Guadalajara. It was before the war and before the droughts turned the landscape into a desert.

  Back then, while many people were fleeing violence in South America, her uncle, Álvaro Santiago, had convinced her father to come to “el cielo,” as he had called it—to heaven. Her uncle had built a business of helping people flee postwar violence to safe zones and communes out east—places where fallout hadn’t poisoned the soil, and gangs hadn’t poisoned everything else.

  But it was one of those expeditions that ended up killing her mother and father—the same expedition that cost Álvaro an eye and a leg.

  Painful memories welled up in her as she walked up a street winding through the hills. The remains of mansions rose above her, their shattered windows reminding her of broken teeth.

  Gusting wind stirred up the dust on the short walk to the river. She couldn’t remember the last time it rained. Two weeks? Three? The entire city was reliant on the desalination plants.

  While the landscape and living conditions had changed vastly since the war, one thing hadn’t. Her uncle was still a smuggler. She hadn’t seen him in over six months and wasn’t sure he even still lived in the city. Business had never been better for his crew, with locals who had money paying him a small fortune to take them east.

  There were plenty of people to hire for the job. Biker gangs, veterans turned contractors, and even cops. But no one had Álvaro’s track record. He was one of the only men to survive the journey across the wastes more than fifty times. He had also helped Dom and Moose get safely through the deserts to Vegas. But his expertise hadn’t saved her parents.

  This evening, she pushed the feelings aside and focused on the reason she was here to see him. At the first sign of civilization, Camilla reached behind her, making sure her hooded sweatshirt covered the Smith and Wesson .45 holstered inside her waistband.

  Tents were scattered across a dead park at the bottom of the hill. Several cars drove past.

  She walked downhill along a shaded lane, to a gated-off area. A guard wearing camouflage fatigues, goggles, and a breathing apparatus stood at the barred entrance. He held a shotgun across his broad chest.

  “I’m here to see Álvaro,” she said.

  “And who are you?”

  “His niece, Camilla.”

  The guard looked at her ID as she pulled down her mask. After a long look, he handed the card back and unlocked the gate.

  “There’s someone at the bottom that will take you to him,” the man said.

  “Thanks.”

  He opened the gate, and she walked in and took the ladder down to the bottom. Her boots hit the concrete bed of a “river” that she could step across.

  The area had been put to good use, thanks to her uncle. His fleet of trucks had brought in the dirt for the gardens. Farmers tended the produce with the utmost care, composting and cultivating.

  Several guards patrolled the area. One walked over to her holding an AK-47 with a stock wrapped in duct tape. They were simple people, but they protected their way of life.

  “I’m here to see Álvaro,” she said.

  “Follow me.”

  She followed him along the edges of the gardens. Graffiti covered the concrete slopes above them.

  Ahead, the riverbed broke off into two parts. On the right, the gardens continued, but on the left a massive steel door blocked off the mouth of a tunnel. A crooked sign hung above a pedestrian door hinged inside the larger door.

  A bell chimed as she followed the guard. Farmers looked up from their work. Several people moved over to the pulley system they had developed to cover the crops during dust storms or acid rain.

  Tarps were drawn overhead, so that by the time she got to the door of the tunnel, the improvised roof was complete, cloaking the riverbed in darkness.

  The lights built into the concrete bank flickered on, powered by solar panels she had seen on the walk in. This was one impressive place—a true testament to the ingenuity and hard work of people like her uncle. They had saved the city from ending up a true wasteland like so many others.

  “Wait here,” said the guard.

  She stopped outside the door. The farmers were back to work, pruning plants by lamplight. Several of them carried burlap bags of potatoes.

  “Cam,” said a voice.

  She turned back to the open doorway, where her uncle stood holding a cane.

  “Hola, tío, ¿qué tal?” she said, pulling down her face mask.

  The thick silver mustache lifted in a smile. The prosthetic right leg creaked as he limped forward. He reached out, but she backed away from his embrace.

  Álvaro’s mustache drooped, and his shoulders slumped a little.

  “Been a while,” he said. “Come on in.”

  She followed him inside the open door, into a warehouse. The door clanked shut behind them.

  “How you been, Cam?” he asked with his thick accent. “The border treating you okay?”

  She shrugged. “Being a deputy is kind of like being a firefighter. Most days, you sit around waiting for a fire. How abou
t you?”

  He turned to look at the tunnel, which he had made into a long garage. Two semis were parked inside. Sparks flew off the brush guard of the truck on the right, where two men welded on a new spike.

  “Took a real beating on the last run,” he said. “But got another one going out tomorrow. Need to be ready.”

  “Where to?”

  “This one is going to a commune in Iowa. Place called Decorah, where a former college town has fortified a small slice of paradise. It’s a hidden gem in a sea of radioactive farmland.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  He motioned for her to move aside and pointed his cane at a shack they had built inside the tunnel. She joined him in the small office, stepping over to a desk with pictures of her family.

  He closed the door and sat at his desk.

  “I miss them every day,” he said.

  Camilla picked up a frame with her mother, father, and brother. The picture was taken on a secluded beach, when she was just seven or eight. They used to go there one Saturday a month to lie in the sun, play in the water, and eat freshly baked donuts, street tacos, and macaroons.

  “Joaquín was a little over two in that picture,” Álvaro said. “Fabiola sure did have a hard time with him when he was younger. Your brother was a real pistol.”

  His eyes flitted to the table.

  Camilla wasn’t the only one who had lost her family. Her uncle shared her pain. She laid the picture down. It was time to get to the point.

  “I might need one of your crews in the near future,” she said. “Got a kid and his mom that might need to get out of the city. And some . . . friends.”

  Álvaro leaned forward, making a pyramid of his wrinkled fingers.

  “Who are these friends?” he asked.

  “Can you help me, or not?” she asked.

  “Depends on how many people, and when. Like I said, both my crews are going out tomorrow, and I’m going with them.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll figure something else out. Sorry to bother you.” She turned to leave, but he reached out.

  “Camilla, wait.”

  She held the door handle but didn’t open it. Álvaro stood behind her and she turned to face him. Her heart sank at the sadness in his gaze and his posture. Seeing him standing there on a carbon-fiber leg, leaning on a cane, nearly broke her.