Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  The Morettis had spent the past twenty-four hours hunting down their enemies, and they weren’t finished yet. He still had a few more things to do before he could claim his throne and move on the utilities in Los Angeles—something he’d had his eyes on for eight years now. Once he controlled those, no one could stop him.

  If his men hadn’t captured the Saints by that point, he had a very simple backup plan: turn off the lights and water until the city handed them over.

  He grabbed the ARX160 propped up against the Escalade’s door. It felt good to hold a rifle again. The weapon, like the bulletproof windows and the trucks ahead, was a precaution. So were the breathing masks and the gallons of drinking water.

  Everything he did, he did with security in mind.

  The threat of running into raiders was higher than normal tonight, but his soldiers could take them easily if confronted—the nomadic psychos weren’t skilled fighters, although they were crazy, which made them harder to kill.

  They were now twenty miles from the nearest settlement of people cast out from Los Angeles. Most of the people who came here voluntarily just wanted to be left alone—people like Snake and his crew.

  It was a damn shame what happened to him, Antonio thought, recalling the story Carmine relayed after talking to Detective Ray Clarke. It was also a shame that Ray had been involved with the port. He was one of the cops on their payroll that Antonio had actually liked. Smart and aggressive.

  If only Marco could be more like that. Perhaps a week or two out in the wastes, living on one of the homesteads with the sick outcasts like Snake, would stiffen his spine. Antonio should have sent his son out here instead of that expensive school in Italy.

  Vito followed the trucks out onto a frontage road away from the interstate. Familiar shapes of rocks broke through the darkness. Antonio hadn’t been here in over a year, but he recognized the terrain.

  Faces of a dozen enemies surfaced in his mind. Enzo, don of the Sarcone family, was nothing but bones by now. Some of the Yamazakis were also buried here—the ones that Antonio had decided not to throw in the landfill. The Boai, mostly former triads, who had risen to power five years earlier, were also in shallow graves.

  Soon, the dirt would be filled with other neutralized threats to the Moretti operation. And in time, there would be unmarked graves for Esteban Vega and his brother Miguel.

  But not the Saints. Antonio had other plans for them. Much bigger plans.

  “Where the hell are we?” Marco asked.

  Antonio finally looked back at his son, slumped in his rumpled white Armani suit.

  “Devil’s graveyard,” Antonio said.

  Marco sat up straight. “We’re in the desert?”

  “You just realized that?” Vito said, laughing.

  “Why . . .” Marco’s voice cracked.

  “You’ll find out soon. Now, drink that fucking water,” Antonio snapped.

  After driving another forty minutes, the small convoy finally stopped. Vito pulled over behind the trucks. Several men piled out of the vehicles and opened the lift gates.

  The Escalade’s headlights captured two bodies tied up in the back of the truck on the right and one in the truck on the left.

  “Who are they?” Marco asked.

  “Get out,” Antonio said.

  They followed Vito across the dirt to the pickups.

  The wind wasn’t bad tonight, and there was no sign of any dust storms brewing.

  Six men moved out with their rifles to form a perimeter, while Yellowtail, Carmine, Christopher, Doberman, and Vinny stood watch. Several other soldiers jumped into the backs of the pickups and pulled out the prisoners, tossing them to the dirt.

  Antonio looked for Sergei’s bearded face, but the man was facedown.

  “What the hell happened to your head, Vin?” Marco asked, apparently more interested in his cousin than the prisoners.

  Vinny touched the bandage wrapped around his forehead. Then he gave Marco the once-over. “Enjoy your night on the town?”

  Marco brushed his hair back into place. “I was until I got yanked from my party. I was celebrating West Hollywood, bro.”

  “Celebrating the street bench you shot up before I saved your ass?”

  The other men all laughed, and Marco clenched his jaw.

  Vinny waved his hand when Marco didn’t reply. “Don’t mention it. I know you would have saved my ass too, if the roles were reversed.”

  “He also helped capture our Russian friend,” Yellowtail said, eyes on the prisoner.

  Christopher nodded proudly. “He took a risk, but it paid off. Sergei would have escaped if it weren’t for Vinny.”

  “I got lucky, I guess.” Vinny turned to Antonio. “Those Ronin helmets were well worth the price tag. Thank you, Don Antonio.”

  “Didn’t save Rush,” Christopher said.

  Antonio froze. “Rush?”

  The death stung, especially after losing Joey and his entire crew earlier in the week. But this was war, and in war, soldiers died.

  Antonio had to remain positive and focus on the endgame.

  “Frankie’s also gone,” Carmine said. “But we have Christopher to thank for that.”

  “What!” Antonio snapped.

  His younger brother stroked the gray tip of his beard. “Piece of shit shot a kid.”

  “What do you mean, he ‘shot a kid’?” Antonio asked. They didn’t have many rules, but you didn’t kill children.

  “Kid saw us before we went into the tunnels,” Christopher said. “I told everyone no kids and no women—except for that one.”

  He pointed at Natalia Nevsky, lying facedown in the dirt beside her husband.

  Antonio wasn’t entirely surprised to hear that Frankie had offed a kid. The old soldier had always been a loose cannon. Maybe it was for the best.

  No, you’re losing too many men.

  The losses more than stung. They hurt. Frankie was one of his best earners, and Rush had been a loyal associate ever since deserting AMP to work for the Moretti family.

  He managed his rage and turned his attention back to Sergei and his wife. The duct tape covering Natalia’s mouth came undone as she struggled.

  “Don’t kill us, please!” she wailed. “We will give you everything!”

  Antonio pulled out a shovel from the bed of a pickup. “I already have everything.” He casually walked over to her, spat on Sergei, and then smacked Natalia over the head with the flat of the blade.

  The crack echoed in the night, silencing the woman and everyone else but Sergei. He flopped on the ground like a landed fish, but Antonio didn’t ease his suffering with a good whack.

  He tossed the shovel to his son instead.

  The kid caught it, holding it up in the air as if it were some sort of alien object.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marco said.

  Antonio folded his arms across his chest.

  “Start digging,” he said. “You too, Carmine.”

  Carmine muttered and grabbed another shovel. Antonio didn’t like his attitude, and he didn’t like the way he had looked at Christopher, but he understood why. Carmine and Frankie had been close for decades.

  Could he still trust the captain, or should he deal with him while they were here at the Devil’s Graveyard?

  Give him one last chance. You need him.

  Carmine and Marco moved in front of the pickup trucks, where the headlights provided plenty of light to dig by.

  “Yellowtail, send a few more lookouts just in case some hillbillies try and sneak up on us,” Christopher said. Three associates followed the soldier out into the dark.

  Antonio made his way over to their other prisoner, on his knees, gut hanging over blue pants soaked with piss. Lieutenant Billy Best tried to straighten up as best he could with his hands behind his back.

  “I’m disappointed,” Antonio said. He squatted down to look the crooked cop in the eye. “Very disappointed.”

  Best whined and mumbled, trying to talk
through the duct tape. He stopped and swallowed when Christopher walked over with his pistol aimed at the man’s head.

  “Not yet,” Antonio said. He turned back to Best and ripped the tape off the officer’s battered face.

  Best sucked in a deep breath and started pleading for his life.

  “You thought you could steal from me?” Antonio asked.

  “I swear I had nothin’ to do with the port, Don Antonio. Swear on my daughter’s life.”

  “This isn’t for the port. This is for skimming off the top, you disgusting pile of merda.”

  Best sobbed. “I’m sorry, Don Antonio, please forgive me. I’ll repay you every dime.”

  Antonio rose to his feet and walked away, the dirt crunching under his boots as Best whimpered behind him.

  “Shut him up,” Antonio ordered.

  Vinny pulled off a new swatch of tape and slapped it over Best’s mouth while Christopher pulled out a cigar and handed one to Antonio. Vinny joined them, smoking a cigarette.

  The three of them watched the two prisoners squirm and cry in the dirt beside their designated final resting places.

  It was a sight Antonio had witnessed more times than he could count.

  He lit his cigar and blew the smoke skyward, studying the sparkling sky. The tradition was one of many he had developed with his brother over the years, and each time, it strengthened their bond.

  They were gods in this life. Giants. And even though Antonio knew he was destined for hell in the next, he didn’t fear his fate.

  All that mattered was taking everything he could now, during this moment. He would do the same thing in hell.

  “Almost done,” Carmine shouted. He stood in one hole while Marco dug away inside the other.

  “Got another one to dig when you’re done,” Vinny said.

  Marco muttered something under his breath. Not surprising. Like many men their age, the two were constantly vying to show who had bigger balls.

  He climbed out of the shallow grave. “I can’t believe you brought me out here to dig a fucking hole in the middle of the night after I almost got killed.”

  “I brought you out here to turn you into a man,” Antonio said.

  Marco looked at Christopher, who walked over with a pistol.

  “No,” Antonio said. “Too easy.”

  Christopher halted and looked over his shoulder.

  “You’re going to use that shovel to kill the pig first, then Sergei, and then his wife,” Antonio said.

  Marco stared in shock at his father. “But . . .”

  Antonio put a hand on his son’s shoulder in a rare display of affection. He met the gaze of his flesh and blood, but Marco glanced away.

  “Look at me, Marco,” he said, grabbing the back of his neck. “You want to fill these shoes? You want a spot at the table, and to take over this family when I’m gone?”

  Antonio could feel his son’s heart thumping. Marco used the time to look over at the three captives. Then he looked back at Antonio and nodded.

  “Prove it and show me,” Antonio said, releasing his grip.

  Christopher and Vinny dragged Sergei and his wife by their feet over to the freshly dug graves. Best took off running.

  The men laughed as he stumbled and hit the dirt, nearly rolling into one of the graves.

  “Kill him,” Antonio said to his son. “Now.”

  Marco walked over, brandishing the shovel over his head and hesitated. Best tried to push himself up, then fell. He rolled to his back, hands still tied behind him. He scooted backward, shaking his head at Marco.

  Do it, goddamn it.

  Best let out a muffled scream as Marco finally brought the shovel down. The swipe missed his head, whooshing through the air and hitting him between the legs.

  The cop’s eyes bulged, and Marco stumbled backward, still a bit drunk.

  The other soldiers laughed as Best groaned in pain.

  “Kill the pig!” Carmine shouted.

  “Beat his face in,” yelled another soldier.

  Antonio remained silent with Christopher and Vinny, watching Marco hold the shovel like a baseball bat. He staggered, steadied his feet, and then brought the tool down at a forty-five degree angle on Best’s head, almost severing his ear. The crack of metal on bone sounded like a home run.

  But somehow, the whack didn’t do the trick.

  Best fell onto his back, snorting and grunting like a real pig. The duct tape came off as he rolled to his side.

  “Please, please . . .” Tears mixed with the blood on his face. “Please, let me go.” He coughed. “Please, Don Antonio, I beg you. I’ll do anything. Anything . . .”

  Marco’s eyes locked on Antonio’s as if to say, Dad, please don’t make me do this.

  Antonio gave him a simple nod.

  Heaving a sigh, Marco brought the shovel up.

  “No . . .” Best whimpered.

  This time, Marco swung the edge of the shovel down into Best’s neck, slicing deep into muscle and sinew. He fell to the side, blood flowing down his neck. And yet, somehow, Best managed to get on his stomach and started crawling.

  Marco followed and brought the sharp edge down on his back. The officer arched like an obese wolf howling at the moon.

  Marco hit him again, then again, blood peppering his face and the white Armani suit.

  Best managed to wiggle his chubby body a few more feet, leaving a dark trail in the dirt.

  “What a mess,” Christopher muttered. “Let me end this. I’m getting tired.” He pulled his pistol out again, but Antonio held up his hand.

  Exhausted and still tipsy, Marco dropped the shovel in the dirt, leaned over, and vomited into the grave.

  On the ground next to Sergei, Natalia jerked. Her eyes widened, and she started screaming again. Even with her mouth taped shut, the noise grated on Antonio’s nerves.

  A part of him considered ending this quickly, as Christopher wanted, but Marco abruptly straightened up, took off his white coat, which now looked like the smock of a crazed butcher, and draped it neatly over his arm. He brought it over to Carmine.

  “Hold this,” he said.

  The twenty-one-year-old prince of the Moretti family rolled up his sleeves and wiped the vomit off his lips. For a fleeting instant, Antonio thought he was witnessing the moment he had waited years for.

  Every man standing watch had gone deathly quiet, leaving only Natalia’s muffled pleas.

  When he looked back again, Marco had pulled out a concealed handgun from a holster on his ankle. He pulled the slide back and walked over to Best.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The first shot hit the dirt, the second punched through his back, and the third clipped his leg. Best continued to jerk as Marco unloaded the magazine. The last shot hit him in the back of the head, and he finally went limp.

  Sergei and his wife watched him with frightened eyes.

  “You’re not done,” Antonio said. He gestured toward the couple. “And this time, use the damn shovel like I told you.”

  Marco hesitated. He wiped the blood off his face with his shirtsleeve, then looked over at Vinny.

  “You want that button someday, right?” Antonio said. He took a puff of his cigar while his son picked up the shovel. Both Sergei and Natalia struggled to get away, but there was nowhere to crawl—only the hole where they would rot and turn to dust.

  Marco beat the couple to death with fewer strokes than Antonio had thought it would take. The crack and thump of the shovel on bone and flesh filled him with grim satisfaction and something else . . .

  Pride.

  He remembered the moment he became a man. It wasn’t so different from now. Then, as tonight, he was in a desert with his brother, executing enemies.

  Tonight, they were executing enemies of a different flag—not Italy’s but their own: the Moretti flag.

  -21-

  Three days had passed since the Morettis extinguished the Nevsky family and slaughtered the officers from the port. No one had seen Don Anto
nio since he left the Dragon.

  “Lieutenant Best is still missing,” Moose said from the open doorway of the office.

  Dom stared at the images of Don Antonio plastered to the wall. The anaconda of the City of Angels had tried to trap Dom, and Dom had fallen right into it, putting his team at risk.

  “Dom,” Moose said quietly. “I said Lieutenant Best—”

  “God damn it!” Dom yelled. He slammed his fist through the picture, punching a hole in the drywall. Cayenne hopped up from her nap, tail down between her legs.

  Moose took a step into the room. “Dom, man . . .”

  “We’ll never find Best, and we won’t get a shot at Don Antonio again like we had the other night.” Dom held up his hand to look at his bleeding knuckles.

  “All due respect, boss, but you need some rest,” Moose said. “And some food.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Moose came into the room and stopped directly in front of Dom. His crooked nose sniffled.

  “You’re not fine,” Moose said. “You’ve been high on that shit for the past week, trying to stay awake.”

  “I’ll sleep when this is over.” He started to move, but Moose blocked his way.

  “You’re going to end up making poor decisions if you don’t get some rest, Dominic. Might even get some of us killed. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Dom raised his chin slightly.

  “I mean no disrespect, boss.”

  “I’m doing my best, Andre,” Dom replied.

  Dom never used Moose’s name unless he was mad at him, which rarely happened.

  “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.” Moose put a hand on his shoulder, but Dom shook it off and turned back to the wall of photos. His body ached from exhaustion, but his mind could focus only on one thing.

  “We were so close to killing him,” Dom said.

  “And we will get another chance.” Moose backed away. “Everyone’s in the garage waiting. Except Namid—he’s at home taking care of his wife.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Moose lingered but then nodded and left. Cayenne nudged up against Dom’s leg, sensing his anguish. He bent down and accepted a warm lick on his face.

  “I love you too, girl,” he said. “Sorry if I scared you.”