Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Usually, Ray didn’t talk much about work with his brother, but this was the place Moose was stationed when not on patrol.

  Ray drove up to the gate, where a guard manned a booth. The deputy stepped out and looked at his badge.

  “Here to see Sergeant Andre Clarke,” Ray said.

  “Not familiar with that name.” The guard looked at his clipboard, flipped a page, and said, “Got nothing, man. I’m new here, though, and he might have been moved. You know the turnover and shit out here.”

  “Sorry to hear about the deputies killed in the attack,” Ray said.

  The man nodded, and Ray backed out.

  He fished out his cell phone from his leather jacket and considered calling his brother, then decided just to head for the apartment complex where Moose lived with Yolanda and his kids.

  He sped there, his mind racing with implications he tried to bury. It wasn’t long before he saw the Angel Pyramids.

  The parking lot where his brother lived with his family was packed full of junker cars. He hated leaving his Audi with them. The vehicle was a target, and so was a black cop in Vega territory.

  Seeing no other choice, he parked and tucked his pistol in his back pocket. Three kids no older than eight or nine were hanging out on a bench at the other end of the parking lot.

  Ray waved them over. They were hesitant at first, so he fished a few coins out of his pocket.

  “Got one for each of you if you watch my car. Anyone comes close, you scream, okay?”

  Three nods.

  Ray took off for the apartment building. When he got to his brother’s door, he took in a deep breath, then knocked. Several clicks sounded—chains being unlocked.

  The door creaked open, and Yolanda peeked out, looking left and right before settling back on him.

  “What are you doin’ here, Ray?”

  “How ya’ doin’, Yolanda?”

  She shrugged. Tamara and Bryon walked into the living room behind her, and she blocked the kids from view.

  “Is my bro here?” Ray asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “At work.”

  “So, he’s okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Her short answers were starting to tick Ray off. His sister-in-law had always kept him at arm’s length, and they were never close, but tonight she was acting more standoffish than ever.

  “Did you try calling him?” she asked. “He’s probably busy from the attack the other night.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t pick up.”

  “They found those Pyros, right?”

  Ray nodded and reached into his coat. Yolanda backed up a bit as he pulled out a sealed letter.

  “Give this to him when you see him, but don’t open it. This is for his eyes only, okay?”

  She hesitated, then nodded and took the note.

  “You in trouble again, Ray?” she asked.

  He had to laugh. “I’m always in trouble, sweetie.”

  -23-

  Several days had passed since Dom talked to Sammy, and this was the first meet-up with the CI since they let him return home. Pork Chop and Bettis had kept a close eye on him, and so far, he seemed to be going to work and coming home without any tails other than the Saints.

  For the meeting, Dom had picked the basketball courts at Franklin Classical Middle School for their proximity to the ports and because the courts were always busy. He was early, but he didn’t mind; he enjoyed watching the kids shoot hoops, especially the kids who were with their fathers.

  God, he missed his dad. They had spent countless blissful hours of his childhood playing catch or basketball.

  A gust of wind pulled him back from the memories. The dust was bad tonight, and civilians stood around the mesh fences wearing surgical masks, bandannas, and the more expensive face masks with built-in filters.

  Despite the weather, people were out enjoying the lights. It was the first time in a week this zone had power after storms knocked out part of the solar farm.

  The soccer field was also teeming with players.

  A group of kids on skateboards rolled by. He backed away to let them pass, when a girl hit a crack in the sidewalk and went down. The other kids all laughed, but Dom jogged over to help her up.

  The girl, no older than eleven, had a freckled nose and curly black hair hanging out from under a stocking cap. The resemblance to his sister was remarkable. And like his sister, she rejected any help when Dom reached down.

  “I’m good, man,” she said.

  Dom lowered his hand.

  The other kids all went back to boarding, leaving her alone with Dom.

  “Thanks, though,” she said.

  Dom watched her go, his heart aching at memories of Monica. For a moment he forgot why he was here and remembered why he was fighting. The refugee camps and places like this were part of the reason he had formed the Saints: to protect innocent kids like the skater girl from the evil forces trying to corrupt their minds and bodies.

  Tonight, there weren’t any dealers trying to sell product, or any lookouts watching for the cops, who probably wouldn’t do anything in zone 3 anyway. Until very recently, this was Nevsky territory.

  But the dealers had already moved in like sharks on blood. Gangbangers hung out in the shadows. They weren’t here to sell—they were here to scout. The wolves were already eyeing the prey on these courts, and soon all the major parties would battle for the real estate.

  Dom studied the men from afar. These weren’t simple gangbangers. He spotted several Bloods, even Lil Snipes in his wheelchair, his skin shiny and scarred from burns, and his back broken in an ambush on the Morettis that went bad.

  Rumor had it that Antonio Moretti himself had burned Lil Snipes and let him live out his days in the chair as a warning to others. But Dom wasn’t sure that was true, or that it was even a good idea.

  The leader of the Bloods had gained ground in the past eight years, and he clearly had his eye on the Nevskys’ fallen domain.

  Dom looked at his watch as the horizon swallowed the sun. Sammy was late.

  Where the hell are you, kid?

  All sorts of crazy thoughts ran through Dom’s mind about the reason for Sammy’s absence. Had he flipped? Was he being tortured right now for information on the Saints?

  Feeling the paranoia set in, Dom scanned the abandoned apartment buildings on the east side of the basketball courts. Every broken window was a potential hiding spot for Moretti spies or soldiers.

  That was why he had brought Moose along. He was out there, watching from a distance. They had already discussed their exit route and what to do if this was a trap. But if the worst-case scenario about Sammy selling them out was true, it didn’t really matter.

  That was why Dom hadn’t risked bringing the other Saints. And anyway, they were all on their own assigned tasks.

  Nothing they could do would save him if the Morettis were waiting. Dom stood as still as the statue of the Virgin Mary, looking for Sammy while the wind blew trash across the cracked dirt around the courts.

  A few young couples walked past, laughing, smoking a joint, and having a good time, oblivious that they were so close to the leader of the Saints, something that could translate into millions in bounty money.

  Dom turned to look in the other direction for Sammy. He wasn’t a spiritual man, not anymore. But tonight, he had said a prayer. They needed all the help they could get.

  Come on, kid. Please don’t do this to me.

  Just as he pulled out his phone, the industrial light poles clicked off, one by one. It didn’t take long for shouting to ring out in all directions.

  “Turn them back on!” someone yelled.

  But angry rants and profanity weren’t going to bring the power back on tonight. The temperature had probably dropped enough that city officials decided to kill the power.

  Most of the area emptied over the next ten minutes, only a few of the kids remaining behind to play in the moonlight. />
  Dom finally decided to head back to the Jeep. He walked east toward the abandoned apartment buildings. Graffiti decorated the structures that had once housed aspiring actresses, dancers, and musicians who came to Los Angeles to chase pipe dreams.

  But those dreams were as dead as the gangly headless stalks of palm trees that had finally succumbed to the drought.

  The sidewalk twisted onto another dark block. Dom could feel his heart rate ramping up. Several wheelless cars sat on cinder blocks in a parking lot. He took cover behind one when he heard a whistling.

  This wasn’t the wind.

  Another whistle answered the first. The war cry of the Vegas—an ancient call to battle. It wasn’t the Morettis out there after all.

  But the sounds made no sense—unless Sammy had sold him out to the Vegas instead.

  He moved into the shadows of a cypress tree growing behind a half-collapsed brick wall. The sound of footfalls across the street echoed through the quiet night. More skittered in the opposite direction.

  He readied his SIG Sauer, a round already chambered.

  The next whistle gave him an idea where the Vegas were coming from. He caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure darting across the street, wearing one of the ceremonial masks the Vega sicarios used in battle. That didn’t make sense, either.

  Dom flinched at a gunshot.

  The pop of handguns followed, then the staccato chatter of an automatic rifle.

  He braced himself, but no rounds ripped his flesh or slammed into the tree trunk. He sneaked a cautious glance. Muzzle flashes lit up the other end of the street.

  The bullets weren’t meant for him.

  Sicarios ran down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, firing at dark figures wearing bright red hats and bandannas.

  Dom used the opportunity to run, keeping as low as he could, trying to process the events unfolding around him. The Vegas were making a move on Lil Snipes and the Bloods.

  The battle for this turf exploded, gunfire ringing out in all directions. Dom had walked right into the middle of it. He should have known better—after the Nevsky raid, the area wasn’t safe.

  But this was a brazen move even by Vega standards.

  He sprinted around a corner, where he slammed into someone, knocking them both to the ground with such force that air burst from his lungs. His pistol skidded away, and before Dom could get up, someone kicked him in the gut, rolling him onto his side.

  He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn’t work. Then, in a moment of clarity, he saw his attacker: a Vega sicario in a mask representing some Mayan deity. Sinewy arms covered in tattoos flexed as the man raised a submachine gun in one hand and a machete in the other.

  The soldier Dom had collided with pushed himself off the ground and joined his friend. He wiped blood off his face and reached for his friend’s machete.

  “You ran the wrong way when we shut off those lights, you dumb fuck,” he growled. He twirled the machete and pointed the blade downward at Dom.

  The Vegas may have cut the lights to spare civilians, but they would show him no mercy—not after he had spilled their blood, even if it was just a tiny cut. And he wasn’t about to apologize or beg for his life to these fucks. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He was as good as dead.

  The guy with the machete raised it above his head. A boom sounded, and the Mayan mask vanished in a spray of bone and blood.

  The second shotgun blast hit the other Vega man in the side, sending him crashing into the wall of the building and painting the bricks with blood.

  Moose came lumbering across the street, pumping out an empty shell and chambering the next round. Dom grabbed his pistol and aimed it at a figure that emerged from the shadows behind Moose. Moose stepped in front of the barrel before Dom could shoot.

  “Hold up!”

  When Dom saw the lanky shape in the faint light, he realized that his luck wasn’t as bad as he thought.

  “You idiots just about walked into a turf war,” Sammy said. “Come on now, before you get me killed. I got some good news for ya dummies.”

  * * *

  Marco was unusually quiet tonight. This didn’t exactly surprise Vinny. His cousin had killed three people in the desert and hadn’t been the same since.

  “You’ll feel better in time,” Vinny said.

  Marco took a shot of whiskey and chased it with a slug of beer. Vinny knew from experience that trying to kill memories with alcohol was not a winning strategy.

  “I should be at the club,” Marco said. “Jenny’s probably at the Bling Factory tonight.”

  Vinny also knew that acting tough didn’t make you tough. His cousin always tried a little too hard to put on a front.

  “You need to relax, man, take it easy,” Vinny said. “Hang with us; forget about pussy for a while.”

  Marco gave a weak shrug and took another long gulp of beer.

  Doberman finished his cigarette and walked away from the balcony to sit by Vinny.

  “You ever killed anybody?” Marco asked.

  Doberman pulled another cigarette out and tucked it behind his ear.

  “Yo, did you hear me?” Marco asked.

  “Yeah, man,” Doberman replied, “but I don’t really like to talk about that shit.”

  Marco leaned forward in his chair, and Doberman sighed. He could ignore the prince of the family for only so long.

  “Killed four men, and Vinny’s right,” Doberman said. “It gets easier, but you will no doubt have a few of the ghosts visit you at night.”

  Marco seemed to ponder their words in the cool evening breeze. They sat on a balcony on the twelfth floor of the tower, surrounded by small trees and bushes the hired help somehow kept alive in the harsh climate.

  All the captains and highest-ranked soldiers were here.

  Yellowtail, Carmine, Christopher, and Lino all sat around a poker table in the shade, tipping back beers and booze. But three seats were empty tonight.

  One belonged to Vito, who was at the Diamond Arena watching the gladiator fights, where his son was taking part. The other two had belonged to Rush and Frankie.

  A funeral would be held for Rush in a few days, but Frankie wouldn’t be getting the same send-off.

  The bodies were quickly stacking up in the City of Angels. And everyone on the rooftop knew that this was just the beginning of Don Antonio’s plans for a wider war that would allow him to move on his final objective. Only then would he be the true king of Los Angeles.

  After a few days holed up in the compound, it was starting to feel like being locked in a vault. The walls were closing in.

  “I’ll kill the Saints next,” Marco said, a strange confidence in his voice. Almost as if he were talking to himself in a mirror. “No one thinks I can do it, but I’ll find them. I’ll show everyone.”

  Vinny didn’t respond. The bullshit his cousin spewed made him nervous. But he must deal with it if he wanted to be a captain.

  “Long as the LAPD doesn’t give us any trouble,” Marco added. “You don’t think they will, do you?”

  “Why the hell do you think we’re cooped up here?” Yellowtail said, looking over his shoulder from the card table.

  “The cops can’t touch us, right?” Marco asked, looking up. “They wouldn’t dare start another war.”

  “I don’t know about you, but they can’t touch me,” Yellowtail said. He kissed the clunky gold cross hanging from his neck and tucked it inside his shirt.

  The other men all laughed. Everyone except Marco.

  He downed his beer and walked over to the poker table. “Deal me in.”

  The others scooted over.

  “Come on, Vin,” Marco said.

  Vinny wasn’t in the mood, but he also didn’t feel like going back to his apartment. Carmen would be three glasses of vino into her night, and if he came back now, she would bust his balls until morning.

  Vinny and Doberman moved to the table and grabbed an extra chair.

  “Finally, a fucking game,” Christoph
er said.

  Carmine opened a box of chips. “How much you guys buying in for?”

  Vinny eyed the other stacks. Everyone had around ten thousand in front of them.

  “I’ll take a stack of high society,” Vinny said.

  Marco nodded. “Make that two.”

  “I’m good with the min,” Doberman said.

  The other men laughed.

  “Cheap fuck,” Yellowtail said.

  They played for an hour, cracking jokes and talking smack. Most of the pots were small, but Marco nabbed a decent-sized one against Carmine with a flush over a straight.

  “That’s right,” Marco said, scooping the chips over to his pile.

  Carmine muttered and chugged the rest of his beer. The sliding glass doors opened behind them, and Don Antonio walked out, holding a beer.

  The men all stood.

  “Relax,” Antonio said. He looked to Vinny, then Marco.

  “You both performed well under pressure during the attacks and in the aftermath,” Antonio said. “Two seats at this table have recently become vacant. One soldier, and one captain. They will soon be filled with fresh blood. My blood.”

  Doberman glared at Vinny. One of those spots was supposed to be for him.

  But Doberman wasn’t the only one glaring at Vinny. Carmine, still mourning Frankie’s death, stared at the man who was getting his spot.

  “Salute,” Christopher said, raising his glass.

  Carmine directed his hateful eyes at Christopher, then raised his glass. The crew clinked their glasses with Don Antonio.

  Yellowtail looked out over the city. “Don Antonio, when are we going to get back out there?”

  Antonio followed his gaze.

  “When I tell you,” he said.

  Yellowtail, usually a smartass with anyone else, simply nodded.

  “Why not go take out Esteban and Miguel?” Marco asked. “They’re next up, right?”

  Antonio regarded his son. “It’s not time yet.”

  “But why let either of them move into the Nevsky territory?” Marco asked. “Why not—”

  Antonio cut him off. “Lil Snipes has his eye on zone three and wants to expand into some of it.”

  “I still don’t get why you didn’t finish off that bastard all those years ago,” Marco said.