Only a bastardo cattivo would ambush a family during a funeral. Of course, only a bastardo cattivo would use his own wife’s funeral to ambush his enemies. But it was too perfect an opportunity to pass up. Lucia would have approved.
Marco had welcomed the idea when, for maybe the first time ever, Antonio asked his son’s opinion.
The boy fired his pistol into the mask of a Vega soldier with telescoped legs, blowing out the back of his skull before moving on to the next target, lying behind another gravestone, his back broken. He pulled out a knife and slit his throat.
Antonio held back a grin of satisfaction. Revenge was a sweet thing, even when it was this easy.
He had selected the site because he knew it would draw out his enemies. It probably looked easy to the Vegas as well and would therefor arouse their suspicions. So Antonio had brought enough security to make them seem ready for an attack, but not enough that they seemed to be expecting it.
His plan had worked beautifully.
He fired again as the ground rumbled from more explosions. Chatter from automatic gunfire came from across the cemetery, where three sicarios were holed up behind a mausoleum.
One of them fired from the side at Christopher, who was finishing off a crippled soldier with his knife. As he stabbed the man, a bullet hit him in the arm.
“Christopher!” Antonio yelled.
Another bullet hit him in the chest, knocking him off the dead sicario.
“NO!” Antonio lined up the sights on the shooter behind the wall. He squeezed off a burst, the rounds clipping the stone and forcing the man back.
Christopher squirmed in pain on the ground as Antonio ran over to him. He fired several bursts for cover, then bent down to check his brother. Blood ran from the wound on his arm, but the vest had stopped the one to his chest.
Chest heaving, he gasped for air and spat the cigar out.
Lino and Marco fired at the mausoleum, giving Antonio a chance to pull his brother behind a grave.
“Waste of a good cigar,” Christopher muttered.
“Stay down,” Antonio said. He got up and ran over with Marco and Lino to flank the sicarios’ last bastion. They closed in around the mausoleum, firing bursts to keep the fighters back.
Then Lino ran around the other side and unloaded a magazine on them. Howls of pain rose over the automatic staccato.
“Over here!” Angela shouted. She stood behind a grave near the edge of the bluff, pointing her Uzi at a man Antonio couldn’t see.
As he made his way over, he spotted cowboy boots.
He had given the order to kill Miguel and take Esteban alive, but the narco king didn’t appear to be long for this world.
Both his legs were splintered, the pointed bone shards protruding through his jeans. Blood bubbled around his lips as he sputtered, gasping for air.
Antonio motioned for Angela and everyone else to fan out—except for Marco, whom he waved over. He wanted the two of them to be alone with his enemy.
The crack of gunfire dissipated as the last sicarios in the cemetery and the parking lot were slaughtered.
This was it. Antonio had finally won.
Esteban blinked, clearly trying to keep his eyelids open.
Antonio waited a moment for him to catch his breath.
“Where’s Miguel?” Antonio asked.
Esteban shook his head. To focus his mind, Marco stepped on a splinter of shinbone, breaking it off and prompting a scream of agony.
“You can still have an honorable death,” Antonio said. “Or we can make you shit and piss yourself like a senile dog.”
He gave Esteban a few seconds to consider it.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
“Las Pirámides Diamantes,” he said. “The Diamond Pyramids.”
“You’re lying,” Antonio said.
He aimed his rifle just below the silver belt buckle the narco had worn the night they made their peace treaty.
“No, I swear it,” Esteban said. He choked and gasped.
It was odd, seeing such a powerful, proud man fighting for his last breaths, and for a moment, Antonio wondered how he himself would use his final moments.
Not like this, he thought. He would go out cursing and screaming.
“Miguel’s there, I swear. Floor forty.”
“How many men?” Marco asked.
That was good, Antonio thought. It was his next question.
“Fifty, maybe more. I don’t know . . .” Esteban reached up. “Please, spare me. I will give you my entire kingdom. And I’ll bring you Miguel.”
Antonio looked at Marco.
Sometimes, money was more important than revenge, but he would let his boy decide. Marco reached down and grabbed the narco by the boots, then started dragging him by his broken legs.
Esteban wailed in pain.
“Good decision, son,” Antonio said.
He helped pick up the man and carry him across the cemetery. By the time they got back to the tent, he was unconscious.
The downpour had stopped, and the sun broke through gray lint. The rest of his men surrounded the area. It appeared they had done well—not a single Moretti casualty except for two of the four special-ops guards, according to Yellowtail.
With over fifty sicarios dead, it had been a slaughter.
Christopher was already sitting in a chair, a hand on his arm, glaring at Esteban.
After the women were safely back in the SUVs, Antonio motioned for his soldiers to join him around the freshly dug grave. Father Ricci stood in front of it.
“Wake him up,” Antonio said.
Vinny pulled out his knife and cut Esteban’s ear off. He jerked upward, shrieking in pain, eyes bouncing back and forth from one enemy to another.
Father Ricci made the sign of the cross and stepped back from the hole.
“No! Please, NO!” Esteban yelled.
Antonio nodded at Yellowtail and Vinny, who grabbed the man and tossed him into the hole. He landed with a thud and another scream of pain.
Antonio handed his son a shovel.
“Today, you earned your name—and your button,” he said. “From here on out, you will be known as the Narco Slayer.”
The other men nodded their respect. Even Vinny patted Marco on the back.
Esteban reached up, whimpering until they could no longer hear him through the dirt that covered him. Antonio looked down, then walked away.
“Get the word out,” he said. “The Morettis are coming after Miguel Vega next, and then the Saints.”
Instead of walking back to the parking lot, he walked to the edge of the cliff. He looked out over the Pacific, thinking of Lucia. Without her, he had nothing to lose.
Now he could build his empire without fear. And a man without fear was the most dangerous thing. Together with his brother, nephew, and son, he would kill the rest of their enemies and expand their empire far beyond the City of Angels.
Antonio no longer had a queen by his side, but he was the unrivaled king.
Lightning forked over the horizon as the storm moved out to sea.
Meanwhile, a new storm was brewing—a Moretti storm, with no regard for anyone or anything in its path of devastation. And this storm the Saints would not escape.
Dear Reader,
The Sons of War series is one of the most exciting and rewarding projects I’ve had the privilege of writing, and you have my sincere gratitude for reading all three books. I would love to continue writing this story and explore what the future has in store for the Salvatore and Moretti families, but I need your help.
Unfortunately, the Sons of War series struggled to take off as it launched in the very beginning stages of the COVID-19 pandemic. A fourth and final book now depends on factors outside of my control. One way to help as a reader is by sharing these books with your friends and family and posting links on social media. The other helpful thing you could do is take a few minutes to leave honest reviews on Amazon for each of the three books.
; Hopefully, with enough word of mouth and the incredibly important reviews, I will have the opportunity to write a fourth book and bring this series to a close the way I had planned.
As always, you have my thanks. It is an honor to bring stories to life for you.
Stay safe, and be well,
Nicholas
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nicholas Sansbury Smith is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Hell Divers series, the Orbs series, the Trackers series, the Extinction Cycle series, and the new Sons of War series. He worked for Iowa Homeland Security and Emergency Management in disaster mitigation before switching careers to focus on storytelling. When he isn’t writing or daydreaming about the apocalypse, he enjoys running, biking, spending time with his family, and traveling the world. He is an Ironman triathlete and lives in Iowa with his wife, their dogs, and a house full of books.
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Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 38
