“Run!” Ronaldo yelled, grabbing Monica and scooping her up.
Dom yanked on Elena’s shirt. “Mom, let’s go!” he shouted.
They ran into the ditch and set off across the field while the other civilians stared after them as if they were crazy.
“run!” Ronaldo screamed. Although the F-35s were made for the marines, AMP had ended up with them before the start of the war, and he wasn’t taking any chances.
This was war, and in most modern wars, more civilians than soldiers died.
Ronaldo and his family had made it a few hundred feet from the freeway when the jets fired their first salvo of missiles. There was no time to find cover, and no cover to be found.
He dropped and shielded Monica with his body. Dom did the same with his mother, covering her body with his own on the ground.
“Stay down!” Ronaldo shouted.
The explosions shook the air and the ground beneath them. Ronaldo kept his body pressed against Monica’s, trying to hear above the fighter jets and the ordnance they were unleashing on the civilians. She squirmed under his body, and he thought he heard her cry out, but he couldn’t hear much over the missile blasts.
“Hold on,” he said. “Just hold on, Mon.”
To his surprise, no tsunami of fire came to turn him and his family into skeletons of ash.
In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all aside from the dirt and the child’s body beneath him.
Ronaldo loosened his grip on Monica and looked to the west. The fighters were coming back for a second run. A cloud of smoke rose in the distance, maybe ten miles away.
It struck him then that the target was the convoy of army vehicles and the gasoline tankers they were protecting. The civilians were just collateral damage—insignificant to the AMP command, and potential hostiles.
Ronaldo slowly rose to his feet. As a marine, he was a hostile in the enemy’s eyes, and his presence had put his family and all these people at risk.
One of the AMP fighters peeled away, heading back the way it had come. The other pilot performed a 360-degree turn.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered.
Crouching back down, he watched in horror as the fighter jet lined up with the strip of asphalt. In seconds, it was lowering toward the refugees several miles down the road.
Something fell from a wing, and again Ronaldo threw his body over Monica.
The terrifying sound that followed was a chorus of human screams, eclipsed by an explosion that Ronaldo felt immediately. The air warmed to a scorching level, stinging his back.
The fighter jet roared overhead, and he forced himself up, grabbing Monica.
“Come on!” he yelled. At least, that was what he tried to say, but the ringing in his ears overwhelmed all else.
Dom pushed himself up, blood dripping down his face.
“Let’s go!” Ronaldo shouted. He picked Monica up and herded his family across the dry open ground, away from the road, away from the fighter jet. They had to get more distance before it returned.
“Don’t look back,” he said in Monica’s ear.
She either didn’t hear him or couldn’t resist a backward glance. Ronaldo twisted to look at the same moment.
The scene of devastation stretched along the road, where a bomb had blown out a massive hunk of highway and killed hundreds of people. Smoldering bodies, some of them still moving, were sprawled in a wide arc around the edge of the crater.
The sight was worse than what he remembered from Iraq. Blackened pieces of humans lay strewn about, seeping blood into the cracked earth. The blustery wind carried the scent of burned hair and flesh.
Ronaldo forced his gaze away, blinking at the sting of sweat in his eyes. As he ran and looked for the fighter jets, he realized it wasn’t just sweat. Tears flowed down his face.
He was no stranger to atrocities, but this was the most tragic thing he had ever witnessed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he sobbed like a child while holding his own child.
How could those pilots kill so many innocent people? Their own fellow Americans!
The F-35s screamed across the horizon—cowards leaving without ever seeing the aftermath of their callous inhumanity. The rumble gave way to a scream, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own voice, cursing the mass murderers at the top of his lungs.
There was no coming back from this.
The country he had fought for, bled for, and seen his brothers die for was gone.
* * *
The fighting continued in Los Angeles. The rebel forces had taken control of every AMP base in central LA and pushed the AMP soldiers east into Anaheim. At the Capitol Building in Sacramento, Governor McGehee had officially declared sovereignty. California was no longer part of the United States of America.
Oregon had tried to do the same thing, but AMP had easily taken over the rebel forces there and was now preparing to move south.
Antonio sat at the dinner table with his wife and son, listening to the radio while they ate spaghetti in red sauce from the expansive pantry of their new house. Raff, shotgun in hand, stood by a window, looking out over the property, despite Lucia’s several attempts to get him to sit and eat with them.
The mansion in Bel Air had belonged to a Sarcone captain they killed when he refused to swear allegiance to the Moretti banner. This wasn’t the compound Antonio dreamed of, but it was a start.
The most satisfying part of everything he had achieved wasn’t the cars, houses, or riches—it was the fact that Enzo and his men were dead.
Antonio took a bite of spaghetti, savoring it and his success. But other problems had arisen.
He drowned out the news, thinking instead about what Christopher had told him an hour ago: that they were having a hard time moving the product from their Colombian friends. With AMP gone, Antonio had to find new customers.
The problem wasn’t lower demand—drugs would always be a hot commodity, and people could pay with jewelry and other bartered items. The problem was how to move the product safely. The streets were more dangerous than ever, and while the police were barely a concern, the threat from rival distributors and even average citizens had never been higher.
He needed more foot soldiers if he wanted to compete in a postapocalyptic Los Angeles.
“What do you think?” Lucia asked.
Antonio took another bite of spaghetti. “Delizioso,” he said. “I’ve missed your cooking.”
“You sure you don’t want some, Raff?” Lucia asked.
“Yeah, come sit with us,” Marco pleaded.
Raff hesitated until Antonio spoke up. “Have a seat, old friend,” he said.
Raff, who wasn’t much older than Antonio, walked over and sat down while Lucia made him a plate.
“Thank you,” he said.
Candlelight flickered over the granite countertops in the chef’s kitchen as they ate. The grid was still down in most of the city, but they had a backup generator to power a few essentials in the house, including the stove and fridge. The small luxury had really helped bring his wife out of her melancholy funk.
Lucia enjoyed a glass of pinot noir from the wine cellar. As much as Antonio wanted to try the aged bottle, he had opted not to drink tonight, not even a single glass. He had business to attend to after dinner and needed to be sharp.
“When do I get to hang out with my friends again?” Marco asked.
“Soon, my love,” Lucia replied.
“I miss the guys,” Marco mumbled. “We were going to have a big-ass party for my birthday. Now I’m being held hostage in this place.”
Antonio watched his son pick at the noodles.
“Eat,” he said.
Marco glanced up, a strand of brown hair falling over his dark eyes. He brushed it back and shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care if
you’re hungry,” Antonio replied. “I said eat.”
Marco dropped his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “How come Vinny gets to do all the cool shit but I have to sit in this prison?”
Ah, so it was jealousy that had him acting like a little asino.
“Because you’re not a man yet,” he said. “When you’re a man, you can take a bigger role in this family. Until then, you do as I say. And mind your language at the table.”
Marco scowled and looked down at his plate but still didn’t obey the order. That seemed to make Raff nervous, and he fidgeted in his chair.
“Do you know how many people are starving out there tonight?” Lucia said, pointing toward a glass window with a view of the hills. “Do you know how many people would kill for what you have in front of you?”
Marco finally started eating.
The conversation gave Antonio an idea … No. An epiphany.
For the next fifteen minutes, they ate and listened to a radio report from a news station in Sacramento while Antonio considered his new idea for their product.
“Governor McGehee has declared the border of California completely sealed off as secession plans are finalized,” said the calm female reporter. “All AMP soldiers have been ordered to lay down their weapons and surrender.”
Antonio finished his dinner and took the plate over to the sink. Then he walked over to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you for a wonderful dinner,” he said.
She nodded and took another sip of wine, watching Marco across the table.
“I’ll be home in a few hours,” Antonio said. “There’s something I need to check out.”
Raff nodded at him, but they didn’t exchange any words. The man knew his role was to stay here with Lucia and Marco.
Antonio left the kitchen and walked to his study on the second floor. The dead Sarcone captain had good taste, Antonio would give him that.
He had always wanted an office like this, with built-in bookshelves. The rich mahogany desk and a Persian rug pulled it all together. The large glass display case of ancient weapons was his favorite part, but he didn’t linger to look at the knives and swords mounted inside.
Instead, he opened a gun safe and grabbed his Glock and two extra magazines. Then he walked down the staircase to the first floor. Marble tiles, crystal chandeliers, and statues tucked in the corners of the entryway were just some of the rich furnishings here. It was a huge upgrade from the house they had abandoned in Anaheim.
And this was just the start—a place to hang his hat while his empire grew. Soon, he would have a compound to run his operations from.
He walked out to the circular driveway. In the center was a dry stone fountain rimmed by dying green hedges that hadn’t been watered for months. The garage held a Ferrari and a BMW M8, but Antonio hadn’t driven either car. Both would be targets the moment they drove off the guarded property.
“Don Antonio,” said one of several soldiers standing sentry.
He nodded back as he made his way out toward his ride.
Six more Moretti men, commanded by Sergeant Rush, stood outside an Escalade. Rush had traded his camo fatigues for a suit and no longer wore a helmet. With all locally based AMP soldiers on the run or dead, he had officially become a Moretti associate. He even sported the slicked-back hairstyle that so many of the Moretti men wore.
The old Mercedes Christopher drove was parked in front of the Escalade. He leaned against the other side of the car, facing the street and smoking a cigar. Lino and Vinny stood beside him, also enjoying newly acquired cigarettes from a raid a few days ago.
Yellowtail, still on crutches, braced his injured body against the Mercedes. He was the second-toughest bastard Antonio had ever met, with his brother Christopher holding the title.
It must be a Moretti thing.
Clouds of smoke rose toward the orange sky as the men exhaled. Antonio hated that smell and the way it clung like moss to his clothing, the way it got in his hair. But most of all, it reminded him of his time in the Italian army, and the things he had done as a soldier—the horrible things he did in war.
For some reason, war seemed to follow him everywhere he went. He couldn’t escape bloodshed.
“Mount up,” Antonio said.
Christopher turned away from the street view.
“Where we headed?” Yellowtail asked. “It’s gonna be curfew soon.”
“We’re not going far, but I want an escort,” Antonio said.
Christopher snapped his fingers at Rush, who in turn gestured for his team to get inside the Escalade.
Lino opened the door of the old Mercedes warhorse that Christopher would never give up, but Antonio looked back at the garage and the M8 sitting inside. He had always heard that a Mercedes drove itself, but a BMW—now, there was a driving experience.
“On second thought, let’s take out the M8,” he said. “Back it up, but I’ll drive.”
Christopher and Lino exchanged a glance.
“Did you hear what I said?” Antonio asked.
Christopher ran over to the garage and backed out the BMW. The turbocharged V-8 engine grumbled down the drive, attracting attention from the house.
“Dad, I want to go!”
Back on the front stoop, Marco stood with his hands in his pockets. Lucia walked out holding her second glass of wine. Normally, Antonio would have told his son to get back inside, but seeing how ungrateful he had been at dinner, maybe what he needed was a good shock.
“Hurry up, then,” Antonio said.
Marco hesitated, as if unsure whether his dad was kidding.
“Move it.”
Marco bounded down the stairs and bolted across the parking lot. He got in the back seat, and Lino slid in beside him while Christopher took shotgun.
“Don’t worry,” Antonio said to Lucia as she walked over. “We won’t be gone long, and we aren’t going far.”
“Okay, I love you,” she replied.
“Love you too, amore.”
Two guards opened the gate, and Antonio drove away from the estate. The Escalade followed them out onto the empty street, and they set off down the windy back roads of the Santa Monica foothills.
He gunned the engine down an open stretch, feeling the power of the machine. He needed a few moments of thrill, but he remained vigilant, scanning the road for vehicles or threats.
The fragrance of jasmine drifted through the slightly open windows, filling the car with the scent of money that the millionaires who had lived here smelled every day.
Soon he would smell more smoke from the fires burning in Los Angeles—fires that the already strained fire department couldn’t put out.
The view of downtown crested the horizon. The skyscrapers bore fresh scars from missiles and gunfire. Hollywood, hub of the world’s entertainment industry, had changed drastically. Entire neighborhoods had burned to their foundations, leaving hundreds of thousands homeless.
Christopher looked over. “You really like to keep me in suspense, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Dad, where are we going?” Marco asked.
“You’ll see in about a minute.”
Antonio took the next corner and turned off on the scenic overlook that provided a great view of UCLA.
“Here we are,” Antonio said. He got out of the car and motioned for Marco to follow him to the railing. The boy hurried over, excited to be out of the house.
Antonio wasn’t an emotional man, nor was he very affectionate, but tonight he put one arm around his son’s shoulders and pointed at the yellow fields of the Bel-Air Country Club, UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion, the VA grounds, and several other locations taken over by a sea of tents.
“You see this, Marco?”
“Are those tents?”
Antonio nodded. “Refugee camps like those are popping
up all over the city.”
Christopher walked over, his muscular arms across his chest.
“That’s how a lot of Americans are living right now,” Antonio said.
Marco clenched his jaw and narrowed his brow but didn’t say a word.
“The people down there are lucky if they go to bed with food in their belly tonight,” Antonio said.
Marco continued to stare in silence. He wasn’t quite twelve, but he was old enough to understand. He just needed to see things firsthand, which was precisely why Antonio had brought his son here.
“If you go east, you’ll see camps full of people dying from radiation poisoning,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
Marco hesitated. “I think so.”
Antonio turned at the sound of an engine. A car sped toward the scenic turnoff. Rush and several of his men took up position, rifles at the ready, and Antonio moved with Marco out of view.
The vehicle passed on by without slowing.
“Time to go home,” Antonio said. “I’ll meet you in the car, Marco.”
Marco walked over and got into the back while Christopher stepped over to talk to Antonio.
“So, why are we here?” he asked.
Antonio jerked his chin at the refugee camps.
“You’re looking at our new selling ground,” he said. “I want you to find us a way inside those fences. Pay off the guards, the cops; do whatever you have to do—I want access to every camp in the city to start moving our product.”
-14-
The pain paralyzed Dom. He lay in his sleeping bag half awake, half in the grips of a nightmare. Every nerve fiber seemed to scream from the heat.
Wake up, he thought. This was just a dream. A night terror.
Right?
The view of the highway seemed so real, as real as the apricot sky and the two black dots cutting through it.
Dom looked down at the flames climbing up his body, then saw the little boy stumbling away from the human debris field. He seemed real too, and so did the stump where his arm had been.
The child raised the charred drumstick at Dom and then fell to the dirt.
Again he heard the shriek of jet engines coming fast and low. The AMP pilots were coming in for another run.
Sons of War Page 18
