The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) by Ian Malone (great books of all time TXT) 📕

two decks to the brig, which housed a pair of small meeting spaces that doubled as interrogation rooms.

“Take a seat, gentlemen.” Jack showed the aliens to chairs opposite the center-room table.

“Ignorant humans,” Scarface muttered through his translation device. “It’s been more than a century since your pathetic species joined the Galactic Union, yet you still insist on identifying non-human members with your same ridiculous ape labels.”

Jack traded looks with Stan, who shrugged. “Fair enough. What do you wanna be called then?”

“Ick—”

“See, that right there was what we ignorant humans call a rhetorical question.” Jack shoved the aliens into their chairs. “Truth is, I couldn’t care less what you wanna be called. You’re on our ship now, which means you’ll answer to Mary fargin Poppins if that’s what I choose to call you. Savvy?”

Sergeant Reigns hid her snicker with a fist as she filed out to join Frank and Genovese in the observation room opposite the mirrored partition. This left Taylor, Stan, and Jack standing alone around the table, while the Dutya remained seated.

“There’s two things you need to know about me.” Taylor folded his arms. “First, I care an awful lot about a number of people…and you ain’t them. Second, I would do just about anything for those folks, includin’ lay some serious hurt on a couple of small-fry aliens who leave slime trails all over my ship.”

Scarface’s eye stalks bobbed as he chuckled. “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

“Not necessarily,” Taylor said. “Think of it as more like an honest appraisal of the situation. Regardless, I’d highly recommend both you and your lieutenant here cooperate so we can part ways sans another trip to the salt mines.”

A long pause ensued before static crackled from the room’s intercom.

“Excuse me, Chief?” Genovese asked from beyond the mirror. “Gimme 60 seconds alone in there, and I guarantee we’ll have all the intel we need to find Paulie and the others.”

“I appreciate that, Captain, but I’ve got other ideas,” Taylor said. It also didn’t help that time was of the essence. He turned to Stan. “Commander, I believe you’re up.”

The eye stalks of both aliens faced forward as the grizzled Mississippian in the trench coat pulled up a seat across the table.

“There’s no need for further bloodshed…or whatever it is you have,” Stan said. “All we want is a minor bit of information about some former business associates of yours. That’s it.”

The Dutya lieutenant hissed a protest. “You can’t force us to tell you anything, human! You think you’ve beaten us with your ambush back at The Essence, but you have not. Our crewmates will come for us. You’ll see!”

“That would be ill-advised,” Stan said coolly. “As it stands, Swamp Eagle Security has no beef with your company. An assault of any kind against our ship would change all that, and no one here wants this. Besides.” He tilted his head. “We both know the Osyrys’ close-in defensive systems would cut your comrades to shreds before they even scratched her paint, much less breached her security.”

Jack put his hands on the table. “Translation, inchworms. You can take that false bravado of yours and shove it up your slime holes.”

Scarface’s gaze shifted to Taylor. “You say your company has no issue with my crew. I find that difficult to believe, considering your aggression toward us earlier tonight.”

“I told you to hold, didn’t I?” Taylor shrugged. “You should’ve listened.”

The alien captain glowered at his ponytailed counterpart.

“Now, now,” Stan said, raising a palm. “I think it’s fair to say that everyone here deserves a modicum of blame for the turbulent manner in which earlier events unfolded. It’s also fair to say that Chief Van Zant made you a promise back at the brothel that you wouldn’t be harmed if you surrendered. We’ve honored that promise, have we not?”

Scarface nodded.

“Good,” Stan said. “Movin’ forward, I see no reason why these negotiations should be anything but pleasant.”

Scarface arched an eye stalk. “So this is a negotiation now? Not an interrogation?”

“That would be our preference, yes,” Stan said.

The Dutya traded curious looks.

“Very well,” Scarface said. “Proceed with your inquiry.”

“You conducted a transaction recently with a group of traders,” Taylor said. “We wanna know who they were and where they were headed after they left your meet.”

Scarface made a clicking noise through his translator. “To reveal details about a transaction would represent a breach of trust between my crew and our client. We are freighters. We could never do this.”

“Please.” Jack huffed. “The word freighter may appear in the starport records alongside your name, but we both know your true occupation. You’re smugglers, plain and simple.”

“Even more reason to protect our interests,” Scarface countered.

Stan raised a finger. “What a curious word choice—interest, that is.”

Both aliens watched in silence as their fedoraed inquisitor reached into his coat for the pouch he’d received back in the cargo bay.

“In my experience, any successful negotiation inevitably comes down to knowin’ two critical things about the person across the table,” Stan said. “Critical thing one. What’s your counterpart’s position? Typically, that’s the surface-level stuff…the things they ask for up front. In this instance, that’s the preservation of your client’s anonymity. Sure, it’s important for you to keep up certain appearances, but we both know that’s not what you really want.” He adjusted his fedora. “This brings me to critical thing two, the most important thing…your interest. That’s your true objective. I’d wager you’ll go to almost any lengths necessary to get it, too, even if that means throwin’ a client under the bus.”

Scarface snorted. “And what, Commander, might I ask is our interest?”

“Simple. Money.” Stan zipped open the pouch and fished out a single shiny chit representing 100 credits. “What can you tell us about the KzSha?”

Scarface studied the chit for a long moment. “The