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

for the Osyrys’ galley in search of a late-night snack and some peace.

“Evenin’, Chief,” Corporal Jamal Newhouse said as Taylor entered. Known simply as House among the crew, the Georgia corporal was a burly man in his late-20s with a square jaw and farmer’s hands that were covered in callouses.

“Strange seein’ you down here this time of night,” House said. “What’s the word?”

“The word is insomnia.” Taylor grunted. “We got anything left on the burner this late?”

House considered. “Nothin’ on the burner, no. I do, however, think I could scrounge up some of Frank’s leftover banana puddin’, if you’re interested.”

Taylor’s mouth watered at the word banana. “Done and done.”

“Be right back.”

Taylor waited at the counter while the dark-skinned corporal vanished into the kitchen, then returned a minute later, carrying a large, enclosed bowl of Frank’s signature dessert.

“If there’s nothin’ else, I’m gonna finish up in here and call it a night,” the corporal said. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks, House,” Taylor said. “I owe ya one.”

“Anytime. Oh, and by the way, you’ve got company if you don’t feel like eatin’ that alone.” House motioned to the corner, where a lone figure sat ensconced at a table, nursing a bulb of coffee.

Genovese.

“He came in just before you did,” House said. “I guess he didn’t feel much like sleepin’ tonight, either.”

I guess not. Taylor thanked the corporal for his time, then scooped up his bowl and floated over to the River Hawk captain’s table. “Mind if I join you?”

Genovese looked up. “Last I checked, this is your ship. Be my guest.”

Taylor pulled himself down into the seat across the table and strapped in. “I gotta tell ya, man. I love a good cup of coffee as much as the next red-blooded American, but if I were to drink that at this hour, I’d be up all night.”

“Seems to me you’ve got that problem anyway,” Genovese said.

“Good point.” Taylor shoved his spoon scoop though a slot on his bowl, then returned the clam-style utensil to his mouth, along with a sizable helping of dessert. As expected, the blast of banana and meringue mixed with bits of vanilla wafer were to die for.

“Holy shit.” Genovese blinked. “If your expression right now is any indication, I really do need to try some of that.”

Taylor chuckled and wiped his mouth. “Frank’s pretty much the undisputed champ around here when it comes to chow. I kid you not. I had a guy offer to come work for me this past spring solely because he heard about last year’s Thanksgiving menu. Frank’s like a foodie savant, always has been.”

Genovese nodded and returned to his coffee.

“So what’s got you up so late?” Taylor asked.

“Probably the same as you,” the captain said. “The Hawks. The KzSha. Droxis. Pretty much the entire buzzsaw that’s conceivably waiting for us when we transition out of hyperspace in a few days.”

Taylor took another bite of his dessert.

“You know, things have been movin’ so fast since we left Earth that I haven’t had time to thank you for comin’ out here,” Genovese said. “You’re a credit to your community’s reputation, Chief Van Zant. I mean that.”

“Eh.” Taylor shrugged. “You said it yourself back at the hospital. No matter where a person comes from, once they’re Duval, they’re Duval. Loudmouthed or not, Paul Torrio fits that bill. He’s also a good merc and a good man. He ought not be left out here if there’s a chance he can come home.”

Genovese cocked his head. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. About Paulie bein’ a good merc and all.”

“How come?”

“Because you fired him,” Genovese said bluntly. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure you had your reasons. Even still, one typically doesn’t cut an employee loose if he thinks the person could be an asset to the company.”

Taylor polished off the last of his pudding, then snapped the spoon scoop to the side of his bowl and shoved the items into a nearby receptacle. “I take it Paulie never elaborated on his exodus from the Eagles.”

Genovese shook his head.

Figures. Taylor considered his next words. “Between troops, administrators, medical staff, and others, Swamp Eagle Security inherited more than 600 new personnel from the Steeldriver Defense Group when we took over Ron Carnegie’s operation. Some of those folks left for greener pastures of their own accord. Others didn’t make the cut for a variety of reasons. So they were shown the door.”

“I take it Paulie was the latter,” Genovese said.

“Actually, no,” Taylor said. “I had high hopes for Paulie, believe it or not. He brought a sterling field record. He had good recommendations from the previous regime. He’d even done some work in the Jacksonville community, which always strikes a chord with me.”

Genovese crossed his arms. “Then why’d you can him?”

“I didn’t,” Taylor said. “Paulie resigned his post of his own volition.”

Genovese wrinkled his nose. “Did you ask him why he wanted out?”

“Sure I did,” Taylor said. “He cited an inability to mesh with his new commanders as the primary reason for his resignation.”

“So it was a chemistry thing,” Genovese said.

“I guess,” Taylor answered. “Like I said, Paulie didn’t give me much of an explanation to work with. What I do know is, shortly after he left Swamp Eagle, word got out around Jax that Paulie meant to launch his own operation. Six months later, the River Hawk Defense Group was open for business with their very first contract.”

“Interesting,” Genovese mused aloud. “I’d have probably felt a little betrayed by that if I were you.”

“Nah.” Taylor waved off the comment. “Knowin’ Paulie the way I did by then, I figured the guy needed some space. I mean, look at things from his perspective. He had tenure with Steeldriver. It stands to reason then that he wouldn’t be real