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

convoy paused alongside the rail line ahead, and Taylor craned his neck for a look at their contents. It was no use. All he got was a faint glimpse of what looked like storage bins in the vehicles’ cargo beds. Whatever they contained, it must’ve been hauled up from below ground via the crane on the cavern’s left side. That whole area was swarming with aliens.

“I knew I should’ve killed your ass when I had the chance,” Frank grumbled from the bench seat up front. “Every instinct in me screamed red flags about you, but like an idiot, I never acted on them.”

“Chirp all you want, Brooklyn,” Genovese said from the back next to Taylor and Torrio. “It’s not gonna change anything. And besides, it ain’t like you had a choice. Your boy scout CO here gave you explicit instructions to bring me along on this little rescue mission, so you were pretty much under orders.” He glanced at Taylor. “I appreciate that, by the way. Both me and my bank account are in your debt.”

Taylor grunted. “The KzSha must’ve offered you a helluva payday to turn on your own species like this, much less get shot up the way you were when you got back to Earth.”

“What can I say?” Genovese flipped up a palm. “I understand now why the slave trade rivals prostitution as Creation’s oldest profession. Fortunately for me, the wasps are good shots. They made my injuries legit enough that everybody would buy my story, but not so significant that I wouldn’t recover in time to rope you suckers into coming out here.”

“How’d you know we’d take the bait?” Taylor asked.

Genovese shrugged. “I figured if I played enough on your overdeveloped sense of loyalty to your fellow Jacksonville hicks, you’d sign on. Even still, I didn’t want to risk it, so I bribed one of the nurses to hold off on calling Ms. Torrio until you’d had time to reach the hospital. I knew once that old broad got there, full of tears, sob stories, and hysterics, you’d bite. You couldn’t not.”

“How do you figure that?” Taylor asked.

“Seriously, Van Zant, do I have to spell it out for you?” Genovese snorted. “Every merc in the Milky Way knows your story. The long-haired country boy from Jax, North Florida who singlehandedly resurrected his legendary dead brother’s merc outfit to save his little ole gray-haired ma from a debilitating neurodegenerative disease his family was otherwise too poor to treat? Shit, man. They write songs about that stuff in Nashville, for Heaven’s sake.”

Taylor’s momentary daydream of ripping the captain’s lungs out through his throat was cut short by the scratch of brakes and grinding metal as the train car ground to a stop at the mine cavern’s terminus.

“Move,” one of the KzSha said.

Taylor exited the transport car with Torrio and the others, then was escorted down the wooden platform steps into the main complex, which was bustling with activity. All around, scores of aliens were hard at work, unloading ore from dusty conveyers, then piling it into metal bins, which were hoisted via chains onto trucks bound for the refineries above.

Taylor wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as one of the Pendal he’d seen earlier guided a front loader into the mine’s far-right ventricle. It wasn’t long afterward that the group was halted outside a shack that looked more like an office than part of the labor facility.

“I made it,” Genovese said to the KzSha guard out front. “Tell him I’m here, and my mission was a success.”

Taylor surmised the “him” Genovese referenced was the same person the captain had mentioned back in the confinement cavern.

Three more KzSha appeared from the office and joined their comrade on the office steps. One of them—a slightly larger wasp with a lean build, blue-black wings, and an odd-shaped growth atop its head—appeared to be the one in charge.

The Queen?

The KzSha leaned in to inspect her new arrivals but didn’t speak.

“What’s the matter?” Jack muttered to the guards. “Pesticides got your boss’s tongue?”

“She don’t have a tongue,” a baritone voice boomed from inside the shack. “Nor is she in charge. I am.”

Taylor held his ground as a massive shadow darkened the doorway inside the building. A moment later, its owner emerged onto the porch outside.

What the hell?

“You seem surprised.” The Sumatozou cocked his head. “Tell me. Why is that?”

Taylor wasn’t sure how to answer, so he defaulted to his usual sarcasm when lost for words. “Honestly? I’m surprised by you. Everyone in the Union knows the Sumatozou are pricks. But to sell your own kind into bondage along with Lord only knows how many others?” He huffed. “Brother, that takes prickdom to a whole new level of narcissistic, if you ask me.”

The Sumatozou heaved a sigh. “Humans. Defiant to the last.” He turned to Genovese. “I must confess, Captain, I wasn’t entirely sure you’d honor the terms of our deal after the KzSha let you go on Emza. Your efforts and their ends are to be commended.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Genovese said. “Pay me what I’m owned so I can get the hell off this ice cube and be on my way.”

“Of course.” The Sumatozou nodded to one of the KzSha guards, who began tapping at a slate.

“So that’s it, then,” Torrio said. “Just like that. You sold us out on Emza, and now you’re doin’ the same thing to Van Zant and his crew.” He snorted. “You’re unreal, man. After everything my family did for you after Al’s trial—after everything we sacrificed to bring you South. This is how you repay our loyalty?”

Genovese kept his eyes on the wasp with the slate.

“Answer me, you little shit!” Torrio demanded.

“You talk about family as if it means something,” Genovese said with a growl. “Lest we forget, friend, there were a lot of folks besides