Come on, T. Focus. Reaching the door in a handful of steps, Taylor cleared the opposing space as best he could through the window, then pressed inside and cleared the space in earnest with a left-to-right sweep of his rifle. Tick, tick, tick.
Taylor hurried up the steps, mindful of his boot soles on the concrete under his feet, then paused outside the wing entrance just two flights up. There was no window this time at the entryway. Crap. A bloodcurdling scream ripped through Taylor’s earpiece.
“Hostage down!” Stan announced.
Taylor bolted from the stairwell, gun up and eyes wide.
“Kill him!” the first alien shouted.
A torrent of laser fire sizzled through the air as both Zuul opened fire, sending Taylor lunging for cover in an adjacent alcove. He regained his footing and returned fire.
Pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop.
One alien fell.
Pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop, pop.
The second alien fell.
Gotta hurry. Taylor barreled into the open and hurdled both corpses en route to the target as a chorus of new screams bellowed from the suite down the hall. No, no, no, no! Taylor wheeled past the corner and took aim.
Pop.
Son of a bitch! Taylor hung his head as the world around him went abruptly black.
“Active shooter simulation complete,” the virtual trainer said with its usual monotone indifference. “Operator terminated. Objective failed.”
Stan clicked his tongue. “Two words, Chief—Fatal Funnel. Look ‘em up.”
Taylor muttered a curse and removed his visor. “I know what the Fatal Funnel is, Commander. This ain’t my first rodeo.”
“Really?” The Mississippian arched a salt and pepper eyebrow under the brim of his fedora. “Because eight dead hostages riddled with laser burns might suggest otherwise.”
Taylor ignored the comment, then handed his eyewear and training rifle to the armory sergeant, who departed the room.
“Close quarter combat is all about patience, precision, and most of all, keepin’ your wits about you while everybody else’s go to fargin pot,” Stan said. “That’s especially true when you’re pressed into a situation where you’ve gotta fly solo in a bad situation without any backup.”
“I got it.” Taylor put up a hand. “Trust me, it won’t happen again. I promise.”
The old man chewed his lip. “You seem distracted today. What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothin’.”
“Remember those eight dead hostages I mentioned?”
Taylor rolled his eyes, then poured himself a drink at the water cooler. “All right, fine. It’s my sister, Rita. She’s been offered the chief medical officer job with the Iron Conquistadors across town. I think she’s gonna take it.”
“You suddenly got a beef with the Conquistadors?” Stan asked.
“Not at all,” Taylor said. “Cortes and his people will treat Rita like royalty on account of their relationship to our family.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Stan asked.
Taylor raised a shoulder. “Rita makes a good livin’ as a cardio specialist over at Shands Hospital in Gainesville. There’s no need for her to go merc. She’s fine where she is, not to mention a hell of a lot safer.”
Stan tugged at his silver whiskers. “Forgive me if this is out of line, but your mama wasn’t real thrilled about the notion of you goin’ merc, either. You still did it.”
“That was different,” Taylor said, finding a seat on a nearby bench. “Our family was broke, and mom needed a series of high-credit nanite treatments to save her life. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Take my word for it, Chief.” Stan collapsed beside his CO. “Everybody’s got a choice, whether they want to admit it or not. You were no different, and neither is your sister. She’s a bright girl. I’m sure she’s got her reasons.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Taylor muttered.
“You talk to her about it?” Stan asked.
“Not yet, but I will. We’re havin’ dinner tonight at the Sandy Toe Grill over in Cocktail Junction. I expect I’ll get the skinny then.”
Stan nodded. “Can I offer you one other bit of advice?”
“Sure, shoot.”
The old man faced his superior. “Don’t go chargin’ into that conversation with a headful of preconceptions like you did in today’s trainin’ exercise. Take your time. Hear Rita out. Then decide how you feel about it once you’ve heard her side of the story. Just remember, your sister’s career path is hers to forge, not yours. Regardless of what she decides, you’d be smart to support her, brotherly concerns or not.”
Taylor shrugged, though he was admittedly grateful for the old man’s insight. He’d always appreciated that about Stan. Since joining the Eagles’ roster two years earlier, the Mississippi commander, much like his Fart partner, had quickly earned a reputation as one of the most well-liked members of their crew. It helped, of course, that both men carried 60-plus years of merc cred between them. Still, when folks wanted a wisecrack and a fast gun in a fight, they went to Jack. When they wanted the sort of cerebral, sage advice Taylor had just gotten, they turned to the tall drink of muddy water in the fedora.
“You know, there’s somethin’ I’ve meant to ask you,” Taylor said. “You’re one of the best hostage negotiators I’ve ever seen. Where’d you learn those skills? Runnin’ with Jack?”
“Please!” Stan guffawed. “That fat old coot couldn’t coax a tabby out of a pine tree on his best day, much less talk a terrorist down from killin’ a bunch of people.”
“Fair enough,” Taylor said. “Where’d you learn, then?”
“The United States Marine Corps, actually. Alas…” the old man trailed off, “that was a whole ‘nother lifetime ago.”
“The Marines, huh.” Taylor sipped his water. “I didn’t know you served.”
“Yep,” Stan said. “My family didn’t have two nickels to rub together comin’ up, which didn’t leave me with many options after school. As soon as I turned 18, I boarded a bus for Biloxi, and marched straight into the first recruitin’ office I could find. I had a bunk in Parris Island a week later.”
“Why the Corps?”
“Pardon?”
“Why the Marine Corps instead of goin’ merc?” Taylor shifted his seat. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got all the respect in the world for those who forgo fame and fortune in the stars to serve. Still, goin’ merc sure would’ve paid a lot better if your family was that dire off.”
Stan rocked his head from side to side. “That’s true.”
“So why do it then?”
The old man considered. “The Stan line has existed in the great state of Mississippi for more than 400 years. In all that time, not one of us ever went to college.” He glanced up. “That was the one dream my mama had for me and my siblings, that we’d earn a degree. I knew if I went straight merc out of high school, that would never happen. By contrast, joinin’ the Corps offered me the chance to take classes while I served and learn a few skills before I eventually transitioned into the merc field.” He grunted. “It also let me grow up a bit.”
“That bad, huh.” Taylor tilted his head.
“You have no idea.” Stan heaved a sigh. “Eighteen-year-old me was greener than the ninth fairway at Augusta National—and then some.”
“But you got the degree, right?”
“Bet your ass.” Stan straightened. “You’re lookin’ at the proud owner of a bachelor of arts from the T.J. Martins School of Psychology at Ole Miss University, class of ‘99. Go Rebs.”
Taylor smiled and sipped his water, now fully versed in the origins of the old man’s Rebel call sign. “Where ‘bouts did you meet Jack? In the Corps?”
“Yep,” Stan said. “It was my second year in. We were both stationed at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina—Jack as a staff sergeant with the 24th Expeditionary Unit, while I served as an MP on post.”
“I take it you met on base,” Taylor said.
“Iro
nically, no. We met at a bar.” Stan crossed his legs. “Me and a few buddies were on a weekend pass in Wilmington when we happened into a Podunk dive bar just off Grace Street. The night was rollin’ along great until some smartass punk in a cowboy hat bit off more than he could chew with one of the bar’s huskier regulars. Everything was fine, until the big guy’s friends got involved. That’s when me and mine decided to do likewise. Fast-forward 32 years and a shit-ton of deployments, and that crazy old nut and me are still watchin’ each other’s backs.”
Taylor chuckled under his breath, all the while pondering the myriad parallels between the story he’d just heard and his own first encounter with Blackjack Bowyer and Mississippi Stan.
“I owe a lot to the Marine Corps,” Stan added. “My degree. My skills. My start in the merc business. Mostly, though, I reckon I owe it for Jack. I mean, let’s face it. If we hadn’t met, who in their right mind would’ve put up with me all these years?”
“You could’ve gotten married,” Taylor said.
“Who says I didn’t?” The old man flashed a grin and a trio of fingers. After that, his expression turned slightly pensive. “Ah, they were all good girls in their own rights. I guess I’m just one of those ramblin’ old souls that ain’t meant to be tied down in one place for too long at a time.”
Taylor arched an eyebrow. “Jacksonville seems to suit you all right.”
The Mississippian chuckled. “Yeah, Chief. I suppose it does.”
A comm alert flashed in Taylor’s visual field with the name Lisa Kouvaris. “Hey Lisa. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” Her voice was broken like she was on the run.
“Trainin’ room three on campus,” Taylor said. “Why?”
“I just got a call from an old coworker at the Times,” Lisa said. “You know that Bills’ frigate that left Karma Station last month with Paul Torrio and his people? It just returned to orbit. What’s left of it, anyway.”
Taylor felt a chill. “What happened?”
“No idea,” Lisa said. “I just know it’s bad. I’m headed to Jax Memorial now. They’ve got wounded incoming.”
Taylor jumped to his feet and ran to the exit, with Stan in tow. “I’m on my way.”
* * * * *
Chapter 6: Wounded
Frank was waiting with a flyer on tarmac three when Taylor and Stan emerged from the Eagles’ training complex on the run.
“You two go on ahead and catch up with Miss Kouvaris!” Stan shouted past the engines. “I’ll brief Jack on what’s happened, then we’ll be standin’ by in the clubhouse if you need us. Just holler.”
“Thanks, Stan,” Taylor said. “I’ll be in touch.”
The old man nodded, then slammed the flyer door to seal in its passengers and stepped back on the tarmac, holding his fedora down while the craft ascended. Eight minutes later, a female voice crackled the flyer’s comm.
“Eagles flyer, this is Jax Memorial Dispatch,” the voice said. “You are cleared to land on helipad five.”
“Copy that, Dispatch.” Frank adjusted the mic on his headset. “We’re starting our approach now. ETA to touchdown, 60 seconds.”
“Acknowledged,” the dispatcher said.
Frank glided the flyer over the steel and asphalt expanse of the city’s downtown below, then dropped to the deck and swooped hard to port as the sprawling campus of Jacksonville Memorial Hospital entered the windshield ahead.
“And we are down,” Frank said, killing the engine.
Taylor flung open the flyer door and sprinted across the pavement toward the stairwell entrance on the far side of the helipad. Not long after, his nostrils filled with the pungent scents of alcohol and sterilizing agents, and he skidded to a halt amid the bustling nurses, chattering patient families, and scrub-clad personnel who filled the hospital’s triage wing.
“Taylor, over here.” Lisa waved the duo over to a small waiting area beside the nurse’s station. Apparently, she’d been on her daily jog when she’d gotten the call about Torrio’s crew. She was still dressed in her runner’s gear.
“You gotten any clarity yet on what exactly went down with the River Hawks?” Taylor asked.
“Only bits and pieces, but yeah. A little,” Lisa said. “Remember Sharon McCorvey who used to work our acquisitions office? Her husband, Kez, is a sergeant on Torrio’s crew. Per my understanding, he was among the first of their troops to set foot on Emza three weeks ago.”
“Is he okay?” Frank asked.
“He’s in surgery now, but they think he’ll pull through,” Lisa said.
“What happened?” Taylor asked.
Lisa shook her head. “I didn’t get much in the way of specifics, but apparently the Bills and Hawks crews got jumped by something on the planet not a week off the boat. According to the report I got, they were hit hard, too.”
“How hard?” Frank asked.
“Of the 653 troops who touched down on Emza, 211 made it back to the ship, and about two-thirds of those were injured,” Lisa said. “According to the Bills’ lead medic, most of the wounds were minor or modest in nature, so they could be treated with nanites during the transition back to Earth. At least four dozen, though, required major surgery, hence why those troopers were brought here as soon as the Bills’ frigate returned to orbit.”
Taylor gnawed his lip. “What about casualties?”
“Based on the most recent estimates?” Lisa sighed. “It’s somewhere north of a hundred.”
“Wait, what?” Frank raised a feathery eyebrow beneath his flat cap. “You just said 653 troopers set up shop on Emza. If 211 came back injured, and 100 were KIA, then what happened to the other 342 people who went down there?”
A bronze-skinned brunette wearing powder blue scrubs slipped through the crowd and hurried over to the waiting area.
“Hey, Kelly. What’s up?” Lisa asked.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to keep you apprised of Sergeant McCorvey’s status,” the nurse said. “He’s out of surgery, if you’d like to see him.”
Lisa nodded, then turned back to Taylor. “I gotta go.”
“Wait.” Taylor caught her arm. “Any word on whether Torrio was among the survivors?”
“So far as I know, his name wasn’t on the manifest,” Lisa said. “His XO’s was, though. The captain’s being held for observation in the intensive care unit.”
“Can we see him?” Taylor asked.
All eyes turned to the nurse.
“That area’s off limits to anyone but patient families,” Kelly explained.
“I can appreciate that, ma’am, but this is important,” Taylor said. “I promise we won’t stay long. We just need to ask the captain some questions. Then we’ll be gone.”
The nurse folded her arms. “As I understand it, Sergeant McCorvey was on the captain’s team when they were hit. I’m also told the sergeant’s wife used to work for your company.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Taylor said. “Sharon was part of my acquisitions office for almost two years.”
Kelly’s eyes darted to Lisa, then back to the others. “I might be able to make that work. Wait here.”
Taylor traded glances with his girlfriend as she turned to go, wearing the look of a woman who fully realized that one day it could be her loved one fighting for his life in an OR, instead of a friend.
Such is life when you’re involved with a merc. Taylor caught her hand and squeezed. “I’ll call you later. Promise.”
Lisa answered with the faintest of smiles, then vanished into the crowd.
“What the hell happened out there, boss?” the Buma asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine, bud. Clearly, the Hawks ran into a buzzsaw they didn’t expect on Emza. As for how or what that looked like, fingers crossed, we’re about to get some answers.”
The conversation ended when another nurse approached the waiting area, this one sporting ginger-red hair and light skin dotted with freckles. “Are you the two gentlemen waiting to be taken to the IC
U?”
“That’s us,” Taylor said.
“Follow me.”
Taylor fell in line with Frank behind the redhead, who led them into an elevator just down from a trio of vending machines. From there, they were taken two levels up, where they exited onto the sixth floor, which served as home to the hospital’s intensive care unit, or ICU.
“This way,” the ginger nurse said.
Taylor trailed her down a hall of patient rooms and past another nurse station before the group eventually halted outside the final room on the left.
“He’s still pretty groggy from the anesthesia, but he is alert,” the nurse said. “Even still, I’d recommend keeping your time with him short. He needs rest. A lot of it.”
Taylor peered through the rectangular pane beside the entryway and spied the raven-haired captain they’d met on Karma Station laying face-up in a bed, hooked to an array of monitors. “Thank you, ma’am. The lieutenant and I will find our way out when we’re done.”
The ginger nurse nodded, then was gone.
I’m sorry, man. Taylor studied the officer for a beat longer through the glass, then pushed through the door.
“Huh, what?” The captain jostled alert, then narrowed his gaze at the newcomers. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Captain,” Taylor greeted. “How are you feelin’?”
The captain groaned, then settled back onto his pillow. “Like I got run over by a fleet of cabbies, then beat half to death by a squad of Oogar.”
“Been there,” Taylor said. “When are the doctors sayin’ you’ll be discharged?”
“Sometime in the next few days. The laser bolt that tagged my back nicked my spinal cord, which is why the ship medics didn’t take any chances with treating me. The doctors here said my surgery went well, but they want to keep me for observation while the nanites in my system do their thing.” The captain gestured to Frank. “Who’s the bird?”
“The Buma is my nav officer, Lieutenant Tuzana Phrankolith,” Taylor said. “Your name’s Mike, right?”
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 5
