The captain nodded.
“You wanna tell us what happened on Emza?” Taylor asked.
“No offense, Chief, but that’s River Hawk business, not Eagles’.” The captain folded his arms. “It don’t concern you.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Taylor said. “Not officially, anyway.”
The captain wrinkled his nose.
“Unofficially, I know about half the names on your roster,” Taylor said. “Some of them I tried to hire to my own crew. Others I played pickup baseball with back in high school when we were kids. Either way, while they may not work for me directly, you can bet your hard-earned credit I’m gonna ask questions when this many of those folks don’t come home after a mission.”
The captain chuckled, then winced, causing the bandages on his scarred cheeks to crinkle. “Ya know, for a minute there you sounded a lot like Paulie. He preaches that loyalty and brotherhood stuff, too. He always has.”
“I take it you two go back a ways,” Frank said.
The captain raised an eyebrow, ostensibly at the Buma’s accent. “I grew up with the Torrio family back home up north. Paulie’s oldest son Tony and I used to play stickball together in the alley between our houses off Castle Street.”
“Is that how you came to work for the River Hawks?” Taylor asked.
“For the most part, yeah,” the captain said. “Paulie decided about a decade ago that the Torrios needed a change of scenery, preferably someplace with warmer weather and lower taxes, where he could start his own business one day. He was high on South Florida, to be honest, but the whole tax thing pretty much cratered that idea.” The captain shifted onto his side. “With Orlando off the board, Paulie turned his attention to the next best thing here in North Florida. Shortly thereafter, a move was made, and the whole family’s been Duval ever since.”
“When did you arrive?” Taylor asked.
“About 18 months ago,” the captain said. “Things up north weren’t goin’ so great after the last election, plus Paulie had been houndin’ me for years to make the jump south anyway. So I figured what the hell? At the very least, I’d heard the food down here was good.”
“And how’d we stack up?” Taylor asked.
“You people know dick all about pizza.” The captain grunted. “I kid you not. Of all the pie joints in this town, I’ve found one—a little mom and pop shop over in San Marco—that slings a decent slice. Apparently, the owner imports his water from Brooklyn. That, in my experience, makes all the difference.”
“Amen to that,” Frank agreed.
Taylor cocked his head. “And Jax itself?”
The captain shrugged. “Jacksonville ain’t bad. Like every major city, it’s got its pluses and minuses. On one hand, it’s humid as hell and chockful of weirdos with strange accents and dumbass swear words like fargin.” He huffed. “Seriously, what does that even mean? It ain’t even a real word!”
Taylor chuckled.
“On the other hand,” the captain continued, “folks down here look out for each other. Whether you’re from here or someplace else, once you’re Duval, you’re Duval, and that’s that.” He patted his own chest. “I can appreciate that. Factor in how friendly North Florida is to the merc industry, and it’s easy to see why Paulie took that job with Steeldriver to move here.”
A nurse shuffled into the room and checked the captain’s vitals. Afterward, she asked if he needed anything before moving on with her rounds.
“So,” Taylor said once the trio was alone again, “you joined the River Hawks 18 months ago. Did you start out on Torrio’s command staff?”
“Command staff, yes, but not as Paulie’s XO,” the captain said. “I joined as a lieutenant commander with Gooden Company, then got bumped up to CO over Seaver Company about six months later. I’d only been there a few weeks when Paulie’s previous XO opted to follow Ron Carnegie into retirement. That opened a slot, and Paulie asked me to fill it. I’ve been by his side ever since.”
“Which outfits did you work for up north?” Frank asked. “The Bills? The Bombers?”
The captain retrieved his juice cup from a nearby tray and took a pull. “The Hawks were my first foray into the merc business, actually.”
“Really.” Taylor traded looks with his nav officer. “Are you ex-military?”
“Nope.”
“Ex-law enforcement or first responder?”
The captain shook his head.
What the hell? Taylor pursed his lips. “No offense, Captain, but what exactly qualifies you to be an executive officer with an interstellar mercenary outfit tasked with goin’ into combat?”
The captain stifled a yawn. “I’m a needle mover.”
“A what?” Taylor asked.
“A guy who gets things done,” the captain clarified. “Long story short, if something needs to be handled—a job, a delivery, a meet with another party—I see to it that those things happen, as swiftly and efficiently as possible. I’m also extremely good with people.”
Taylor wasn’t sure how to take that, so he opted to move on. “Talk to me about Emza.”
The captain studied his guests for a long moment. “Everything was fine for most of the first week we were on-world. We set up shop, issued assignments. You know, all the usual shtick. Then, right around night six, they hit us with their first wave.”
“You mean the Vuhov clan’s attackers,” Taylor said.
“Yeah,” the captain said quietly.
Taylor waited for the captain to continue, but it didn’t happen. The man just sat there in his bed, staring at nothing and looking white as a ghost.
“These aliens you mentioned,” Frank said. “Did you get an ident on the species?”
The captain snapped back to reality. “They were insectoids. Beyond that, I got nothin’.”
“What about the others on your crew?” Taylor asked. “The veterans, for instance. Did any of them recognize the species?”
“No,” the captain replied. “Nobody had a clue. Whatever the things were, though, they were mean as shit. That surprised us, too, given how small they were.”
Taylor took a step forward. “Can you tell me anything else about them? About their anatomy, or their behavior even. Anything that could help us nail down who attacked you.”
“They hunt in swarms,” the captain said. “We’re talkin’ dozens, sometimes hundreds at a time. And they mostly came at night. As for their anatomy, it’s like I said. They’re insectoid, which is to say they could fly.” He paused and tilted his chin. “There was one thing about them that caught our attention.”
“And that was?” Frank asked.
“Their tails,” the captain said. “They had stingers on the end, like you’d find on a scorpion. One of our field medics theorized that the stringers secrete some kind of venom.”
“Why’s that?” Taylor asked.
“Because that’s how the aliens would take our people,” the captain said. “A horde of them would swarm a few of us and stun us with their stingers. Then, once our troops were paralyzed, they’d drag us off the battlefield to gods only know where.”
Taylor did a double take. “Are you sayin’ these insects were out for prisoners instead of enemy kills?”
“That’s certainly what it looked like. That’s also exactly why I’ve gotta get back out there.”
The bed monitor yelped out an alert when the captain swung his legs over the guardrail.
“Whoa, hold on.” Taylor rushed to the other’s side. “Where do you think you’re headed?”
“I told you,” the captain growled, “I gotta get back to Emza. I gotta find my crew.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere.” Taylor waited for the Hawks’ XO to pipe down before helping him back to his pillow.
“You don’t get it, Chief,” the captain said, panting. “Paulie was one of the people taken.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Torrio’s alive?”
“I don�
��t know,” the captain said. “That’s why I have to get back out there. You gotta understand. The Torrio family practically raised me, growin’ up. I owe them everything. I get that Paulie’s a lot to handle sometimes, granted. Even still, if there’s a chance he’s out there, I have to bring him home. End of story.”
Sounds of an argument escalated outside, prompting Taylor to turn. A tiny woman with curly silver hair and a dimpled chin was screaming at one of the doctors, tears streaming down the mosaic of lines that permeated her plump face.
“It’s okay, Doc, she’s with me,” the captain called out. “Gimme just a second, Ms. T, and I swear I’ll tell ya everything I know.”
The lady nodded grudgingly from the hall, then wiped her face and returned her focus to the doctor.
“That’s Paulie’s mom,” the captain said. “Her husband passed about a year before their family moved to Jax. Outside of one grandchild back in New York, Paulie’s all she’s got left.”
Taylor watched through the window as the old woman pled with the doctor for information. The man looked horrified that he had no real answers. But to his credit, he told her what he could as one of the physicians on duty.
I’m sorry, Ms. Torrio. I truly am. Taylor’s heart sank as he imagined her getting the news no parent should ever receive, that their child hadn’t returned from combat. He knew that call well. Only in his mother’s case, there was no chance of getting a follow-up call when the lost child in question found his way home. Terry. Taylor cleared his throat. “These insectoids you mentioned. If I get a sketch artist down here, would you work with him to nail down some more details?”
“Sure, of course.” The captain brightened. “Does that mean you’ll help?”
“It means I’ll ask around,” Taylor said. “For now, just get some rest. I’ll check back with you later.”
The pair of Eagles turned for the exit as Ms. Torrio and the doctor rushed past them to the bedside.
“Castle Street, eh?” Frank paused at the door. “If memory serves, that’s over in the old Palisade Heights neighborhood out past Astoria in Queens.”
“That’s right,” the captain said.
“I grew up in Carroll Gardens over in Brooklyn,” Frank said. “I used to run with a few cats from out your way, though. Maybe we got some friends in common. What’s your last name?”
The captain paused to field a hug from Ms. Torrio. “It’s Genovese. Michael Genovese.”
The Buma’s eyes narrowed as the door closed behind him.
“What?” Taylor asked.
“Under no circumstances whatsoever should we trust that man,” Frank said in a low voice.
“Why not?” Taylor asked.
Frank glanced around to ensure they were alone. “You ever heard of the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre?”
“Vaguely.” Taylor thought about it. “That’s the case up north where a bunch of mobsters turned up dead in an abandoned warehouse, right?”
“They weren’t just mobsters, boss,” Frank said. “They were six of Slugger O’Bannon’s top lieutenants.”
Taylor didn’t follow.
“Twenty years ago, an Irishman by the name of Dean O’Bannon—Slugger, as he was known—moved his criminal operation from Chicago to Staten Island in the wake of the U.S. government’s crackdown on gun violence in the Windy City. Initially folks back home didn’t take much notice, since Slugger’s outfit was relatively small potatoes. Problem was, O’Bannon wasn’t content to keep it that way.”
Taylor gave a slow nod. “Why’d they call him Slugger?”
“Because he preferred baseball bats, if you know what I mean.” Frank adjusted his flat cap. “Not long after O’Bannon arrived in town, he branched out in his activities—theft, numbers, racketeering, etcetera. Eventually, all that action raised eyebrows in the Consortium, especially out on Staten.”
“The Consortium?” Taylor didn’t recognize the term.
“Think of it as Congress for wise guys,” Frank said. “The Consortium is a committee consisting of the heads of the five major crime families who run New York’s underground. It was founded 48 years ago by Aces Logano in the aftermath of the Castiglione Crime War, which practically turned Manhattan into a combat zone. Its purpose is to oversee all gang activities in the Five Boroughs, and to serve as mediator for any conflicts between families.” The Buma paused. “I’ll give you one guess which family runs Staten Island.”
“Genovese.” Taylor grimaced.
“Bingo,” Frank said. “Once upon a time, Alfred Genovese was one of the most feared men in New York mafia history. When he got word that a new player was encroachin’ on his territory—an Irishman, no less—he kidnapped six of O’Bannon’s senior captains, then lined them up against a wall out by the Avalon shipyards and blew them away.”
Taylor shook his head. “Damn, that’s rough.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Frank said. “To add injury to insult, Al had one of his reporter contacts waiting in the wings to document the entire hit once it was over. Al wanted to send a message, and send a message he did. When Slugger O’Bannon cracked the news vids over coffee the next morning, he did so to the Pulitzer-prize-winning images of six dead Irishman lying face-down in their own fluids, courtesy of the St. Patrick’s Day edition of the New York Post.”
Taylor whistled and stepped aside, processing the story. “A moment ago, you said this Al guy was once one of the most feared men in New York. That’s past tense. I take it the law finally caught up with him?”
“Not for the Massacre, but for other stuff,” Frank said. “He’s presently serving four life sentences back to back for his role in an assassination attempt on a local district attorney. And boss?” The Buma’s eyes flashed. “Michael is the name of Al Genovese’s oldest son.”
Tylor’s gaze darted back to hospital room. Son of a bitch.
“There are bad people in this world, Chief,” Frank said. “Then there are monsters like the Genovese crime family. Believe me when I say, you want zero part of that crew. I mean zilch.”
Taylor took the Buma’s point to heart and thought hard.
“The best way to avoid a situation is to do just that,” his father had always said. “Avoid the situation.”
Taylor’s gut told him he really oughta follow that advice just then. Still, try as he might, Taylor couldn’t erase the thought of Ms. Torrio, sobbing into that doctor’s lab coat for information about her son’s whereabouts.
“So what’s our play?” Frank asked.
Taylor scratched his whiskers. “Take the flyer back to campus, then brief Jack and Stan on what we know. I’ll circle back with you later.”
“Where are you goin’?” Frank asked.
Taylor started for the elevators. “To see an old friend.”
* * * * *
Chapter 7: Highway to Hell
“Look who it is, everybody!” Rex O’Malley bellowed a laugh from behind the Hell House bar, then rounded the server’s station and threw an arm around his old coworker.
“Hey Rex,” Taylor said. “How’s business?”
“Same as always,” the Bostonian said. “The burgers are still fresh, the fries are still hot, and the beer’s still colder than an Eskimo’s butt crack in December. Oh, speaking of! I’ve got a new lager from Oyster City Brewing you have got to—”
Taylor’s expression turned sideways.
“Right.” Rex frowned. “One pint of Jax’s finest piss water comin’ right up.”
Taylor made his way to a stool in front of Taps Row and gave the old tavern a once over while Rex filled a frozen mug with Long Branch Light beer. The place hadn’t changed a bit since Taylor’s bartender days what now felt like a lifetime ago. Same sticky floors in dire need of a mop. Same outdated brass fixtures and retro rustic decor. Same regulars perched on scarred wooden barstools, nursing pints of the same local brews Rex had waiting for them each and every day after their shifts ended over at Jax starport.
A heavy-set Jivool in grease-stained c
overalls raised a glass in Taylor’s direction. “Hey, T. Been a while. Good to see ya back around.”
“Thanks, Normitt. It’s good to be back,” Taylor said. “How’s life treatin’ ya over at Old Man Sally’s garage?”
The mechanic sighed into his mug. “Like a newling treats a diaper, T. Like a newling treats a diaper.”
Taylor chuckled as the mammoth alien hoisted himself up onto his freakishly short legs, then made his customary waddle toward the old-style jukebox in the corner.
“Ah, crap, here it comes,” another regular muttered.
A moment later, a familiar piano melody rolled through the speakers, accompanied by a man singing about a place where everybody knew his name.
It’s good to be home.
“So, what brings ya back down here to fraternize with us, the little people?” Rex placed the pint in front of his customer. “Business, or pleasure?”
“Business, mostly.” Taylor saluted with his beer. “Although a little pleasure along the way never hurt anybody.”
Rex smirked and pointed to the mug. “You’ve had that beer before, right? Pleasure ain’t exactly the adjective I’d use to describe it.”
Taylor rolled his eyes like always when the other insulted his taste in beer, then moved on with the conversation. “I need some information.”
“What sort of information?” Rex asked.
“What’s the word around the Junction lately about the River Hawk Defense Group?”
Rex hunched against the bar and tipped up the brim of his Red Sox cap. “Not much, honestly. Rumor has it Paul Torrio weaseled his way past you guys to land a big-credit contract on Karma Station a while back. Besides that, though, there hasn’t been much else. Why?”
Taylor took a pull of his beer then recounted what he knew of the events on Emza.
“Holy fargin shit!” Rex exclaimed. “Do the Hawks know who hit them?”
“Sadly, no. That’s actually what I came here hopin’ you could tell me.” Taylor reached into his flannel shirt pocket and pulled out the palm-sized slate he’d brought from his Harley’s saddle bag. “Do you recognize this species?”
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 6
