The Street Survivors
Book Twelve of The Guild Wars
By
Ian J. Malone & Chris Kennedy
PUBLISHED BY: Seventh Seal Press
Copyright © 2021 Ian J. Malone & Chris Kennedy
All Rights Reserved
* * * * *
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* * * * *
For a listing of all the Four Horsemen books, go to:
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Cover Design by Brenda Mihalko
Original Art by Ricky Ryan
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License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Dedication
For Natalie and Sheellah.
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Contents
Part One
Chapter 1: Dog Days in Duval
Chapter 2: Launch
Chapter 3: Back in Church
Chapter 4: Karma
Chapter 5: Distracted
Chapter 6: Wounded
Chapter 7: Highway to Hell
Part Two
Chapter 8: Piquaw
Chapter 9: Pretty Woman
Chapter 10: Credits for Answers
Chapter 11: Street Survivors
Chapter 12: Frozen
Chapter 13: Under the Dome
Chapter 14: Enemy Mine
Chapter 15: Caught in the Act
Chapter 16: Forgotten Histories
Chapter 17: Buried
Chapter 18: Stung
Chapter 19: The Forgotten Digger
Chapter 20: Escape of the Jailbirds
Chapter 21: Break Out
Chapter 22: Firing Line
Chapter 23: Horde
Chapter 24: Revenge
Chapter 25: Curtain Call
Epilogue
About Chris Kennedy
About Ian J. Malone
Connect with Chris Kennedy Online
Connect with Ian J. Malone Online
Excerpt from Book One of the Chimera Company
Excerpt from Book One of Murphy’s Lawless
Excerpt from Book One of the Singularity War
Excerpt from Book One of the Mako Saga
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Part One
Chapter 1: Dog Days in Duval
“Hoooo, Haaaaalll! Hooooo, Haaaalll!”
Taylor took in a breath, then let it out in jittery steam as the chanting mob outside the tunnel continued their assault on his cramped, steel hiding space. Never in all his years had he been so nervous, not even in his early days as commander of Swamp Eagle Security. Still, there he was, a bundle of nerves, iron-taut muscles, and perspiration, ready to face the verdict of the inevitable.
“Hoooo, Haaaaalll! Hooooo, Haaaalll!”
Taylor closed his eyes and focused, the thick North Florida air soaking his skin like a sponge. Come on, T, get a fargin grip. Everybody’s watchin.
A throat cleared to his right.
“Excuse me, Chief Van Zant?” a male voice asked. “I’m afraid it’s time.”
Taylor barely heard the comment past the cacophony of screams outside, mixed with the thunder of his own heartrate.
“Hoooo, Haaaaalll! Hooooo, Haaaalll!”
Another throat clearing. “I’m sorry, Chief, but we really have to be going.”
Taylor knew that to be true. Even still, his feet refused to move. He winced when something hard and round like a grenade was pressed into his palm.
“Right this way,” the man said.
Taylor exhaled, then opened his eyes. A black-haired man in his early twenties, wearing a navy-blue golf shirt with a star-studded J below the collar, was motioning him forward. Moment of truth.
The walk toward the tunnel’s end felt like a death march, mostly because Taylor knew no one was coming to save him this time. Not Billy or Smitty. Not Jack or Stan. Not even the ghost of Charlie Daniels, whose classic war cries of old had always been there in the field to remind Taylor that he wasn’t alone. Today, however, that sadly wasn’t the case.
“Hoooo, Haaaaalll! Hooooo, Haaaalll!”
You’ve got this, T, Taylor tried a final time to psych himself up. You’ve gone head-to-head with the Zuul, the Veetanho. Even the Cartography Guild itself, and every single time you’ve come out the other side. This ain’t any different.
Taylor grimaced again when a blast of light flashed ahead. Shit, I’m gonna die.
“And now!” a new voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for!”
“Hooooo, Haaaaaallll!”
“Here to throw out the first pitch for your Jacksonville Generals, the chief executive and commanding officer of Jax’s own Swamp Eagle Security…Taylor…Van…Zaaaaaannnnnttttt!”
The raucous Frangie Field crowd leapt to its feet as the lone human jogged out toward the pitcher’s mound, wearing denim jeans and a team-issued Generals jersey, his long, blond hair tied back into a ponytail under a matching ball cap. “Dooo vaaalll! Dooo vaaalll! Dooo vaaalll!”
Taylor gazed aloft into the clear, blue Duval County sky, then returned his attention to the grandstands, where 40,000-plus of his fellow North Floridians erupted with cheers.
“Duval, Duval, Duval!” the chants continued. “Duval, Duval, Duval!”
Now a tad more relaxed, Taylor doffed his cap to salute the crowd, then squared himself on the bump in preparation for the task at hand.
“Van Zant enters his windup,” the announcer said. “Here’s the pitch!”
One might’ve heard a pin drop.
“Strike!” the umpire shouted.
The stands roared with approval as Taylor saluted them once more with his cap. Afterward, he trotted off the field to multiple high-fives as the Jacksonville Generals ballplayers exited the dugout.
“You totally owe me 20 credits for that.” The Eagles’ press officer, Lisa Kouvaris, was leaning against a wall, arms folded across her chest, wearing jeans and a collared blouse, when Taylor re-entered the tunnel. “I was sure you’d at least one-hop it to the plate.”
“You do know I was all-county as a starter at Lee High, right?” Taylor headed for a nearby ice-tub filled with sports drinks.
“So I’ve heard,” Lisa said. “Regardless, I’d think splitt
ing the zone with a fastball in front of 40,000 screaming rednecks, all hopped up on Long Branch beer and Chatham chili-cheese dogs in a big league stadium, might offer a slightly different experience.”
“Easy.” Taylor grinned. “You’re datin’ one of those rednecks, remember?”
Lisa shot him a sideways look.
“Any word from Billy?” Taylor twisted open a bottle and took a swig.
“Funny you should ask that,” Lisa said. “The Osyrys just emerged from hyperspace about 30 minutes ago. They’re inbound now and oughta be in orbit shortly.”
“Cool.” Taylor turned for the exit. “That gives me just enough time to return to campus and—”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Lisa grabbed his arm. “I know you’re anxious to ride off into the sunset after your moment of glory back there, but Billy and the crew will need at least a few hours to resupply the ship and get her prepped for redeployment. That gives us plenty of time to head upstairs to the mayor’s suite and shake some hands.”
Taylor dropped his head. “You could totally handle that without me, ya know.”
“I know I could,” Lisa said. “I also know you abhor schmoozing with celebrities and local politicians. That doesn’t change the fact that we need those permits to finish the restoration project on our old campus before we can turn that property to the NFMTA in time for fall semester. You’re the face of Swamp Eagle Security, Taylor. That’s why it’s gotta be you up there, not me.”
Taylor frowned at the wall, though, in truth, he took his press officer’s point. The entire state of North Florida had seen an explosion of growth in recent years, especially around Jacksonville. That meant more kids were entering the area’s school system, and a lot of them would look to go merc after graduation. They needed a place to train, hence why Taylor had agreed to donate the Eagles’ old campus out by the airfield to the local chapter of the North Florida Mercenary Training Academy.
“Okay, fine.” Taylor put up his hands. “We’ll head upstairs to the mayor’s suite and—”
“Osyrys to Van Zant.” The voice of the Eagles’ executive officer, Major Billy Dawson, registered via pinplant comms in Taylor’s head. “You got a copy?”
Taylor keyed open the channel and spoke aloud. “Your timin’ is impeccable, Billy. What’s your status?”
Lisa rolled her eyes.
“The ship and crew are standing by in orbit and ready to depart for Karma,” Billy said. “Be advised, the bidding for the contract I mentioned starts in less than a hundred eighty hours. That means we need to hit the road quick if we expect to get a crack at landing it.”
“Copy that,” Taylor said. “Radio ahead to Jack and tell him to prep the shuttle. I’m on my way to you now. Van Zant out.”
Lisa folded her arms while her boss wrapped his call. “So much for that resupply, huh?”
“What can I say?” Taylor shrugged. “My crew knows how to plan ahead.”
“Uh, huh.” Lisa smirked. “Tell that corn-fed XO of yours, he owes me one for this.”
Taylor leaned in and kissed his girlfriend’s cheek. “I and the future mercs of Duval County have every confidence you’ll close the deal, babe. I’ll call you as soon as we’re back from Karma.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2: Launch
Exiting the stadium into the northside parking lot, Taylor crossed the pavement toward the vintage Harley-Davidson Fat Boy sitting quietly beside the security station and threw his leg over the seat. He loved Frangie Field, always had. Even during his childhood, when his family had scarcely possessed the means to feed themselves, his mother had still found ways after their father passed to get her kids to the ballpark for at least one Generals’ game per season. Nowadays, the Van Zants were season ticket holders, although Taylor had resisted his sisters’ calls to spring for a luxury box.
“The game of baseball ain’t meant to be experienced indoors,” Taylor’s late father had said after a trip to Utah, where the home team played in a dome. “It’s too damn sensory. Take it that way, and all you’ve got left is a hyper-corporate tourist trap where they pedal soda pop and Tri-V shows to your kids between innings.”
A bat cracked in the distance as Taylor’s nostrils filled with the sweet gameday aromas of popcorn, beer, and fresh-grilled hot dogs. Yep. Gonna be a damn good summer.
Kickstarting the Harley’s engine with a single shove of his boot, Taylor leaned onto the accelerator and eased through the Frangie Field parking lot. From there, it was straight on to 295 South toward the Eagles’ main campus, located twenty minutes out from downtown Jax.
“Absolutely, Mayor Lamb. Demonstrating a commitment to the next generation of mercenaries from right here in Jacksonville is hands-down one of our top priorities at Swamp Eagle Security.”
Taylor smiled from behind his handlebars, imagining the speech his press officer girlfriend was laying on thick up in the luxury suite at that moment. Of course, that didn’t make the message any less true. He was just happy it was Lisa delivering the talking points instead of him.
A ninth-generation son of Duval County, Taylor had spent much of his life after age 16 doing whatever it took to provide for his mother and two sisters, with whom he lived in their family’s tiny home in Jax’s old Riverside neighborhood. Bartending in Cocktail Junction, basic grease work near Jax starport, landscaping around his old middle school. Pretty much if the job paid, then Taylor took it back then. This gave him little patience for speeches, and even less for those looking to have their rumps kissed in the name of high society advancement.
Even still, Taylor’s identity around town hadn’t always been one of blue-collar servitude. On the contrary, he’d once been known as the blond-haired kid brother of Colonel Terrance Van Zant, the local hero and ex-Lee High pitching ace who’d conquered poverty en route to putting Jacksonville’s original homegrown merc outfit, Swamp Eagle Security, on a path to becoming the South’s first real player on the interstellar mercenary scene. To his credit, Terry had almost succeeded, too. But then had come the starship accident that had cost him and his crew their lives, while at the same time pulling back the curtain on years of financial mismanagement. The result was Swamp Eagle Security shuttered and stripped clean of its assets—until three years ago, when an Atlanta investor had approached Taylor about resurrecting the family business.
Initially, the younger Van Zant’s gut had told him to pass. In time, however, mounting bills and his mother’s failing health had caused Taylor to reconsider, but with two conditions. One: Swamp Eagle 2.0 would operate with a zero-debt philosophy. That meant cash transactions only—no loans, no markers, and no handouts. Two: Just like before, the Eagles would exist of and for the city of Jacksonville, North Florida, period. That meant championing local causes like merc training in schools and buying from local venders like Hemming Arms or Chatham Foods. Granted, the latter pillar hadn’t always been popular with the Atlanta folks, who thought they could get better rates elsewhere, but Taylor didn’t care. He’d been raised to value honor and loyalty to one’s own above all else, and come hell or high water, he meant to stamp those principles as cornerstones of the Eagles’ brand moving forward.
It sure does help when you own 82 percent of the company. Taylor recalled the Eagles’ absorption of their crosstown rivals, the Steeldriver Defense Group, last year, as well as the leverage those assets had given him with Atlanta. Much obliged, Ron. Happy retirement.
The exit for Tebow Drive crested the hill ahead. From there, it was right onto Coughlin Avenue, then north up the asphalt to the shiny new campus of Swamp Eagle Security.
* * *
“Good afternoon, Chief Van Zant.” A dark-skinned guard in his early 60s, with white, curly hair and a rich Southern accent, greeted Taylor at the security checkpoint once the latter’s Harley had rolled to a stop at the gate. “I caught openin’ ceremonies for the game over the radio. Sounds like you represented the company well with that pitchin’ arm of yours.”
“I appreciate the kin
dness, Curt,” Taylor said. “Truth be told, though, it’s my brother who deserves the credit. Everything I learned about throwin’ a baseball, I learned from him.”
“Maybe—” Curt grinned, “—but the colonel never pitched in front of a max capacity crowd to open a home stand against the Yankees at Frangie Field, now did he?”
Taylor met the old man’s grin with one of his own as the other ambled back into his station.
Taylor had always liked Curt. The navy veteran had been a mainstay around the Hell House tavern, where Taylor had tended bar prior to the Eagles’ resurrection three years earlier. The old man had mostly done odd jobs around the place for extra cash—sweeping floors, replacing kegs, and so forth. As it happened, however, his true talent had existed with the guitar. Curt Loew was a hell of a blues man, especially once he’d fired down a spot or two of wine during his first set.
“Commanders Bowyer and Stan have a shuttle waitin’ on the westside platform.” Curt keyed open the gate. “It’ll take you straight to the Osyrys in orbit, where you’ll meet up with Major Dawson and the crew. You’ll get underway from there.”
“Much obliged as always, Curt,” Taylor said. “Say hi to the missus for me when you get home.”
“Copy that,” the old man said. “Safe travels to you and the others. We’ll see you when you get back.”
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 1