The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Ian Malone (the false prince series txt) 📖

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.