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

upstairs window like something out of a misfit horror show.

Yep. I’ll never be able to unsee that. Taylor put aside his goggles, then rubbed his hands for warmth. “There’s something I been meanin’ to ask since we left the bridge.”

Stan looked up from his corner.

“How’d you know the Dutya would take the bait with the Chendoah?” Taylor asked. “For all we know, the slugs self-fertilize to reproduce.”

“Trust me, that ain’t the case.” Stan grunted. “Dutya males are notorious for their love of a good time. Hell, the fargin world could be on fire, but throw in some scantily clad tush and the reasonable expectation for some action, and they’re all in. They even bring their own lubricant.”

Taylor grimaced. “How do you know all this?”

“I don’t know anything,” Stan said. “Hang around a crew full of mercs long enough, though, and you hear things.” The old man shifted onto a knee. “A while back, the Dutya applied to become a merc race, but were denied status by the Mercenary Guild.”

“How come?” Taylor asked.

“Basically, they couldn’t be trusted to hold up their end of a contract,” Stan said. “If you faced the slugs in combat, all it took to get them to stand down was a better offer than they already had. That’s it. The Dutya had no integrity and cared about nothing but credits.” He paused. “And chasin’ skirts, of course.”

Taylor aimed a quick glance at the street. “So they’re pretty much scumbags.”

“Lowest of the low,” Stan said. “The Dutya will fight, though, hence their rise in the freighter ranks as low-rent smugglers and contraband runners. They’re not fierce enough to make good pirates. Still, they’re not afraid to spill a little blood if they believe there’s easy money involved.”

Taylor cocked his head. “And if they see us as an obstacle to their payday?”

“I expect we’ll know that soon enough.” Stan shrugged. “Again, the Dutya will fight if they think they can win. The trick is to make them doubt that assumption. A strong show of force out the gate can go a long way toward makin’ that happen.”

Static crackled on the comm.

“Heads up, gents. We got a problem,” Frank announced.

“Report.” Taylor snapped alert.

“We got another transport carrier inbound with four more Dutya,” Frank said. “All armed.”

“Sounds like our friends inside hailed their cab,” Stan grumbled. “So much for our numbers advantage.”

Taylor removed his Generals cap and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. “It’s all right. We’ve got surprise on our side, so this can still work. Birdman.”

“Sir.”

“You said you counted four armed Dutya aboard that carrier,” Taylor said. “How armed are we talkin’ here?”

The Buma paused, presumably for another check. “It looks like…all four have laser pistols, but the two slugs riding shotgun in the back have rifles to boot.”

“Sooner, any sign of our passengers?” Taylor asked.

“Negative, Tomahawk,” Jack said. “The back door’s still clear.”

Taylor chewed his lip. “We can’t afford to let the Dutya get the drop on us. I say we neutralize them first.”

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Genovese muttered.

“I beg your pardon, Tomahawk, but are we talkin’ about a coldblooded shoot here?” A hint of alarm registered in Jack’s voice.

“Negative. That’s not our style,” Taylor said. “I’ll jump out and warn them, but if things go bad—shoot first. Ayew?”

“Ayew,” the group answered.

The music inside The Essence descended in volume as the lights in the upstairs window came up. A moment later, Scarface emerged from the brothel, flanked by his two lieutenants.

“I have a visual on the targets,” Frank said. “ETA to pick up, 30 seconds.”

The incoming carrier’s running lights expanded in the night as the hard-topped craft roller-balled into view.

“On my signal.” Taylor got to his feet, rifle ready. “In three… two… one.”

Taylor darted into the open as the carrier halted in the Essence parking lot. “Hold!”

Pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop.

So much for that!

A wash of laser fire smashing the pavement at Taylor’s boots sent him scrambling for cover behind a treaded flatbed some 30 paces away. Immediately, the other Eagles returned fire.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Stan shouted past the chaos via comms. “I swear I’ve hit that starboard gunner three times, but my lasers are bouncin’ off his skin like pellets off a tin roof!”

“Same here,” Frank announced. “Even from on high, we got no shot!”

Taylor snarled a curse. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here, Reb, and guess they didn’t cover this part about the Dutya anatomy in your merc pit rumor mill.”

“Nope!” Stan shouted back. “But I’ll know for next time, now won’t I?”

A torrent of laser fire sizzled the air over Taylor’s head as he peered out from behind the flatbed. The Dutya on the transport carrier were laying down cover fire, while Scarface and the others boarded the vehicle. “They’re about to get away!”

“Not on my watch, they’re not!” Michael Genovese rose to a shooter’s stance atop the warehouse across the street and deliver a perfect strike to the carrier’s portside capacitor housing. A plume of fire and debris billowed from the section, silencing the engines.

“Hell, yeah!” Jack whooped. “Nice shootin’, Yankee!”

The old man’s jubilant reply was cut short when the two Dutya with rifles burst into view and unleashed a wave of laser fire on his position, while their peers wriggled to safety behind a steel trash collector near the back of the lot.

Slugs or not, these little jerks are fargin quick. Taylor fired off two shots with his rifle, striking one Dutya center mass. As before, both shots deflected wide. “Okay, boys. We’ve got ‘em pinned, but as sure as the day is long, Scarface over there is callin’ for backup. We’ve got to find some offense before the slug