“Every starport in creation has a companionship market, Chief,” Stan said, “even a shit heap like Siler City. Ya just gotta know where to look. And have the credits to spend, of course.”
Taylor stifled a laugh and keyed his pinplants. Meanwhile, three giddy Dutya including Scarface piled into the transport carrier with their escorts. “Osyrys. Mark target and engage tracker.”
A green dot flashed in Taylor’s vision. This signified that the Ryley Osyrys nav system had painted the transport carrier for surveillance and created an uplink to Taylor’s pinplants for remote monitoring.
“Round up Jack, Genovese, and Frank, then meet me in Cargo Bay Bravo to roll out in five minutes,” Taylor said. “Assumin’ the Lumar don’t get involved, that should give us the numbers advantage at five to three when we jump these guys.”
“Ayew.” Stan tipped his hat then turned for the exit. “See you in five.”
* * * * *
Chapter 9: Pretty Woman
Once assembled in the Osyrys’ cargo bay, Taylor and the others boarded the utility hauler the crew kept in service there, then used it to tail the Chendoah transport carrier to the far side of the dockyards. Turned out Stan had been right. Even in a dive like Siler City, there was still room for commerce, as evidenced by the loose string of transport lights headed to and from the dusty checkerboard of storefronts located due south of the starport. In many respects, the area reminded Taylor of Cocktail Junction back home, only grimier and several centuries older.
“Look alive, gents,” Frank said from the driver seat, his breath showing in the chilly night air. “It would appear the party train is entering the station.”
A neon sign missing half its lights cast a pink glow onto a dilapidated shopfront ahead. To all indications, the place looked mostly abandoned, as two of its three tenant spaces were empty. One of those, Taylor noted, had apparently been a cantina of some sort, judging by the smattering of table and chair pieces piled out front. The building’s center space, however, was anything but unoccupied.
“Huh,” Jack said, eyeing the various species beyond the plush drapes inside. “I reckon they don’t call prostitution the galaxy’s oldest profession for nothin’.”
“You have no idea,” Genovese noted from the back.
Taylor studied the establishment’s name on the sign out front—The Essence. Trendy name for a whorehouse.
“They’re pullin’ in,” Frank said.
The Chendoah transport veered off the highway into the gravel lot behind the storefront and rolled to a stop.
“What now, boss?” the Buma asked.
Taylor pointed to a group of darkened structures down the block. “There. We oughta have a clear line of sight to the brothel from that first warehouse on the corner.”
“Copy that.” Frank watched his speed until the Chendoah had entered the building with Scarface and the other Dutya, then guided the hauler past The Essence until it came to rest inside the warehouse’s damp, two-story interior.
“Stan, you’re with me,” Taylor said, bailing out in a camo jacket and his Generals cap. “Jack, there’s an old maintenance bay across the street that should give you a clear bead on the brothel’s rear. Take your gear and post up there in case these guys try to jackrabbit through the back door.”
“Ayew,” Jack said.
“How about us?” Frank asked.
Taylor spotted a catwalk with stairs and a skyward hatch on the warehouse’s north wall. “Frank, I want you and Genovese to head topside and keep a bird’s eye view of the surroundin’ areas from the roof. Something tells me the Chendoah don’t provide roundtrip transit service for their clients. If that’s true, the Dutya are gonna need to thumb a ride back to their ship. I want a heads up before it arrives.”
“Ayew,” the Buma said.
“What about the Lumar?” Genovese asked. “This could get real dicey, real quick if those big bastards opt to intervene.”
Stan checked his rifle, then propped the weapon on the shoulder of his trench coat. “The Lumar work security for the Chendoah, not the Dutya. Once the slugs leave the brothel, the Lumar will have no stake in what happens to them. Ergo, I expect they’ll stay out of it.”
“Agreed,” Jack said.
“Everyone clear on their assignments?” Taylor asked.
“Ayew,” the group answered.
“Cool. Comm checks at setup, then every 10 minutes afterward. Let’s move out.” Taylor scooped up his rifle and ruck from the hauler’s front seat and tossed the latter over his shoulders. From there, he hustled across the grease-stained concrete floor with Stan and took position just inside the north entrance facing the brothel. “Tomahawk and Rebel are in position. Sooner, take us around the horn.”
Everyone took turns reporting in, concluding with Frank from the roof.
“Ayew,” Taylor said. “Next check in 10. Triple squelch if you can’t talk. Tomahawk, out.”
* * *
Hour one from the warehouse ticked by with almost no activity, save for the foot traffic coming in and out of The Essence. That began when a Besquith flashed a stack of credits at the door, then gave a quick side-to-side study of the street before heading inside. After that came a XenSha, then a Sidar, then a trio of Cochkala. Eventually, the hour ended when a pair of visibly nervous Altar exited the brothel—eyes, heads, and antennae down—then abruptly went their separate ways.
That looks awkward. Taylor keyed his pinplants. “Sooner, gimme a sitrep.”
“Still clear,” Jack answered from the garage across the street.
“Birdman?” Taylor shifted.
“Nada, boss,” Frank said from the roof. “We got no action inside the target or in the immediate vicinity. It’s all status quo.”
Taylor donned a set of goggles from his ruck and peered across the street. As expected, the brothel lights inside were still dim, the music was still blaring, and an amalgam of the strangest silhouettes he’d ever seen went on writhing behind the drapes of the far-right
