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 kindness, 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.”
Taylor tipped the guard a wave, then accelerated his Harley through the checkpoint en route to meet with Sergeants Bowyer and Stan.
It’s commander now, remember? Taylor was still getting used to all the changes on his crew due to the influx of new personnel from Steeldriver. He’d encountered a lot of new faces in the last year, some of whom he’d met before, though many he hadn’t. Thankfully, none of that turnover had impacted his command staff, all of whom had been promoted.
A pair of familiar figures waved at Taylor from beside the shuttle on the westside docking platform as he approached on his Harley.
“How’d it go at the game?” Jack Bowyer asked past the hum of active engines. As was commonplace in Eagles culture when not on duty, the stocky, silver-haired Oklahoman was casually dressed in jeans, roper boots, and a button-down denim shirt with the straw cowboy hat he was almost never without.
“Not bad,” Taylor said. “I’m happy to report that I didn’t embarrass myself or the company. What’s the word on the contract Billy keeps talkin’ about?”
“Your guess is as good as ours, Chief,” Stan said. The lean Mississippian’s first name was Jedidiah, but everyone just called him Stan. He’d been partners with Jack in the merc business for decades, and like his cowboy counterpart, he, too, was almost never without his hat. Only in Stan’s case, the off-duty lid of choice was a brown fedora with a tattered leather band that matched the trench coat he wore when the weather cooled off.
“Weren’t you guys with him when he
