America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (5 page)

“I like to think of myself as an independent contractor,” replied Kosminski arrogantly. “Be glad the galaxy doesn’t want to kill you yet. I’m the one taking the heat from the Legion and the Empire.”

“For the reward, I should deliver you myself. I don’t need the hornet’s nest you stirred up.”

“You need my human connections to move blue powder south, so don’t get any ideas about going solo. Let me kill the legionnaire. He’ll slow us down.”

“Not now. The hostage is a big negotiating chip I intend to use.”

“He’s just a private,” sneered Kosminski, sharpening his barber’s razor menacingly. “Show the Legion our street creds. We can get more hostages later.”

“America is squeamish about hostages being cut up on TV,” agreed Blue-Claw. “But they will soon tire of the War on Blue Powder, and negotiate a truce.”

“Czerinski will not tire,” cautioned Kosminski. “The Butcher of New Colorado holds a grudge forever.”

“Now he’s the Butcher of the Web. Public opinion is already turning in our favor. You human pestilence need your blue powder.”

“What about the Empire?”

“We spiders are more pragmatic. I’ll just make the Emperor an offer he can’t refuse.”

“When’s lunch?” asked Private Higuera, waking up disorientated and grumpy from low blood sugar. “Public opinion will turn against you if I starve to death!”

“Shut up,” snapped Blue-Claw. “Your human pestilence sub-species Italiano are always hungry.”

“I’m not Italian, you
puta
!”

“Pasta?” questioned Blue-Claw, adjusting his translation device. “No pasta for you, smelly garlic noodle eater. No pizza pie, either!”

“You’re a punk! You know that? Untie me, see what happens. This is cruel and unusual!”

“Jail-house lawyers everywhere.”

“I mean it, punk. Not feeding me is a war crime!”

“Quiet, crazy tattooed human pestilence!”

“I’m not crazy. The Legion had me tested.”

“Ha, another use for duct tape,” sneered Blue-Claw, shutting Higuera up with a generous application of the sticky silver tape. “Duct tape is the one thing you human pestilence do right.”

Chapter 7

The joint Arthropodan-American effort to rout out the Polish Cartel from the Web bogged down because the mostly spider fighters were little affected by nerve agent. More effective insecticides had been banned by galactic treaty, putting American resolve in doubt. Refugees continued to stream south. Missing legionnaire Higuera’s face was posted on every milk carton and beer can on the planet as the Legion belt tightened. General Daly demanded bold action, or else. I was just beginning to despair when spider drug kingpin Blue-Claw called my personal communications pad.

“Colonel Czerinski, we finally meet. I am willing to make you a deal you can’t refuse on your boy Higuera.”

“The answer is no,” I countered, ever the tough seasoned negotiator sticking to the Legion hostage negotiations manual. “America does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Technically I am not a terrorist,” bristled Blue-Claw. “I am a Lord of Drugs.”

“Drug lord narco-terrorist is more like it.”

“I prefer undocumented pharmacist. We’re thinking about going corporate.”

“You are a ruthless scumbag drug dealer.”

“Sticks and stones. It’s in both our interest to resolve our differences. Your failed Legion invasion of the Web is nevertheless cutting into my profits, upsetting investors. You want Higuera back to avoid more bad press. Let’s make a deal we can all live with. We swap prisoners. I’ll return your legionnaire unharmed, you leave the Web.”

“Higuera is just a private. I want more.”

“What else is there to negotiate?”

“Money. It’s as good as cash. Do you have any idea how much it costs America to put all those refugees on welfare?”

“No.”

“It’s probably a lot. They’re never going to want to leave, once they get their EBT cards.”

“And you call me the Mafia,” hissed Blue-Claw. “I will not stand for your shakedown.”

“There is no such thing as the Mafia.”

“Big Tony has already admitted under torture that he’s a Teamster and Mafia want-to-be, so don’t tell me there’s no such thing as the Mafia. Teamsters thug Carlos O’Neil has been organizing my employees for a long time. My drug dealers demand eight hour shifts, weekends and holidays off, and overtime. What ever happened to good old fashion entrepreneurial spirit? It’s criminal if I go out of business because of your human pestilence Teamsters Mafia.”

“Tell me about it,” I lamented. “I have a pile of unfair labor practice grievances on my desk, and the War on Blue Powder has only just started. It’s all your fault by breaking Kosminski out of jail. If you want to return Higuera, I want five million to cover America’s inconvenience.”

“What? Bloody hell,
I’m
the terrorist. You pay
me
.”

“You’re a drug dealer,” I argued, fine tuning my translation device to edit out the annoying British accent. “I’m firm on the five million.”

“Arthropodan credits?”

“Pounds.”

“No way.”

“Fine. U.S. Dollars.”

“Even more ridiculous. Do you think American money just grows on drug-trees?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pay one million, and feel egregiously cheated by your human pestilence Mafia tactics. Where is the goodwill?”

“We are sworn enemies, to the death,” I explained patiently. “There is no goodwill. Four million.”

“Two-point-five million is all I can do, what with the downturn in the economy, high taxes, a union closed shop, and increased transportation costs. Even my crack-hoes are negotiating for more money, and they’re independent contractors.”

“Can you make that cash?” I asked innocently.

“You’ll have to take a check,” apologized Blue-Claw. “I have serious cash flow problems. It’s technical. Do not attempt to cash my check until after the weekend.”

“You have a deal,” I replied magnanimously. “I expect Private Higuera to be released immediately.”

“Whatever. Are we done? Is that all?”

“I still want Aaron Kosminski, dead or alive. I prefer dead to save on court costs and red tape. The War on Blue Powder isn’t over until Kosminski is back in Legion custody.”

“Kosminski means nothing to me, but returning him violates the Teamsters Collective Bargaining Agreement. Employees can’t just be thrown under the bus to the feds.”

“Legion lawyers say Kosminski is management, exempt from CBA protection,” I explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure O’Neil signs off on that.”

“So we’re done?”

“I expect a hand-claw shake,” I added, not quite done. “I don’t deal with voices on the phone. As you pointed out before, goodwill goes a long way.”

“And get shot like my last messenger? No way, José.”

“I never shoot the messenger. That was the spider commander. You will shake my hand if you want a deal.”

A manhole cover by my feet scraped loudly across asphalt. Blue-Claw emerged, soaked in sewer grime and slime. He shook himself like a shaggy dog before approaching with two henchmen-spiders. I shook his extended claw firmly. All I got back was a dead fish hand-claw shake with no genuine grip.

“That’s not good enough,” I chastised. “Shaking hands-claws is a time-honored galactic tradition, and you will do it right so I know we really have a deal, and goodwill.”

“Now you know what I look like,” replied Blue-Claw, clinching my hand as he peered into my helmet camera lens. “Know this, you will die horribly if you cross me on our agreement.”

“Ditto, sewer-bug breath. Keep to your side of the border, or we will meet again under less favorable circumstances.”

* * * * *

Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight caught up with me for an interview about the release of Private Higuera, our newest Hero of the Legion. I’d been ducking the press, but conceded grudgingly that they were an important American institution. General Daly ordered me to say a few words.
Bastard.

“Colonel Czerinski, some say the Legion gave too much away for the return of Private Higuera. What say you?”

“The Legion leaves no man behind.”

“Is it now Legion policy to negotiate with terrorists?” pressed Coen. “Doesn’t it set a bad precedent?”

“Technically they’re drug dealers. It’s okay to negotiate with drug dealers and criminals.”

“What is your personal stand on dealing with terrorists?”

“Standing on the windpipe works great.”

“Now that your failed incursion into the Web is over, and legionnaires are returning south, what is your strategy to continue the War on Blue Powder?”

“That’s classified. Efforts are ongoing.”

“You have no comprehensive plan, do you?”

“It’s technical. A lot goes on you don’t know about.”

“That’s a good thing for you, I’m sure,” needled Coen. “Are you any closer to catching drug kingpin Aaron Kosminski, who escaped Legion custody under your watch? That’s quite an embarrassment, and another blight on your already checkered career.”

“Our Arthropodan allies are closing in on Kosminski as we speak. The Legion takes a long view approach to the war.”

“Kosminski is Polish, right Colonel Czerinski? Kind of ironic.”

“What are you implying?”

“Just saying.”

“Don’t go there, Coen.”

Chapter 8

The prisoner swap occurred at midnight. It was a full moon. A cold desert wind from the north chilled to the bone. A lone wolf howled in the distance.
What? Sorry, wrong story.
It was a mangy coyote yelping, and the heat was turned up inside the DMZ Walmart. I entered on the American side with two bedraggled spider prisoners in tow. Blue-Claw entered from the Arthropodan side with Private Higuera.

“Follow the yellow line, just like at DMV,” I instructed. “Walk slow, and you might even live out the day.”

“No!” protested one of the spiders. “You are the Butcher of New Colorado, the Butcher of the Web. You can’t be trusted. You will shoot us in the back.”

“I will honor our deal,” I replied, deeply hurt that my credibility was questioned. I shoved them forward. “Meet in the middle, and you might live.”

“Please, I don’t want to die.”

“Be positive. There’s always sunshine above the clouds.”

“But we’re indoors. We’re going to die under neon lights!”

* * * * *

“Seriously?” asked Private Higuera. “Walmart? Are you kidding me?”

“Not my call,” answered Blue-Claw. “If something goes wrong, your paranoid commander wants it all recorded on Walmart security tape.”

“Is it okay if I snatch some tamales?” asked Private Higuera reasonably, salivating as they passed the Mexican foods section. “And chips? I’m starving.”

“No!” replied Blue-Claw, giving his hostage a push. “Walk straight to your boss, Czerinski. Stick to the plan.”

“Plan? I don’t need no stinking plan. I’m an American. Americans don’t
plan
, we
do
. I need to eat, or my blood sugar will drop.”

“If you want to survive, get your mind off food and do as you are told!”

“
Puta
,” fumed Higuera under his breath, defiantly grabbing an apple fritter as he passed pastries. “Good thing I’m getting released, or I’d kick your punk spider ass!”

* * * * *

The two spider prisoners and Private Higuera walked slowly, meeting at the center of Walmart in the electronics department. Private Higuera deftly slipped a latest model Kindle into his pants. Playing catch-up, the spiders pilfered digital cameras.

“How come we didn’t get food like you?” complained one of the spiders. “Not even pizza. All hostages get pizza. The Legion never feeds its prisoners.”

“Discrimination,” answered Private Higuera. “Deal with it.”

“Give me half your fritter, you can have a camera,” offered the spider, reaching for Big Tony’s sweets. “You need to share, bro.”

“Get off me!” replied Private Higuera, holding back. “I don’t think so, not in this lifetime.”

“They’re going to shoot us all,” whispered the spider, leaning closer. “Shit rolls downhill, and we’re at the bottom of the poop-chute. It’s always been that way.”

“No one is shooting anyone,” assured Private Higuera, trying to finish the fritter as he pointed to ceiling camera. “They wouldn’t dare. We’re all on Channel Five World News Tonight.”

“Damn!” gasped the other spider to his buddy. “You better put those cameras back. This is going to mess up my parole.”