saved face for both sides, so he would let the matter slide this time. Blue-Claw needed to keep a low profile. More human pestilence TV coverage was bad for business.
Time healed all, allowing for a new normal, as normal as the blue powder narco-terrorism-trafficking business allowed on the DMZ of a distant planet shared with crazy Polish human pestilence cowboys like Czerinski and Kosminski. He’d kill them both, later.
Chapter 9
Some criminals are only alive because the law won’t allow society to kill them. Fortunately, that is not a problem on New Colorado. I may kill as many drug dealers as is necessary to win the War on Blue Powder, starting with Aaron Kosminski.
All high profile prisoners like Kosminski are embedded with tracking chips in the buttocks. Kosminski’s signal was weak on the surface, but still strong in the tunnels. I decided to personally lead a platoon of legionnaires under the DMZ to go after him. If you want someone killed right, you just have to do it yourself.
“Knight, you’re taking point,” I ordered, assembling the platoon in the catacombs below New Gobi City. “Follow the arrow on the tracking device. It’s so easy, even a science fiction writer can do it.”
“This is retaliation,” groused Private Knight, peering through the endless darkness. “The temporary restraining order specifically prohibits this sort of harassment.”
“Someone’s got to do it,” I replied reasonably. “It’s in the scope of battlefield command decisions to send someone out on point to lead the platoon. My choice was between you and O’Neil, and your Teamsters rep voted for you.”
“Sir, you hold a grudge forever.”
“Yes I do, but I think you’re just being paranoid.”
“With good reason. Even the paranoid have enemies.”
“Be careful, Knight. Replacements are getting harder to draft.”
Private Knight donned his night-vision goggles, useless in a zero light tunnel. He activated a low intensity strobe to illuminate the tunnel every ten seconds as they advanced. Simultaneously he filed another electronic emergency labor grievance into his communication pad. It was denied. A few seconds later, his appeal was also denied. Damn union, what do we pay dues for!
The tunnels under the DMZ canal dripped with water. Private Knight stealthily sloshed through the mud, oblivious to stepping on a concealed trip wire. Explosions rocked the tunnel. Rocks and mud poured down on the platoon. World famous science fiction author and Hero of the Legion Walter Knight was lost, presumed KIA. Sadly, there would be no more ‘America’s Galactic Foreign Legion’ sequels. The galaxy mourned. The platoon retreated back to the American side for their Teamsters-mandated lunch.
* * * * *
Aaron Kosminski dragged Private Knight from the tunnel debris up to a safe house on the surface. He tied Knight securely to a chair. Water in the face woke Private Knight with a start. Torture now began in earnest.
“I’ll talk!” shouted Private Knight, always preemptive when dealing with torture by terrorists. “Please, don’t tear out my testicles!”
“That’s a good idea,” replied Kosminski, nodding to a henchman to get pliers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Shit.”
“Drop his pants!”
“No, wait!” There’s a tracking device in your butt,” warned Private Knight desperately. “The Legion will rescue me any minute. Surrender now, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I know all about that tracking chip,” sneered Kosminski, patting his pants. “I’m wearing lead Proctor & Gamble diapers to thwart the signal. They’re even waterproof.”
“That’s diabolical, using American products against us. Can’t we negotiate the ripping out my testicles?”
“I intend to video you giving Colonel Czerinski a message from the Polish Cartel,” advised Kosminski, pointing to a teleprompter. “Read the text out loud.”
Relieved at still possessing testicles,
Learning to Kill: Stories