America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits by Walter Knight Read Free Book Online Page B

great, but is less filling.  Real gusto in a great light beer.”
         “What are your intentions?” pressed Jacobs.  The camera zoomed in on the can of Outlaw Beer, the king of beers.  “Surely you do not hope to escape.  The Legion has the casino surrounded.”
         “We will wear human shields during our escape.”
         “Now?” asked Jacobs, showing alarm.  “If you can wait a couple more hours, you grisly death will be seen on prime time.  Think of the ratings, and beer commercial residuals if you die clutching a can of Outlaw Beer in your greedy bandit claws during prime time.”
         “Wait until prime time,” advised the negotiations robot knowingly.  “I've waited my whole artificial life for prime time.  A chance like this doesn't happen often.  I say go for it.”
         Little-Claw nodded agreement.  “I drink Outlaw Beer, too.”
         “I use Sears DieHard batteries,” added the negotiations robot.  “They're to die for.  Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”
         “Then it's agreed,” said Jacobs happily.  “We wait until prime time for your escape and death at the hands of the Foreign Legion.  Your death will be slow and painful, hopefully lasting well into the ten o'clock news coverage.”
                                                                         * * * * *
         Cactus-Claw walked out of the casino with cocktail waitresses strapped to each of his four shoulders.  It was kind of erotic in an alien human pestilence sort of way.  He sprayed pheromone, but it seemed to have no affect on the female human shields.  Cactus-Claw also duct taped a pit boss covering his mid section, and two fat security guards on his back.  The human males seemed to be getting into it.  Most annoying.  A Legion sniper shot Cactus-Claw in the foot, his only exposed body part.  He staggered back into the casino, hissing in pain.
         I tried to activate the negotiations robot self-destruct explosive protocol, to create a diversion and cover for a Legion assault on the casino, but it malfunctioned.  I suspect the robot was compromised.  Then, Major Lopez arrived with Plan B, the ghost of Mayor Harold Crack.
         “I distrust ghosts even more than I do robots and ATMs,” I bristled.  “What do you mean he's a legionnaire?”
         “I have a contract, signed off by the CIA,” said Private Crack.  “You have no choice but to trust me.  Don't worry, I can't be killed because I'm already not quite alive.  I'll just slip in through an air vent, strangle the life out of Cactus-Claw, get my gold teeth back, and be gone.  Mission accomplished.”
         “Gold teeth?” I asked, patting my pouch.  “What about the TV camera?  I can't allow ghosts on TV.  Not during prime time.  This isn't Ghost Hunters.  This is real life.”
         “What's in that pouch?” asked Private Crack accusingly.  “You have some of my teeth in there!”
         “Only a few,” I confessed, spilling gold teeth on the sidewalk like dice.  “I was only holding them for safe keeping and evidence.”
                                                                            * * * * *
         True to his word, the ghost of Harold Crack slipped through the air conditioning vents into the casino.  He floated down to where bandit gangsters were feverishly doing first aid, duct taping Cactus-Claw's bloody foot.  Then something went terribly wrong. 
         The negotiations robot snitched on Private Crack, allowing a trap to be set.  Cactus-Claw lit a candle, placed it in a glass jar on the blackjack table, and let it burn.  Private Crack was drawn to the flame, intoxicated by its warmth.  As he hovered inside the jar, Cactus-Claw slammed the metal lid down, screwing it tight.  Yes!  It was the first