“I might have an idea,” Jack said. “Everybody, cover me!”
A barrage of Eagle lasers blistered the trash collector as the silver-haired cowboy raced out of the garage into the street. He cut left, then right, then left again versus the enemy’s fire before crashing hands-first through the side entrance of the old cantina.
“What in the hell’s that crazy old fool doin’?” Genovese barked.
“I expect we’ll know momentarily,” Taylor answered. “Just be ready to cover his egress when he comes out!”
As if on cue, Jack sprang from the cantina and darted past streaks of weapon fire to join his CO behind the flatbed treads.
“What was that all about?” Taylor asked over the uproar.
Jack panted to catch his breath, then reached into his denim jacket and pulled out a pair of small glass globes filled with white powder. “I’ve got a theory about—”
Pop, pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop, pop.
“You were sayin’?” Taylor asked when the barrage ended.
“Heads up!” Frank announced. “We got a runner!”
A lone Dutya wriggled into the open and headed for something in the mangled carrier as the Eagles opened fire. Again, the shots had no impact.
“Ah, to hell with this.” Jack leapt to his feet and tossed one of his globes in a high arc toward the alien’s feet, where it struck with a crash. The Dutya screamed in anguish, then shrank into itself like some sort of natural defense.
“What the hell’s in that?” Taylor pointed to the other globe in the cowboy’s hand.
“Salt,” Jack said. “I figure the Dutya look like slugs, right? Maybe they got the same allergies.”
Taylor couldn’t help but laugh at the simplicity of the idea. “Nicely done, Commander Bowyer.”
“Thank ya, Chief.” Jack grinned and extended his hand. “Would you care to take a pass?”
“Why yes, I believe I would.”
The duo took turns lobbing saltshakers at their adversaries, who answered not with laser fire, but howls of agony into the night. They threw again and again and again until eventually Taylor halted the exchange with a raised palm. “This is Chief Taylor Van Zant, commanding officer of the Earth mercenary group Swamp Eagle Security. We just wanna talk. If you come out now and drop your weapons, you have my word you will not be fired upon.”
A chorus of angry hisses preceded fresh laser fire against the opposite side of the flatbed’s treads.
“Hit ‘em again,” Taylor said.
Jack hurled another globe skyward, and the onslaught ended.
“We can do this all night,” Taylor called. “What’s it gonna be?”
Scarface gave a quick peek into the open, then retreated back behind the steel bin. “Save your threats, human! Our reinforcements are on their way. You can still save yourselves if you run now.”
“Seems to me that’s a long time to wait,” Taylor said. “It took us, what? Fifteen? Twenty minutes to get here from the starport? In the meantime, me and my partner have a sackful of these grenades ready to go, and clearly we ain’t afraid to use them.”
Jack tapped his CO’s shoulder then extended a palm. He had two shakers left.
Okay, so not a sackful. Taylor rolled his eyes.
“The trick is to make them doubt their assumptions,” Stan had said earlier. “A strong show of force can go a long way toward makin’ that happen.”
Taylor heaved a sigh. Sometimes you’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. “Hit ‘em again.”
Jack lofted another shaker.
Crash!
More screams.
“Again.”
Jack did a double take.
“Just do it,” Taylor said.
The cowboy nodded reluctantly, then reared back with his final projectile and let fly. The result was a crescendo of anguish that could’ve peeled paint of a barn door.
“Please!” Scarface begged. “Please, no more salt!”
“Does that mean you’re comin’ out?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, yes!” the alien captain whined. “Please, hold your fire!”
Stan trotted out from the warehouse to join Taylor and Jack in training their rifles on the dumpster. Meanwhile, all seven Dutya wriggled out into the open and threw down their weapons.
“Tomahawk to Birdman,” Taylor said. “Radio the Osyrys and tell them to get a room ready. It appears we’re havin’ guests this evening.”
* * * * *
Chapter 10: Credits for Answers
As a show of good faith for future encounters, Taylor let five of the Dutya go, but took Scarface and one of the officers prisoner. He did, however, make the departing aliens a promise.
“Tell your crew to stand down from any attacks on my ship back at the starport, and we’ll cut your captain loose in plenty of time for y’all to transition out for your next score. Cross us, and we’ll hit your freighter with so much salt, you’ll think it’s a winter fargin wonderland.”
For whatever reason—be it concern for their commander, or their ship—the Dutya seemed amenable to Taylor’s deal. All parties went their separate ways after that, which for the Eagles meant a 20-minute hauler ride back to the Osyrys with two slug captives leaving slime slicks on the upholstery.
Nasty little bastards, Taylor thought.
One of the Eagles’ newest hires, Sergeant Rowen Reigns from Pensacola, was waiting in the cargo bay when the hauler came to rest on the platform. “Welcome back, sirs,” she said in her Flora-Bama drawl. “We’ve prepped the guest room you asked for. It’s ready when you are.”
“Much obliged, Sarge,” Taylor said, climbing out. “Did you get the other thing I asked for?”
The short, sturdy non-com with copper-toned skin and sun-streaked espresso hair signaled to a nearby corporal, who jogged over and handed a small pouch to Stan.
“Careful not to spend it all at once,” Taylor grumbled.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Stan grinned and slid the pouch into his pocket, while Jack and the others exited the hauler with the Dutya. Once everyone was down, the humans escorted the aliens up
