enough time for a
nap.
Surely you have the luxury of speaking with a friend.” That, a jab at her for sleeping. A deserved one.
“A friend. Are we friends?”
“We could be. If you’re honest.”
She pauses. Then sighs, and takes a step back. “Let’s talk.”
“Why are you here? Seems a strange place to find a hunter of your caliber. This boy…his shop…” The Sullustan makes a face like he’s just licked the hind end of a bantha. “It’s really beneath your level.”
She shrugs. “I need a part for my gun. He has parts.”
“I have parts.”
One of the Narquois chuckles.
“It’s no slight against you. It’s a small component and, really, beneath your level. So I came here.”
Surat claps his hands together. A moist sound. Clap, clap, clap. “Very good. Very good.” But then the little smile drops off his puckered lips. He steps forward. “But may I offer a countermanding theory?”
Jas is good at reading body language. A talent that has been practiced—one of her many senses she endeavors to keep sharp, like a knife. All of the gangster’s body has tensed up just now. His eyes narrowing, then going wide again. Paranoia bleeds off him in waves. A not-uncommon characteristic of individuals in his position—certainly
head of a crime syndicate
is a life replete with nigh-constant threat. Her life is similar. But she knows not to give in to it. Paranoia is a deadly emotion.
Deadly for you. But deadly for those around you, too.
“Whatever you’re thinking—”
“I am thinking that insolent grub, Temmin Wexley, has decided to make a play. He orchestrated the theft of…something important to me. And now he intends to dispatch me.” Another step forward. “He is a crafty little trilobite, that one. Smart, if not smart enough. He comes at you from the side, as he has done to me for the last year.
Nibbling
away at my business like the
hiss-wyrmgrubs
of Sullust, chewing up our subterranean gardens, eating the roots of our underground trees.” The gangster’s moist face-flaps tremble. “You. He hired you. To kill me.”
There it is.
“You’re being paranoid,” she says.
“Paranoia has kept me alive. Even when it has turned out misguided, I remain happily paranoid and have no regrets about it. Better safe than sorry.”
“I’m not here to kill you.”
“So you say. I let you go, I’ll likely get a slug in the back of my skull before I lay my head to rest tonight.”
Jas thinks:
If I wanted to end your existence, I could do it right here, right now.
At her back is a small utility knife. The blade would spring out with the tap of a button. She’s fast. Faster than him. But not faster, she suspects, than the cadre of his cohorts. Certainly not faster than their weapons. Another option is to run—duck, dodge, feint, move. Attack them, not him. Distract. Fling junk. But they’re all blocking the door out. And she’s both tired and injured. Not an ideal situation.
She does calculations.
Only one option presents itself. An excruciating solution, in fact, but she has no other reasonable choice. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for someone else. The pay is good. I’ll cut you in, seventy-five–twenty-five.”
“Oh, my.” He fans himself. “Twenty-five percent?” His mouth twists into a sour curve. “You think that’s what your life is worth?”
Just kill him.
No.
“Sixty–forty split,” she offers. “And you facilitate. You help get me close. At that level, I expect my partners to earn their pay.” A true statement, that. Or would be, if she ever worked with partners.
“Let me guess. The target is Imperial? I see what’s happening out there. Stormtroopers in the streets. Officers clucking along like little gray birds. The TIE fighters. The shuttle.” He smirks. “Rumor has it one such shuttle—of a Lambda designation—fired on the old capitol building.”
“So you’ll help.”
“By the stars,
no.
The Empire is an ally. You think I haven’t heard?
nap.
Surely you have the luxury of speaking with a friend.” That, a jab at her for sleeping. A deserved one.
“A friend. Are we friends?”
“We could be. If you’re honest.”
She pauses. Then sighs, and takes a step back. “Let’s talk.”
“Why are you here? Seems a strange place to find a hunter of your caliber. This boy…his shop…” The Sullustan makes a face like he’s just licked the hind end of a bantha. “It’s really beneath your level.”
She shrugs. “I need a part for my gun. He has parts.”
“I have parts.”
One of the Narquois chuckles.
“It’s no slight against you. It’s a small component and, really, beneath your level. So I came here.”
Surat claps his hands together. A moist sound. Clap, clap, clap. “Very good. Very good.” But then the little smile drops off his puckered lips. He steps forward. “But may I offer a countermanding theory?”
Jas is good at reading body language. A talent that has been practiced—one of her many senses she endeavors to keep sharp, like a knife. All of the gangster’s body has tensed up just now. His eyes narrowing, then going wide again. Paranoia bleeds off him in waves. A not-uncommon characteristic of individuals in his position—certainly
head of a crime syndicate
is a life replete with nigh-constant threat. Her life is similar. But she knows not to give in to it. Paranoia is a deadly emotion.
Deadly for you. But deadly for those around you, too.
“Whatever you’re thinking—”
“I am thinking that insolent grub, Temmin Wexley, has decided to make a play. He orchestrated the theft of…something important to me. And now he intends to dispatch me.” Another step forward. “He is a crafty little trilobite, that one. Smart, if not smart enough. He comes at you from the side, as he has done to me for the last year.
Nibbling
away at my business like the
hiss-wyrmgrubs
of Sullust, chewing up our subterranean gardens, eating the roots of our underground trees.” The gangster’s moist face-flaps tremble. “You. He hired you. To kill me.”
There it is.
“You’re being paranoid,” she says.
“Paranoia has kept me alive. Even when it has turned out misguided, I remain happily paranoid and have no regrets about it. Better safe than sorry.”
“I’m not here to kill you.”
“So you say. I let you go, I’ll likely get a slug in the back of my skull before I lay my head to rest tonight.”
Jas thinks:
If I wanted to end your existence, I could do it right here, right now.
At her back is a small utility knife. The blade would spring out with the tap of a button. She’s fast. Faster than him. But not faster, she suspects, than the cadre of his cohorts. Certainly not faster than their weapons. Another option is to run—duck, dodge, feint, move. Attack them, not him. Distract. Fling junk. But they’re all blocking the door out. And she’s both tired and injured. Not an ideal situation.
She does calculations.
Only one option presents itself. An excruciating solution, in fact, but she has no other reasonable choice. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for someone else. The pay is good. I’ll cut you in, seventy-five–twenty-five.”
“Oh, my.” He fans himself. “Twenty-five percent?” His mouth twists into a sour curve. “You think that’s what your life is worth?”
Just kill him.
No.
“Sixty–forty split,” she offers. “And you facilitate. You help get me close. At that level, I expect my partners to earn their pay.” A true statement, that. Or would be, if she ever worked with partners.
“Let me guess. The target is Imperial? I see what’s happening out there. Stormtroopers in the streets. Officers clucking along like little gray birds. The TIE fighters. The shuttle.” He smirks. “Rumor has it one such shuttle—of a Lambda designation—fired on the old capitol building.”
“So you’ll help.”
“By the stars,
no.
The Empire is an ally. You think I haven’t heard?
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