“Are you keeping tabs on me?”
“What are you doing on Nar Shaddaa?” the Director demanded.
“Maybe I just like the climate.”
“Smog clouds and acid rain? Not likely. You’re up to something.”
Well, right now I’m about to be ambushed in a dark alley, Theron thought.
Out loud, he said, “I’m taking care of some personal business.”
“What’s Teff’ith mixed up in now?” the Director asked with a sigh.
Even though he couldn’t see the man on the other end of the call, Theron could picture his boss rubbing his temples in exasperation.
“Teff’ith’s not a bad kid,” Theron insisted. “She just tends to fall in with the wrong crowd.”
“Guess that explains how she ended up working with you,” the Director grumbled.
Theron had stopped walking, and was standing with one hand up to the cyberlink in his ear, staring straight ahead.
Might as well be wearing a sign that says, come and get me! Time to make your move, whoever you are.
“Ngani Zho saw something special in her,” Theron said to the Director.
“I know Master Zho raised you, but by the time he met Teff’ith he was … troubled.”
You almost said crazy, didn’t you?
“She has key underworld contacts,” Theron explained, “and she knows how to handle herself in a tough spot. We might need a favor from her someday. I’m just looking out for a potential asset.”
“What makes you think she’d ever help us? Didn’t Teff’ith say she’d kill you if she ever saw you again?”
“Then I’ll make sure she doesn’t see me.”
“I hate to do this, Theron,” the Director said with another sigh. “But I’m ordering you to pull out of Nar Shaddaa. It’s for your own good.”
Theron felt the unmistakable shape of a vibroblade’s tip pressing up against his back and a deep voice growled, “Move and you’re dead!” in his other ear.
“You worry too much,” Theron told the Director, keeping his voice light. “Everything’s under control.” In a whisper he added, “Disconnect,” and the comlink in his ear shut down.
“Get your hands up!” his unseen assailant snarled.
Theron slowly raised his arms in the air, silently cursing himself for letting his assailant get so close.
Never even heard him coming. Was I really that sloppy, or is he that good?
“Lose the piece.”
The words were in Basic, but the voice was definitely not human—too deep, too rumbling. The speaker was large, but without turning around there was no way for Theron to pin down what species he was dealing with.
The comlink in his ear buzzed again, but this time Theron ignored the Director’s call. He clicked his teeth together twice, temporarily shutting the cybernetics off so he could focus on getting out of the alley alive.
“I said lose the piece!”
The order was accentuated by a jabbing of the blade against Theron’s back. Reaching down slowly, Theron slid his blaster pistol from the holster on his hip and let it drop to the ground. He briefly considered making a move; there were a dozen ways he could try to surprise and disarm his opponent. But without knowing exactly who or what he was facing, it was too risky.
Patience. Analyze the situation. Wait for your chance.
“Those are some fancy wrist guards you got. Maybe have a poison dart or a pinpoint blaster built in, right? Lose ’em.”
Any hope Theron had of catching his assailant by surprise with the weapons in his customized bracers vanished as he unclipped the metal bands from his forearms and let them fall at his feet.
The fact that his assailant had marked the bracers as potential weapons also meant this wasn’t some run-of-the-mill mugger. An Imperial operative would probably recognize the bracers, but it didn’t make sense for any of them to be targeting Theron on a Hutt-controlled world … especially now that Imperial Intelligence had been officially disbanded. That left only one other likely—and unsettling—option: a bounty hunter or assassin working for Morbo the Hutt.
“Now turn around, real slow.”
The pressure of the blade eased as the ambusher took a step back. Theron turned to see a violet-skinned Houk towering over him, his heavyset torso and thick, muscular limbs seeming to fill the entire width of the narrow alley. His froglike features were set in a grim scowl, his eyes fixed intently on his victim.
He was pretty sure the Houk didn’t have any backup—he would have noticed if there was more than one person following him. But even if he was acting alone, Theron was no match for the massive brute’s raw muscle. Under normal conditions he could make up what he lacked in strength with speed, but in the tight confines of the narrow alley avoiding the deadly vibroblade might be difficult … especially if the Houk was trained in close-quarters fighting. Given his choice of weapon, Theron had to assume he was facing a capable and deadly opponent.
“What’s your interest in Morbo?” the Houk demanded.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Theron said, his earlier hypothesis about his ambusher working for the Hutt seemingly confirmed.
“I’ve seen you scoping out Morbo’s place for the past three days,” the Houk snarled. “Lie to me again, and I won’t ask nicely next time,” he added, waving the vibroblade back and forth for emphasis.
The threat didn’t bother Theron nearly as much as the realization that he’d been made during his recon trips to Morbo’s club.
“Never saw you at Morbo’s,” Theron admitted. “Didn’t think anybody saw me, either.”
“I’ve been trained to know what to look for,” the Houk answered.
Trained? Theron wondered. By whom? Imperial Intelligence?
As if echoing his own thoughts, the Houk asked, “Who are you working for?”
Theron wasn’t about to reveal his connection to SIS, and he suspected another evasive answer would be met with violence.
“Take the shot!” Theron shouted, as if calling out to an unseen accomplice.
The Houk’s head turned just a fraction as he reacted to Theron’s bluff.
Seizing on the distraction, Theron lashed out with a quick kick to the Houk’s midsection. The impact caused no real damage, but it momentarily knocked the big alien off balance, giving Theron more room to operate.
He was already backpedaling in anticipation of the counterattack; even so he barely avoided the expected lunge of his opponent. As he feared, the Houk wasn’t just some clumsy brawler—he was quicker than he seemed.
As the Houk moved in, Theron tried to disarm him with a wrist lock, reaching out for the hand that held the blade. The Houk countered by twisting his body and throwing his opposite shoulder into Theron, sending him stumbling back.
Unable to set his feet, Theron was forced on the defensive. The alley was too narrow to dodge from side to side, so his only option was full-scale retreat, backpedaling rapidly as the Houk charged forward, the blade slicing and stabbing the empty air centimeters from Theron’s chest. Theron suddenly stopped short and dropped to the ground, rolling into the thick legs of his advancing foe. The move caught the Houk by surprise; he tripped over Theron and tumbled to the ground, the fall knocking the vibroblade from his grasp.
One of the Houk’s knobby knees caught Theron in the chin as he fell over him, splitting his lip and making him see stars. Woozy, Theron ignored the pain and leapt to his feet, and with his first step he staggered sideways into the side of the alley before crashing back down to the ground.
A massive hand closed around his ankle as the still-prone Houk tried to drag Theron close enough to finish him off. Theron lashed out with his free leg, smashing his foot twice into the Houk’s corpulent face. The viselike grip slipped just enough for Theron to free himself with a twisting roll, and he scrambled on hands and knees toward where his blaster and bracers lay on the ground.
The Houk struggled back to his feet, but by the time he was upright Theron h
ad seized one of the bracers, slapped it onto his right forearm, and taken aim.
“Toxicity seven,” he muttered, squeezing his hand into a tight fist.
A small dart launched from a thin barrel built into the bracer and buried itself in the Houk’s chest. The mighty alien went rigid as a powerful electrical charge surged through him. He convulsed for several seconds, and then dropped to the ground, twitching slightly from the aftereffects.
Theron considered what to do with the immobilized but still-conscious Houk as he quickly gathered his gear. It wouldn’t take long for the effects of the electrical blast to wear off, but for the next few minutes the Houk was basically helpless. Theron wasn’t about to execute a helpless opponent … but he wasn’t above interrogating him. “Toxicity two,” he whispered, firing another dart into the Houk’s thigh from point-blank range.
He waited thirty seconds for the mind-clouding drug to take effect before he started asking questions.
“How did you spot me?” he asked. “You said you were trained. By whom?”
The Houk shook his head groggily, struggling to resist the chemicals coursing through his system. In a few minutes they would render him unconscious—Theron needed to get answers before that happened.
“Hey!” Theron snapped, slapping the Houk’s meaty cheek. “Who trained you?”
“Republic SIS,” the Houk mumbled.
“Republic SIS?” Theron repeated, his mind struggling to accept what he’d just heard.
“Covert surveillance,” the groggy Houk confirmed, his tongue loosened by Theron’s truth serum. “Watching Morbo. Part of Operation Transom.”
SIS has eyes on Morbo. No wonder the Director knew I was here.
Theron had never heard of Transom, but that wasn’t unusual. SIS had ongoing missions all across the galaxy, and only the Director and the agents involved would be aware of the details.
Just my luck to stumble into an active SIS mission.
“What are you going to do with me?” the Houk asked, slurring his words and struggling to keep his eyes open as sleep slowly dragged him down.
“Relax, big guy,” Theron said. “We’re on the same side.”
The Director had ordered Theron off Nar Shaddaa; obviously he was worried about him interfering with Transom, whatever it might be. But Teff’ith’s life was at stake, and Theron wasn’t about to abandon her, even if it meant defying a direct order.
The Houk began to snore loudly, ending any hope Theron had of asking him for more details about Operation Transom.
It has to be in the early stages, Theron reasoned. They’re still just observing the target. If I get in and out quickly, it shouldn’t have any significant impact on the mission.
He knew the Director would never buy that argument as justification for what he was about to do. But it was always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
Grabbing hold of the Houk’s arms, he dragged the sleeping alien into a corner of the alley, hiding him behind several trash bins. He’d wake up in a couple of hours with a pounding headache, but otherwise unharmed. Plenty of time for Theron to meet with Morbo and bargain for Teff’ith’s life.
He set off down the alley at a brisk trot, trying not to think about the fact that he was putting his entire career in jeopardy.
CHAPTER 2
THERON’S LIP STARTED TO SWELL from the blow from the Houk’s knee; he felt like he’d been smashed with a swoop rider’s helmet. He had a few small medkits tucked into his belt, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. The wound was painful, but not debilitating.
Instead, he ran through a simple series of mental exercises Ngani Zho had taught him to soothe the body and mind. It was a trick the Jedi used to help them draw on the Force to heal themselves, but Theron had found that there were benefits even for someone like him.
He acknowledged the pain in his lip, embraced it, then let it slip away from his consciousness. Almost instantly the pain faded, though the damage remained. Good enough until the mission was over and he could get a med droid to fix him up properly.
Winding his way through the back alleys without further incident, he emerged in the corner of a small square in the Red Light District. There were fewer people here than in the Promenade, but it was crowded enough that Theron kept an eye peeled for pickpockets as he crossed the square. A trio of teens on swoop bikes buzzed the crowd, flying the colors of one of the local street gangs. They laughed at the angry shouts of the pedestrians, circling tauntingly just above their heads before zooming off to disappear around the corner.
Theron paid them little heed as he approached his destination: a squat, two-story building on the other side of the square owned by Morbo the Hutt, one of the moon’s many local crime lords. In the front of the building was a small casino bar called Morbo’s Paradise; in the back was a warehouse for storing whatever illegal goods the Hutt was trafficking, along with Morbo’s private office.
The plan was simple: Go into the club, slip a hefty handful of credits to the manager, and ask for a meeting with Morbo. Once inside, Theron would use his powers of persuasion—and the Hutt’s greed and self-interest—to convince Morbo to call off the hit on Teff’ith and her crew. Quick, clean, and simple wasn’t Theron’s usual style, but he wasn’t in the mood for any surprises.
The club was more crowded than usual. Probably irrelevant, but Theron couldn’t help but notice. After the ambush in the alley, his senses were on high alert. He quickly scanned the club for anyone who seemed out of place—if SIS had assigned the Houk to keep an eye on Morbo, there could be other agents on the case.
He didn’t see anyone who specifically grabbed his attention, but he did notice something else unusual. Most of the patrons weren’t gambling. They sipped drinks, sitting alone or in pairs at tables and at the bar as if waiting for something. A few openly studied him as he strode toward Rers Shallit, the Neimoidian manager of the club, who was standing in a corner near the back. Behind him a pair of Gamorrean bouncers stood on either side of a door leading to the rooms in the back of the club.
Early in his preliminary investigations, Theron had learned that Rers was Morbo’s second in command. The Hutt called the shots; the Neimoidian was in charge of carrying out his orders. Theron had also learned that Rers was dumb enough to take cuts for himself when Morbo wasn’t looking, but smart enough to keep the grifts small and unnoticeable.
Eager at this point to get the mission over with, Theron skipped all pretense.
“I need to speak to Morbo.”
“Forget it. Go wait with the others.”
The reply caught Theron off guard. He’d expected Rers to say something like, Nobody speaks to Morbo. Talk to me and I’ll pass it along. Or maybe, What’s in it for me?
The unexpected response stoked Theron’s already burning curiosity; he struggled to stay on script.
“Get me in to see your boss and I’ll make it worth your while.”
The Neimoidian held him in a withering gaze.
“Morbo runs a clean auction. No sneak peeks at the merchandise. Go sit down before this gets ugly.”
The Gamorreans turned to him, their porcine snouts curled in anticipation, revealing their protruding tusks.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Theron said with a shrug as the pieces clicked into place. The extra patrons at the club weren’t gambling because they were here looking to buy. Theron hadn’t heard anything about an auction in the three days he’d been on Nar Shaddaa. It must have been set up weeks ago; potential buyers already contacted long before he arrived. And Theron could think of only one reason for all the secrecy.
Morbo’s auctioning off captured Republic POWs.
Slavery was legal in the Sith Empire and on Hutt-controlled worlds. The Republic generally turned a blind eye to the Hutt slave trade, but there was one notable exception. Any Hutt who auctioned off captured Republic soldiers inevitably became a target of covert Republic retaliation: privateers seizing cargo in transit, anonymous vandals targeting the Hutt’
s holdings and warehouses on various planets, customs officials on Core Worlds conducting numerous “random” inspections on arriving shipments from the Hutt’s business partners.
Selling POWs into slavery was bad business, and most Hutts avoided it. But Morbo was greedy, even for his notoriously avaricious species, and a secret auction of Republic prisoners was right up his alley.
Aware that Rers was still watching him, Theron made his way over to an empty table near the entrance and sat down. The Gamorrean bouncers eyed his retreat, snouts sagging in disappointment at the lost chance to pummel a seemingly helpless customer.
He settled into his seat and mulled over his options. Everyone probably assumed he represented a buyer wishing to remain anonymous, and he’d have to play along if he didn’t want to raise suspicion. He could wait out the auction, toss out a few lowball bids to play his part, then try to meet with Morbo after to bargain for Teff’ith’s life. That would be the most prudent course of action. But the idea of sitting idly by while his fellow soldiers were auctioned off like chattel galled Theron.
What if I’m not the only one not willing to just let this happen? Is this what Operation Transom is about?
Then again, if SIS had learned about Morbo’s secret auction, the Director could have thrown together a special op to try to liberate their fellow soldiers.
And I might have just messed the whole thing up by taking out Operation Transom’s point man.
Theron’s first instinct was to do whatever it took to free the Republic prisoners—if he screwed up the mission, he should be the one to fix it. On the other hand, if Transom was still on, the last thing Theron wanted was to get in the way.
There was no way to know which was the right call; not without more information. Unfortunately, contacting SIS wasn’t an option. Like all the casinos in the Red Light District, Morbo’s club was equipped with top-of-the-line security equipment. Any incoming or outgoing transmissions in a three-block radius would be intercepted and analyzed—a standard precaution to prevent cheaters from communicating with a partner outside the casino who could be using a computer to calculate the odds on the games.
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