Skirata closed his hand around the end of the chain in his pocket. The slug needed to learn who had the upper hand in this negotiation. “That's because they deserve a lot, you owe me a lot, and if you mess me about you'll have a lot more trouble than you could possibly imagine—”
Skirata's buildup to giving Qibbu a serious smacking was suddenly interrupted by a stifled shriek from the kitchens. A young Twi'lek female came rushing out the doors. He realized Ordo must have startled her. It might have been the twin blasters.
“And only respectable females allowed in the bar,” Skirata added. But the Twi'lek looked terrified in a way that said she was used to being that way, and he didn't like that at all. He knew Qibbu only too well. “She doesn't look like your usual … kitchen staff.”
The girl huddled against the far wall, staring at Ordo, who merely walked out and holstered his blaster with an exaggerated gesture. He didn't do reassuring very well at the best of times, let alone with women. It was time to teach him more social graces when carrying firearms.
The Hutt gurgled a laugh. “Females … you know how they are—”
Enough. Skirata pulled his durasteel chain out in one movement and whipped it around Qibbu's neck, twisting it in his fist as he wrenched the quivering bulk toward him. The metal cut into the creature's soft fat, leaving a white margin where the blood could no longer circulate.
“Listen, shag,” Skirata said, feeling his anger tightening his throat muscles. There was no worse insult for a Hutt than slave. “I like Twi'lek females. Honest ones, the sort that don't thieve, or worse. So no mistreating the staff or I might discover what a trade union activist I can be. Just look after any of my boys who pass this way. Eniki? You step out of line and there'll be a new batch of fresh blubber products at the market first thing in the morning.” He twisted the chain a little tighter. “J'hagwa na yoka, Fatboy. No trouble.”
Qibbu's third eyelid flicked across his reptilian eye like a windscreen wiper. “Your pretty shiny boys die anyway, sooner or later.”
That was it. Skirata jerked the Hutt's head down and brought his knee up in Qibbu's face as hard as he could with a wet thwack. He didn't need this thing to remind him of that and mock their sacrifice. Qibbu spluttered ammonia-scented saliva, moaning.
“Are we going to get good service at your establishment?” Skirata said, ignoring the pain in his kneecap. “Or would you prefer to pay me half a million creds plus nine years' interest right now?”
“Tagwa, lorda.”
“That's more like it.” He loosened his choke hold a little. “A bit of customer focus is good for business.”
Qibbu balked visibly. “I lose profit.”
“You'll lose a lot more than that if you mess around with me. I've always wanted to see if Hutts really can regenerate body parts.” Skirata tightened the chain again. “Ke nu jurIcadir sha Mando'ade.”
Don't mess with Mandalorians. It wasn't bad advice.
Qibbu was no linguist but Skirata knew tone could convey a great deal even to an animal, and maybe even to a Hutt. He hoped the lack of circulation in Qibbu's neck was translating for him.
“Tagwa … Sergeant,” Qibbu said, and let out a long wet gasp as Skirata released the chain.
Sev and Scorch emerged from the turbolift again and gave Skirata the thumbs-up.
“Ideal for a relaxing break, Sarge,” Scorch said. “Lovely clear views, platform to park a speeder or six, and lots of room to stretch our legs. A whole floor of rooms at the top, in fact.”
Good defensive visibility, easy access and escape, and the right layout for moving around and storing kit and ordnance. Excellent.
“If it's good enough for my colleagues, it'll be good enough for me,” Skirata said. “You want to take a look just to make sure, Ordo?”
Ordo shook his head, still seeming wary of the Twi'lek female. “I'll go with the majority.”
“So, long-stay rates?” Skirata asked.
“As … discussed,” Qibbu said.
Skirata slid off the stool and wiped the chain clean of Qibbu's slime before coiling it and putting it in his pocket again. He was concerned about the Twi'lek, though. Civilians were hardly his prime concern on this operation, but it didn't cost anything to be courteous.
He walked over to her. She was still cowering. He squatted down almost instinctively: he saw six scared little boys waiting to be reconditioned. “I'm Kal, ma'am,” he said. “What's your name?”
She didn't meet his eyes. She had that way of looking off slightly to one side that he thought he'd seen too many times before. “Laseema.”
“Well, Laseema, if your boss isn't treating you well, you let me know. And I'll have a word with him.” He smiled as best he could. “And none of my boys will give you any problems, either, okay?”
“Okay,” she said shakily. Her lekku were moving slightly, but Skirata couldn't understand the unspoken language they conveyed. She might just have been twitching out of fear. “Okay.”
Skirata gave her as reassuring a smile as he could manage and moved to the doors. “We'll be back tomorrow to move some stuff in. Have the top floor ready for us, will you? Nice and clean.”
“And fresh flowers,” Scorch said.
They ambled back to the speeder and set off for Arca Barracks, settling into an automated skylane and merging into the stream of glittering taillights. Coruscant was lovely at night, just as Fi said. Skirata had never thought about it much before.
He nudged Sev. “Good operational house, then.”
“Tailor-made. It'll take us a day to move the kit in discreet amounts, but we can access via the landing platform when it's dark again.”
“Does our host get nervous about storing ordnance?” Ordo said.
“He's a Hutt,” said Skirata. “He's stored a lot worse. And what he doesn't know won't keep him awake at night.”
Scorch seemed impressed. “You really were a bit of a bad boy in your past, weren't you, Sarge?”
“What d'you mean, past?” Sev said.
And they laughed. They were perfect special forces troops, very bad boys in their own right, but they had never dealt with the criminal underworld—and crime was an inevitable partner of terrorism. It was one reason why Skirata didn't feel one scrap of misgiving about going bandit himself.
Fierfek, he'd impressed them. The Delta boys were emerging from their closed, tight-knit exclusivity and settling into the larger team. That was one problem solved.
There was still the operation itself, of course.
And keeping an eye on Atin, Vau, and Sev.
And introducing Etain to an element of war that wasn't remotely noble.
And making sure that everyone came out of it alive.
Skirata reached over the back of the seat and gave Sev and Scorch a playful swat, then nudged Ordo beside him.
“I promised you all a night out,” he said. “When we get this cleaned up, Zey's going to get a really big mess bill from the officers' club.”
“Maybe we shouldn't wait until then,” Scorch said. “You never know what's around the corner.”
No. You didn't. You never did.
9
When the enemy is a droid or a wet with a weapon, then killing them is easy. But in this game you're operating among civvies, on your home ground. You could be workingright next door to the enemy. They might even be people you know and like. But they're still the enemy and you'll have to slot them just the same. There's no Mandalorian word for “hero,” and that's just as well, because however many lives you save in black ops, you will never, ever be a hero. Deal with it.