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This time Gunray managed to stifle himself.

It is all a charade, Sidious had said. Taxation is but a minor obstacle in our path to greater glory. Allow your counterparts in the directorate to say and do as they wish. But refrain from offering any response—especially at the summit itself.

Our path, Gunray thought.

But had he entered into a true partnership, or one in which Sidious would emerge as the Neimoidians’ overlord? How long could a Sith Lord content himself with mere economic power? And what was likely to become of Viceroy Nute Gunray once Darth Sidious set his sights on a target more worthy of his dark expertise?

Already Deputy Viceroy Hath Monchar and Commander Dofine had aired their separate misgivings about the alliance—scarcely realizing that the partnership had as much been forced on Gunray as offered to him.

The Sith Lord had promised that he would communicate with Gunray once more before the summit began. Perhaps, the viceroy hoped, all would then be revealed.

Havac and his cohort returned to the main room of the customs warehouse, and the distant rumble of spacecraft launches. The five mercenaries Cohl had assembled were sitting on the edges of the repulsorsleds that had borne them to the warehouse.

From the jittery way Havac moved, Lope knew that something unexpected had taken place. He jumped off the hovering sled to gaze down the corridor that led to the rear of the building.

“Where’s Captain Cohl?” he asked Havac.

Above the scarf that swathed his face, Havac’s eyes narrowed as he swung to face him. “Cohl went out the back way. But he sends his luck.” Before anyone else could raise questions, he asked Lope, “What’s your preferred weapon?”

Lope took a second look down the corridor, then returned to the sleds. “Blades—of any length.”

Havac turned to one of the other humans. “Yours?” he asked, in an increasingly confident voice.

“Sniper rifles.”

Havac glanced at the Gotal.

“I’m not a shooter. I’m a lookout.”

Havac studied the remaining pair of humans—a brutish-looking man and an equally rough-cut woman.

“No preferences,” the man grunted.

“The same,” the woman said.

Havac took a portable holoprojector from his pocket and set it atop an alloy cargo crate. Everyone gathered round as an image of a Classic-era building with a domed roof took shape in the cone of light.

“The site of the trade summit,” Havac said, as the image began to rotate, showing tall, slender towers at each corner, and four principal entrances. “The main hall is a rotunda, similar in design to the Galactic Senate, but on a much smaller scale and without the detachable balconies.”

Havac called up a panoramic view of the interior.

“True to their exaggerated sense of self-importance, the Eriadu delegation has placed itself at the center of the hall. The Coruscant delegation will occupy east-side tiers of seats—here—with the members of the Trade Federation Directorate in west-side tiers. Delegations representing the Core Worlds, the Inner Rim, and the outlying systems will be dispersed throughout the rest of the hall.

“In the event of trouble, the Trade Federation Directorate will be able to activate a force field. But Valorum’s delegation is deliberately unshielded, as a show of good faith.”

The sniper scrutinized the image for a moment. “Valorum is going to be a difficult target—even from the highest tier in the rotunda.”

“You’ll be higher than that,” Havac said. “The upper portion of the hall is a maze of maintenance walkways and gantries, along with booths designated for media personnel.”

“We’d have a better chance of hitting Valorum before he enters the building,” Lope said.

“Perhaps,” Havac conceded. “But the plan hinges on our ability to infiltrate the summit and do the job there.”

“Four entrances,” the sniper said. “Which one is Valorum coming through?”

Havac shook his head. “Unknown. The route to the summit hall won’t be revealed until the last possible instant, and we don’t have anyone close enough to him to provide