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“Indeed,” said the Bothan, his voice still soft, barely a murmur. “The pilot whose route I am presently flying has retired.”

It all made sense now. Kit swallowed a lump in her throat as she realized her contact, a Ryn named Tohrm, must have been killed by one of the organizations who stood to profit from the slave trade. It had been several weeks since he had come to Tatooine; she had simply thought it had gotten too risky for him and he was lying low for a while. She had been right, but apparently the risk had been more dangerous than she had realized.

The question was, what should she do now? She had been assigned to watch the Bothan. She’d have to report back on something, and obviously she was not about to tell Truugo the truth. She wished she knew exactly why the Hutt wanted the Bothan watched, then she could at least make up something creative. Kit’s mind gnawed on the problem even while she continued to listen intently.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ackmena said, and Kit could tell she meant it. “I’d hoped he had found another company to do business with.” Then, more loudly, “I hope you’ll be as careful with the shipments of Tedonian wine as Tohrm was.”

“I’ve not lost a shipment yet,” the Bothan said, also more loudly, and chuckled.

That was it … Kit could make up something about smuggling. She wouldn’t need to implicate Ackmena, she could—

Kit noticed a figure across the narrow, crowded street. It seemed to have a great deal of interest in watching the door. Kit was instantly alert. She kept an eye on the figure while still pretending to be a crippled beggar and listening to the conversation.

For the next several minutes, there was idle chitchat. The figure across the alley didn’t move, but did such an excellent job of blending in that once or twice Kit thought it had.

“Well, I have customers to attend to, and my little Chadra-Fan waitress tends to get her hands full after about twenty minutes left on her own,” Ackmena said. “Come back day after tomorrow and I’ll have that shipment ready for you.”

Kit felt a little pang. The “shipment,” of course, consisted of escaped slaves. But not Tatooine slaves, not with the transmitter. Other slaves from other worlds were sequestered away somewhere on the planet, awaiting their freedom. Hers would not come for a long time, but she was resigned to that.

The Bothan stepped out the door, ignoring her with a swirl of his long cape. Of course, a pilot wouldn’t want to be seen showing charity or compassion. They had to maintain a tough demeanor. She watched him go, then turned her eyes back to the figure.

It was gone.

“Stang!” she whispered. Her heart started racing in her chest. She could stay here for a little while longer, then go back to Truugo with her falsified stories, and no one could blame her.

No one except herself.

Kit made her choice and rose. She threw her belongings into a small sack and hurried off in the direction in which the Bothan pilot had gone. As she walked swiftly, threading her way through the crowds with the ease of long experience, she deftly undid her tied-back arm, wincing a little as life came back to the limb with sharp stinging sensations.

The Bothan was up ahead. The crowds were beginning to thin out now, and Kit fell back, looking for the mysterious watcher. There he was, a few paces behind the Bothan, just as Kit was a few paces behind him. He was definitely shadowing the pilot.

A bit farther on, and the streets became practically deserted at this time of night. Kit’s mouth was dry and she felt her legs quivering as she moved. But she had to keep on. The Bothan didn’t know he was being followed. Or did he? She couldn’t take that chance.

Her sharp ears, trained since she was four, heard the slight snicking sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath.

She acted without thinking, springing on the being’s back, strong little hands clawing at its face. At the same moment the Bothan whirled and fired some sort of weapon point-blank into the stalker’s chest. It was almost silent, making the merest little puff of sound, but the being dropped