Star Wars_ Rebel Force 04_ Firefight - Alex Wheeler [4]
The final pilot, a human woman with short, spiky black hair and tattoos inked across her face, barely acknowledged his presence. Her eyes were riveted on the fifth figure, unmistakably the man in charge. He stood off to the side and appraised them all with an icy stare. As Div joined them, the man began to clap, a humorless smile on his face: "Nice work," he said, nodding toward the destroyed laser cannons.
Div aimed his blaster. "You want to tell me why you just tried to blow me out of the sky?"
The man's smile widened: It was a gruesome mockery of human emotion. "Merely a test to separate the quinto wheat from the chaff. I'm investing a significant amount of money into this mission. I had to ensure I'd chosen correctly. I assume you're still interested in my job offer?"
Div holstered the weapon. He had no doubt that he had sharper reflexes than anyone there. If things went sour, he could protect himself. And he had the "significant amount of money" to consider. "I'm here, aren't I?"
The man handed each of the pilots a datapad. "Gentlemen and lady, your target is a man named Luke Skywalker. He works with the Rebellion—"
Div's hand inched toward his blaster. "This is an Imperial job?"
The man shook his head. "Strictly freelance," he said. "The Empire may have its reasons for wanting Skywalker dead; I wouldn't know. I have my own."
Div could usually tell when people were lying, but this man defied his instincts. His face was a blank, free of the almost imperceptible tells—tightened muscles, dilating pupils, twitching eyelids—that gave most liars away. Div chose to believe him. For now.
"You want him dead so bad, why not kill him yourself?" Div asked.
The man stiffened. "Because I choose to hire you to do it," he said tightly. "I suggest that be your last question."
The other pilots glared at Div. Div glared back.
"The Rebels have a tight security net around Skywalker," the man continued. "When he's on the ground, he's usually untouchable, which is why you're all here. Skywalker fancies himself a hotshot pilot. I'm wagering that at least one of you is better." He nodded at their datapads. "All the information you need is in there, including details of his upcoming mission and intercept coordinates. You'll operate as a team and split the money evenly. Payment only if and when Skywalker dies."
The Sorrusian threw his datapad to the ground. " Team? I work alone," he snarled. "I don't need anyone's help to take down a human. And I can prove it." He reached for his blaster—and dropped to the ground before his fingers could even graze the holster. A thin trail of smoke wafted up from the neat hole through his forehead.
Their employer held his blaster casually, almost carelessly, as if it were a toy. Div couldn't help being impressed. Speed, accuracy, and ruthless efficiency: It was a formidable combination.
"Anyone else have any concerns they'd like to raise?" the man asked.
The remaining pilots shook their heads, exchanging wary glances. Div spoke. "Say we work as a team. Who's in charge?"
Their employer glanced toward the rubble of the laser cannons. "You don't seem like the kind of man to avoid the obvious," he said, then turned back to the other pilots. "Grish B'reen," he said flatly, nodding as the Chistori straightened up. "Fallon Pollo," he said, and the grizzled man gave him a sarcastic salute. "Clea Sook." The woman met his gaze without flinching.
He clapped Div on the shoulder. "Pilots, meet Lune Divinian. Your new leader."
CHAPTER TWO
"Yavin 4 to Skywalker, Yavin 4 to Skywalker. Come in, Skywalker." There was a long silence. "Hello? Anyone home, kid?" Han Solo teased, rapping his knuckles gently against Luke's head.
Luke jumped, finally noticing Han's presence. He'd been sitting on the floor with his eyes closed for the past hour; he wondered how long Han had been watching.
Han grinned. "Taking your naps sitting up now?"
"Not exactly." Luke flushed. He'd been