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“That’s him!” the cop he’d knocked down shouted, and he snapped off a blaster shot that just missed BoShek’s head, blowing a rusty attitude jet off the side of the wreck ’instead. BoShek leaped over the jet and dashed around the curve of the hull; then when he had its bulk between him and his pursuers, he sprinted straight down the street toward the thickest crowd he could see: the buyers and sellers in front of the Jawa trading center.

The preachers were still hot on his tail, which was the only thing that kept him from getting a blaster bolt in the back. The police were evidently reluctant to shoot a bona fide religious leader, even by accident, probably fearing the trouble their followers would cause in retribution.

Taking advantage of their hesitation, BoShek ran past the traders and on down the street toward the used-landspeeder lot. He thought briefly of dodging through the speeders and trying to lose his pursuers that way, but as he drew closer he saw the triangular-headed Arconan dealer gloating over a deal he had just made, and he realized his salvation was at hand.

Running up to the speeder the Arconan had bought—a battered XP-38A with two engines on the side and a third up on a fin in back—he tossed a fistful of credits at the surprised alien, then leaped into the driver’s seat and shouted over his shoulder, “I’m taking it for a test drive!”

“No, wait! What do you think you’re—” the Arconan wailed, but BoShek didn’t stick around to argue. The engines were still running; he jammed the accelerator on full and zoomed away, nearly running over a cylindrical droid before he swerved the speeder farther out into the street.

The cops took a couple of wild shots at him, but the energy bolts only succeeded in making the people in the street dive for cover. BoShek zoomed down the clear avenue, took the corner at the end of the block at full speed, and continued on.

Two blocks farther, he slowed for another corner, then proceeded at a more normal speed to the next corner, where he turned again and tried to blend into what little vehicle traffic there was. His zigzag course was leading him in a loop around Docking Bay 94. Good. The jumbled streets dead-ending at the bay would keep the police busy for a long time, if they even bothered to look for him anymore.

He was thinking about ditching the speeder and heading back to the monastery when he turned another corner and found himself gliding toward a patrol of four stormtroopers who stood blocking the street. One of the troopers raised a hand with his palm out, indicating that BoShek should stop.

They didn’t have their rifles drawn, which meant they were probably just stopping everyone on the street for questioning. Even so, there was no way BoShek could get past them or turn around and flee before they could unsling their blasters and take him out. He forced himself to let up on the accelerator and drift to a stop before the troopers, all the while frantically trying to think of a way out of this latest predicament.

“What’s your business here?” the patrol leader asked him. His voice was distorted by the full battle helmet he wore, and the bubble lenses of his visor kept BoShek from seeing where he was looking.

“I’m, uh, just headed down to the cantina,” BoShek told him.

“I see. Is this your landspeeder?”

“I’m test-driving it,” BoShek said.

“A likely story. Let’s see your—” The stormtrooper’s words were drowned out by the roar of a ship taking off under full thrust. BoShek winced at the blast as the ship cleared the rooftops, then did a double take when he recognized its outline. It was the Millennium Falcon.

Looks like the old man must have made it, he thought. Too bad, in a way; he could have used a little bit of his luck right now.

But it wasn’t luck, was it? The guy knew about the Force, and by the way he talked and the way he handled a lightsaber, he was a master at it. He’d probably used its power to manipulate his way past all the obstacles. A little roadblock like this would hardly make him sweat.

Well, BoShek was sweating