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The Millennium Falcon gyrated and spun past him, and Dengar ran to the rear viewport, hoping to see Solo’s ship.

The Falcon and its attackers were just distant lights, blurring out among a field of stars. But the Empire had modified Dengar’s eyes. He magnified the image, watched the Falcon accelerate toward a trio of Star Destroyers, and head deeper into space beyond, until even his eyes could no longer track the receding grains of sand.

Then the Punishing One was pulled into the Imperial Star Destroyer where it landed with a soft clank.

A moment later, a few dozen stormtroopers blew open the door to his ship. Dengar grabbed a blaster in each hand and rushed toward the main access corridor, hoping to make them pay in advance for his death, just as a gas grenade landed a few meters in front of him.

He tried to hold his breath, but he was too late. He staggered forward three steps, and suddenly it seemed as if his feet were pulled out from under him.

Dengar landed with a thump in the corridor, lay looking groggily at the ground. He could see, hear. He just couldn’t move.

In a few minutes, the stormtroopers dragged him to an interrogation cell.

The Empire did not kill him immediately. They injected him with pain-enhancing drugs, fitted his head with a scrambler to reduce his resistance to their questions. They knew his name and much of his history. They were able to break into the logs on his ship, find out where he’d traveled. They read his credit chips, found out where his money came from, what he’d purchased.

They questioned him about his work with the Rebellion, his motives for assassinating Imperial agents. They gave him the death sentence, and let him sit in his cell for a day, where he plotted his escape. Dengar vowed that they would not take him to the execution chambers easily. More than one of his captors would die in the attempt.

And that night, as Dengar lay sleeping, he suddenly became aware of the sound of labored breathing through a respirator, a disturbing noise.

He rolled over on his cot. A giant of a man stood wearing black robes and a black helmet that covered his face. Dengar had never met him before, but he knew the Dark Lord of the Sith by reputation.

Darth Vader.

The door to Dengar’s cell opened of its own accord, and Darth Vader stood alone in the entrance, breathing raspily. He seemed to be watching Dengar. More precisely, he seemed to be absorbing Dengar.

Dengar studied the Dark Lord. He suspected that his executioner had come. It was time for desperate measures. With one lucky blow he might disable Lord Vader. If he was lucky, and quiet, he might be able to kill Vader, then run for it.

Darth Vader raised a hand, and Dengar felt his throat constricting, tightening down as if it had been clamped. “Don’t even think about it,” Vader said.

Dengar raised his hands in surrender, leaned back to the wall of his cell. The constriction released. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with! I’ve got nothing to lose!” Dengar shouted. “But I won’t make it fun for you!”

“I’m not the Emperor,” Vader said ominously. “I don’t kill for amusement—only when it serves my purposes.”

Dengar smiled. “Well, then we have something in common.”

“It appears that we have more than one thing in common—” Vader said, “we both want Han Solo.…

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I have an Imperial Death warrant against you. I cannot revoke that warrant, but I am willing to consider a reprieve.”

“Under what conditions?” Dengar asked.

“I will let you live, to hunt for Han Solo. Once you find him, you bring him and his friends back to me, alive. After that, if I am well pleased, I may spare you. But if I am not pleased by your performance, I will give you time to run. Then my hunt begins.”

Darth Vader threw Dengar a blaster, just as Dengar had given one to Kritkeen. Vader’s meaning was clear. If Dengar failed in this hunt, Darth Vader would become the hunter. The monster who had destroyed the Jedi Knights would be on Dengar’s tail. Dengar licked his lips,