Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [44]
Lara prepared to pop up for another exchange of shots. The stormtroopers, she knew, had only a couple of options. They could retreat until they could get cover between them and both sets of Wraiths, or they could take out one of the directions of enemy fire … which probably meant charging her and Elassar.
They rose and charged, roaring as they came. Lara half rose and opened fire.
The technician Drufeys, now in the command chair of the control room, watched events unfold on the rooftop. Of the eight stormtroopers who’d risen to charge the two visible Wraiths, four were now down, two felled by blaster pistols, two more by the laser sniper. The other four were in fast retreat. “This isn’t going well,” he said. “Call Argenhald Base and ask them to scramble a couple of TIE fighters. Give them the approximate position of the sniper.”
The technician he had addressed, the communications specialist, said, “We’re still jamming.”
“Use a land line, stupid.”
“You don’t have to call me stupid.”
“Yes, I actually do have to. Get to it.” Drufeys settled back into the chair. He liked the feel of it. Too bad this facility was being shut down. But perhaps, if he displayed enough competence, he’d find some task with Warlord Zsinj. He smiled. He liked that idea.
The Wraiths were within sight of the old turbolift doors, were within thirty meters and could see how the doors had been laser-welded shut, when a side door slammed open and stormtroopers began pouring into the hall. Stormtroopers, an unarmored officer, a civilian woman.
“Get back!” Face shouted. “We have to—”
He was going to say “retreat.” They had to get back and away from a numerically superior—and uninjured—enemy force.
But then it happened. Face recognized the big man in the Imperial captain’s outfit. Weeks before, disguised as General Kargin of the Hawk-bats, Face had watched Shalla, in her own disguise of Qatya Nassin, bruise the big man in a test of martial arts skills.
And now he saw recognition in the captain’s eyes.
The captain couldn’t have recognized him; Face had been wearing burn-victim makeup designed to make stomachs turn. He must instead have seen Qatya Nassin in Shalla, recognizing her in spite of the makeup she’d worn at the time.
Shalla charged the big man and the dozen and more stormtroopers now crowding into the hall. Her intention was all too obvious: kill the big captain so he couldn’t report that a member of Wraith Squadron was also with the Hawk-bats.
She’s going to get herself killed, Face thought.
And us too.
He finished his command. “Charge!”
Wes Janson lurched into motion, charging in Shalla’s wake, taking the left side of the hall where she ran along the right.
He had no wisecracks to offer now. He could only offer one of his other skills, one that might make him unfit for a normal life when this war was finally done. The skill that made him proficient at killing people.
In full stride, he raised his blaster pistol and fired, catching the lead stormtrooper in the chest. The man was thrown back into the arms of one of his companions, his armor now blackened and penetrated.
Janson didn’t sight in—he aimed by instinct, by the natural point of his weapon, and fired again. The second stormtrooper took the shot in the dark visor material over his right eye.
Shalla wasn’t firing—why not? Janson traversed right and shot at the lead stormtrooper on that side of the hall, catching him in the gut. Behind him was the big captain, now raising his own blaster. Janson fired again. His shot caught the man in the elbow, spinning him back into the wall, causing him to drop his weapon.
Janson traversed leftward again, targeting a stormtrooper with a blaster rifle, his shot catching the man in the throat.
Five steps. Five shots. Five hits. But the hallway was a natural channel for blaster bolts. Its straight lines would angle stray shots back into play. He’d never reach them