Star Wars - Darth Plagueis

answer. All he’d wanted to do was drop off the munitions, retire some of his debt to The Exchange, and get back to his daughter before he had to get back out in the black and get dirty again.
    “Something wrong?” Scar asked, his tone wary. “You look upset.”
    “No,” Zeerid said, and forced a half smile. “Everything’s the same as always.”
    The men plastered on uncertain grins, unclear on Zeerid’s meaning.
    “Right,” Scar said. “Same as always.”
    Knowing how things would go, Zeerid felt the calm he usually did when danger impended. He flashed for a moment on Arra’s face, on what she’d do if he died on Ord Mantell, on some no-name island. He pushed the thoughts away. No distractions.
    “Cargo is in the main bay. Send your man around. The ship’s open.”
    The expressions on the faces of both men hardened, the change nearly imperceptible but clear to Zeerid, a transformation that betrayed their intention to murder. Scar ordered No Scar to go check the cargo.
    “He’ll need a lifter,” Zeerid said, readying himself, focusing on speed and precision. “That stuff ain’t a few kilos.”
    No Scar stopped within reach of Zeerid, looking back at Scar for guidance, his expression uncertain.
    “Nah,” said Scar, his hand hovering near his holster, the motion too casual to be casual. “I just want him to make sure it’s all there. Then I’ll let my people know to release payment.”
    He held up his arm as if to show Zeerid a wrist comlink, but the parka covered it.
    “It’s all there,” Zeerid said.
    “Go on,” said Scar to No Scar. “Check it.”
    “Oh,” Zeerid said, and snapped his fingers. “There is one other thing …”
    No Scar sighed, stopped, faced him, eyebrows raised in a question, breath steaming out of his nostrils. “What’s that?”
    Zeerid made a knife of his left hand and drove his fingertips into No Scar’s throat. While No Scar crumpled to the snow, gagging, Zeerid jerked one of his blasters free of its hip holster and put a hole through Scar’s chest before the man could do anything more than take a surprised step backward and put his hand on the grip of his own weapon. Scar staggered back two more steps, his mouth working but making no sound, his right arm held up, palm out, as if he could stop the shot that had already killed him.
    As Scar toppled to the ground, Zeerid took a wild shot at the third man near the Doghouse ’s landing ramp but missed high. The third man made himself small beside the Doghouse , drew his blaster pistol, and shouted into a wrist comlink. Zeerid saw movement within the cargo bay of Arigo’s ship—more men with ill intent.
    No way to know how many.
    He cursed, fired a covering shot, then turned and ran for Fatman . A blaster shot put a smoking black furrow through the sleeve of his parka but missed flesh. Another rang off the hull of Fatman . A third shot hit him square in the back. It felt like getting run over by a speeder. The impact drove the air from his lungs and plowed him face-first into the snow.
    He smelled smoke. His armored vest had ablated the shot.
    Adrenaline got him to his feet just as fast as he had gone down. Gasping, trying to refill his lungs, he ducked behind a landing skid for cover and wiped the snow from his face. He poked his head out for a moment to look back, saw that No Scar had stopped gagging and started being dead, that Scar stayed politely still, and that six more men were dashing toward him, two armed with blaster rifles and the rest with pistols.
    His armor would not stop a rifle bolt.
    A shot slammed into the landing skid, another into the snow at his feet, another, another.
    “Stang!” he cursed.
    The safety of Fatman ’s landing ramp and cargo bay, only a few steps from him, somehow looked ten kilometers away.
    He took a blaster in each hand, stretched his arms around to either side of the landing skid, and fired as fast he could he pull the trigger in the direction of the onrushing men. He could not see and did not care if he hit anyone, he just wanted to get them on the ground. After he’d squeezed off more than a dozen shots with no return fire, he darted out from the behind the skid and toward the ramp.
    He reached it before the shooters recovered enough to let loose another barrage. A few bolts chased him up the ramp, ringing off the metal. Sparks flew and the smell of melted plastoid mixed with the ocean air. He ran past the button to raise the ramp, struck at it, and hurried on