against the mug of Corellian spiced ale that he still hadn’t touched. “But if there’s even a chance this is legit, we have to take it.”
Chewbacca rumbled a suggestion.
“No,” Han said flatly. “They’re running a rebellion, remember? They haven’t got anything extra to spare.”
Chewbacca growled again.
“Sure we’re worth it,” Han agreed. “Shooting those TIEs off Luke alone should have doubled the reward. But you saw the look on Dodonna’s face—he wasn’t all that happy about giving us the first batch. If Her Royal Highness hadn’t been standing right there saying good-bye, I’m pretty sure he would have tried to talk us down.”
He glared into his mug. Besides, he didn’t add, asking Princess Leia for replacement reward credits would mean he’d have to tell her how he’d lost the first batch. Not in gambling or bad investments or even drinking, but to a kriffing pirate.
And then she would give him one of those looks.
There were, he decided, worse things than being on Jabba’s hit list.
On the other hand, if this offer of a job he’d picked up at the Ord Mantell drop was for real, there was a good chance Leia would never have to know.
“Hello there, Solo.” The raspy voice came from Han’s right. “Eyes front, hands flat on the table. You too, Wookiee.”
Han set his teeth firmly together as he let go of his mug and laid his hands palms down on the table. So much for the job offer being legit. “That you, Falsta?”
“Hey, good memory,” Falsta said approvingly as he sidled around into Han’s view and sat down on the chair across the table. He was just as Han remembered him: short and scrawny, wearing a four-day stubble and his usual wraparound leather jacket over yet another from his collection of flame-bird shirts. His blaster was even uglier than his shirt: a heavily modified Clone Wars–era DT-57.
Falsta liked to claim the weapon had once been owned by General Grievous himself. Han didn’t believe that any more than anyone else did.
“I hear Jabba’s mad at you,” Falsta continued, resting his elbow on the table and leveling the barrel of his blaster squarely at Han’s face. “Again.”
“I hear you’ve branched out into assassinations,” Han countered, eyeing the blaster and carefully repositioning his leg underneath the table. He would have just one shot at this.
Falsta shrugged. “Hey, if that’s what the customer wants, that’s what the customer gets. I can tell you this much: Black Sun pays a whole lot better for a kill than Jabba does for a grab.” He wiggled the barrel of his blaster a little. “Not that I don’t mind picking up a few free credits. As long as I just happen to be here anyway.”
“Sure, why not?” Han agreed, frowning. That was a strange comment. Was Falsta saying that he wasn’t the one who’d sent Han that message?
No—ridiculous. The galaxy was a huge place. There was no possible way that a bounty hunter could have just happened to drop in on a random cantina in a random city on a random world at the same time Han was there. No, Falsta was just being cute.
That was fine. Han could be cute, too. “So you’re saying that if I gave you double what Jabba’s offering, you’d get up and walk away?” he asked.
Falsta smiled evilly. “You got it on you?”
Han inclined his head toward Chewbacca. “Third power pack down from the shoulder.”
Falsta’s eyes flicked to Chewbacca’s bandoleer—
And in a single contorted motion Han banged his knee up, slamming the table into Falsta’s elbow and knocking his blaster out of line as he grabbed his mug and hurled the Corellian spiced ale into Falsta’s eyes. There was a brief flash of heat as the bounty hunter’s reflexive shot sizzled past Han’s left ear.
One shot was all Falsta got. An instant later his blaster was pointed harmlessly at the ceiling, frozen in place by Chewbacca’s iron grip around both the weapon and the hand holding it.
That should have been the
Chewbacca rumbled a suggestion.
“No,” Han said flatly. “They’re running a rebellion, remember? They haven’t got anything extra to spare.”
Chewbacca growled again.
“Sure we’re worth it,” Han agreed. “Shooting those TIEs off Luke alone should have doubled the reward. But you saw the look on Dodonna’s face—he wasn’t all that happy about giving us the first batch. If Her Royal Highness hadn’t been standing right there saying good-bye, I’m pretty sure he would have tried to talk us down.”
He glared into his mug. Besides, he didn’t add, asking Princess Leia for replacement reward credits would mean he’d have to tell her how he’d lost the first batch. Not in gambling or bad investments or even drinking, but to a kriffing pirate.
And then she would give him one of those looks.
There were, he decided, worse things than being on Jabba’s hit list.
On the other hand, if this offer of a job he’d picked up at the Ord Mantell drop was for real, there was a good chance Leia would never have to know.
“Hello there, Solo.” The raspy voice came from Han’s right. “Eyes front, hands flat on the table. You too, Wookiee.”
Han set his teeth firmly together as he let go of his mug and laid his hands palms down on the table. So much for the job offer being legit. “That you, Falsta?”
“Hey, good memory,” Falsta said approvingly as he sidled around into Han’s view and sat down on the chair across the table. He was just as Han remembered him: short and scrawny, wearing a four-day stubble and his usual wraparound leather jacket over yet another from his collection of flame-bird shirts. His blaster was even uglier than his shirt: a heavily modified Clone Wars–era DT-57.
Falsta liked to claim the weapon had once been owned by General Grievous himself. Han didn’t believe that any more than anyone else did.
“I hear Jabba’s mad at you,” Falsta continued, resting his elbow on the table and leveling the barrel of his blaster squarely at Han’s face. “Again.”
“I hear you’ve branched out into assassinations,” Han countered, eyeing the blaster and carefully repositioning his leg underneath the table. He would have just one shot at this.
Falsta shrugged. “Hey, if that’s what the customer wants, that’s what the customer gets. I can tell you this much: Black Sun pays a whole lot better for a kill than Jabba does for a grab.” He wiggled the barrel of his blaster a little. “Not that I don’t mind picking up a few free credits. As long as I just happen to be here anyway.”
“Sure, why not?” Han agreed, frowning. That was a strange comment. Was Falsta saying that he wasn’t the one who’d sent Han that message?
No—ridiculous. The galaxy was a huge place. There was no possible way that a bounty hunter could have just happened to drop in on a random cantina in a random city on a random world at the same time Han was there. No, Falsta was just being cute.
That was fine. Han could be cute, too. “So you’re saying that if I gave you double what Jabba’s offering, you’d get up and walk away?” he asked.
Falsta smiled evilly. “You got it on you?”
Han inclined his head toward Chewbacca. “Third power pack down from the shoulder.”
Falsta’s eyes flicked to Chewbacca’s bandoleer—
And in a single contorted motion Han banged his knee up, slamming the table into Falsta’s elbow and knocking his blaster out of line as he grabbed his mug and hurled the Corellian spiced ale into Falsta’s eyes. There was a brief flash of heat as the bounty hunter’s reflexive shot sizzled past Han’s left ear.
One shot was all Falsta got. An instant later his blaster was pointed harmlessly at the ceiling, frozen in place by Chewbacca’s iron grip around both the weapon and the hand holding it.
That should have been the
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