Chapter 13: THE HONEST WORK
The merchant's shop smelled like ozone and desperation.
Telos, the Quarren who ran it, had tentacles that hadn't stopped trembling since I'd walked through his door. His stock lined the walls—salvaged tech parts, refurbished droids, the kind of inventory that attracted customers who didn't ask questions about provenance.
"Three weeks," he said, his voice wet and bubbling through his facial anatomy. "Three weeks of threats. First it was messages. Then they broke my display case. Yesterday they said if I don't pay, they'll take everything."
"How much do they want?"
"Two thousand credits. Monthly."
I looked around the shop. The merchandise was decent but not exceptional. Two thousand monthly would bleed him dry in three months.
"Who are they?"
"Draven's people. They run this sector." Telos's tentacles curled inward—a gesture I'd learned meant fear. "Everyone pays. Everyone who doesn't... disappears."
Standard protection racket. I'd seen the same model in a dozen countries back on Earth. Different faces, same predators.
"What about Guild protection?"
"Fifty credits per day. I make maybe thirty on a good day."
The math didn't work. Neither did abandoning him to the wolves.
"Fifty credits for one week," I said. "That's my rate. After that, we renegotiate based on results."
Telos's eyes—large and dark, set on the sides of his head—both turned toward me.
"Why so cheap?"
"I'm building a reputation. Your recommendation is worth more than credits right now."
It was the truth. Mostly. The other truth was that my funds were down to 140 credits after the ship repairs and Ugor's silence payment. I needed income, and I needed it soon.
"You're serious?"
"I'm serious."
Telos extended a tentacle. I shook it—glove to appendage, no skin contact—and the deal was sealed.
"They usually come in the afternoon," he said. "When the market traffic dies down."
"Then I'll be here in the afternoon."
Day two. Early afternoon.
I positioned myself behind the counter, sorting through a box of droid motivators that Telos had been meaning to catalog. The work was mindless, which was the point—it let me watch the door while looking busy.
The shop had three entrances: main door, back storage, and a ventilation shaft that opened onto the roof. I'd checked all three yesterday. The main door was the only one they'd use—gang enforcers liked making an entrance.
Telos pretended to work on a malfunctioning power cell. His hands shook badly enough that he'd already dropped his tools twice.
"Relax," I said quietly. "Nervous shopkeepers attract attention."
"Easy for you to say."
"Not really. But I've had practice."
Three tours in Afghanistan had taught me how to function while terrified. The trick was compartmentalization—put the fear in a box, close the lid, deal with it later. Later never came. The box just got heavier.
The door chimed.
Three humans entered. Young, aggressive, wearing the kind of cheap armor that said they wanted to look intimidating without spending real money. The lead one had a scar across his jaw—probably self-inflicted, trophy style. The other two flanked him, hands near their blasters.
"Telos." The scarred one's voice was flat, bored. "You got our payment ready?"
Telos opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
"I'm handling his accounts now," I said.
Three pairs of eyes shifted to me. The lead enforcer's expression flickered—confusion, annoyance, reassessment.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Security consultant. Your payment schedule is under review."
The scarred one laughed. His companions joined in, half a beat late.
"Security consultant. That's cute." He stepped forward, hand moving toward the display case. "Here's how this works, consultant. We take what we want, and nobody gets hurt. Or we take what we want, and somebody does get hurt. Your choice."
I watched him move. Watched all three of them.
Something shifted in my perception—like the world slowing down by a fraction of a second. I'd noticed this before, during the fight with Kess, during other confrontations. Combat Prediction, I'd started calling it. Reading body language, anticipating movement, seeing the punch before it was thrown.
The scarred one was going to grab merchandise with his left hand while his right went for Telos. The one on the left would hang back—he was the watcher, the one who'd report to leadership. The one on the right was twitchy, eager, likely to escalate to violence first.
Seventy percent certainty. Maybe higher.
I stepped between the enforcers and Telos.
"Here's how this actually works," I said. "You leave. You tell Draven that this shop is under new management. And you don't come back."
The scarred one's smile vanished.
"You're dead, consultant."
He swung.
I was already moving.
His fist cut through empty air where my head had been. I stepped inside his reach, drove my elbow into his solar plexus, and stripped the blaster from his hip as he doubled over. The weapon clattered across the floor—I didn't want it, just wanted it away from him.
The twitchy one lunged. I'd predicted the angle wrong—he went low instead of high. His shoulder hit my ribs, driving us both into the counter. Pain flared. I hooked his ankle, twisted, and we went down together.
On the ground, he was stronger. I was faster. My forearm found his throat and I pressed until his struggles weakened.
The third one—the watcher—had his blaster out.
Mistake. Should have drawn first.
I rolled, using the twitchy one as a shield. The watcher hesitated—he couldn't shoot without hitting his partner.
I threw a motivator from the box beside me. It hit his gun hand. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to make him flinch.
That flinch gave me two seconds. I crossed the distance, grabbed the blaster barrel before it could track to me, twisted it out of his grip.
He ran.
The door slammed behind him, chimes jangling in his wake.
I stood in the sudden silence, breathing hard.
The scarred one was still down, gasping. The twitchy one was unconscious. The watcher was gone—heading straight for Draven, no doubt.
"You moved before they did."
Telos's voice was barely above a whisper. He was staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
"How did you know what they were going to do?"
"Training."
The answer was automatic. Convenient. Not entirely false—I had been trained, back in another life. But what I'd just done went beyond training.
Combat Prediction. Seventy percent accuracy, maybe better. Getting stronger.
My hands were shaking. I clenched them into fists to hide the tremor.
"What happens now?" Telos asked.
"Now? The runner reports back. Draven sends more people. Bigger people. Better armed."
"So I'm still dead."
"Not necessarily."
I picked up the discarded blasters, ejected their power cells, and tossed the weapons into a corner.
"Draven's a businessman. He'll calculate whether eliminating me costs more than it gains. If I can shift that calculation, he'll back off."
"How do you shift that calculation?"
"I find something he wants more than revenge."
The answer was simple. The execution would be harder. But I'd been in impossible situations before—pinned under cargo in a dying freighter, surrounded by scavengers, running from bounty hunters through cantina crowds.
The cantina. The memory of dozens of stolen items appearing in my pockets. The wedding ring I'd buried. The chaos that had nearly destroyed me.
I'd come a long way since then. Maybe far enough.
"Stay here," I told Telos. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone but me."
"Where are you going?"
"To learn who Draven really is. And what he's afraid of."
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