And it was all a far cry from the sweaty, anxious hours at the Galactic City spaceport a few months before, when Rugeyan had been no more than a severe irritant and Skirata had taken a rather physical dislike to him. Now the man seemed to have a clear and almost uncanny grasp of exactly what he was being asked to do, and although he must have had questions, he never asked them. It almost made him a soldier.

The descent in the turbolift felt like a rapid insert via gunship as they plunged down a hundred levels.

Skirata began laughing quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “I wish I'd realized that Rugeyan would respond to a simple request. Then I'd never have—well, you know.”

“If you hadn't captured his attention in such an assertive way at the siege, perhaps he wouldn't have been so accommodating today. That man might even make a useful member of an intelligence bureau one day.”

“He just needed me to show some understanding of his own position. Sometimes I think people want more from me than they actually do. So where does this leave us, Ord'ika?”

Ordo counted off on the fingers of his glove. “Smokescreen in progress. Team on standby, split into watches. Observation points and potential operational houses collated and identified. Armory and logistics in place. Confirmed link between devices and prisoners.”

“But?”

“All dressed up and nowhere to go. Still a large gap in the intel.”

“What did the droid crack out of the download from Atin?” Skirata asked.

“A lot of data that needs combing by hand when we have other intel to put alongside it. It's just lists of businesses like any transport company would keep. Nothing leaps out. Sometimes I wish we had to deal with Weequays. They'd label things TOP SECRET and give us a clue.”

“Why is this proving so hard? Fierfek, son, Kom'rk and Jaing can track a flitnat across the galaxy and we can't find a gang in our own backyard.”

“I'm sorry, Kal'buir.” I should be able to crack this. I'm letting him down. “This is a double line of surveillance, I'm afraid—the terror network itself and whoever is providing their recce intelligence—and that could be inside our own organization, or in the CSF, and the latter is going to be harder to identify.”

“I'm not blaming you. It's just an expression.”

“And my brothers do know the identities of the flitnats they're looking for, of course.”

“Only one option left, then. Explore every line and dot, and hope for a lucky break while we're doing it to speed things up.”

“Unless Vau gets lucky.”

“Time to break out the emergency Jedi, I think, son.”

“Oh-eight-hundred tomorrow,” said Ordo.

“Still got time to do some more preparation, then. Let's go and see a Hutt who owes me one. Well, a lot more than one, actually. And let's pick up Sev and Scorch so they can see how it's done.”

There were things Skirata could do that not even a commando or an ARC could, and one of those was to work his contacts.

Ordo committed it all to memory. Tonight would be highly educational.

Qibbu's Hut, entertainment district, Coruscant; Delta recce troop in attendance

Garish green light framed the pulsing orange sign above the entrance. Qibbu opened late: it was already dark, and Skirata thought it was high time the bar welcomed new customers.

“I'm only a simple trained killer,” Sev said, “but something tells me never to eat in a restaurant with a bad pun over the door.”

“You haven't tried the food yet,” Skirata said. “That'll leave no room for doubt.”

“Or dessert,” Scorch said. “And did I mention I feel naked?”

“About a dozen times since we left HQ. Get used to it. You can't wear armor all the time.”

Ordo drew one blaster. Scorch raised his eyebrows.

“I'm being low-key,” Ordo said. “Or I'd draw both.”

“I really didn't notice you in that shiny white rig at all, sir …”

“Listen up, lads.” Skirata slid one hand into his pocket to feel for a reassuring meter of durasteel chain and held his right arm straight at his side. He hadn't seen the Hutt in a long time, years before Kamino, and it was bound to be a nasty shock for the old slug.

“Qibbu might be surprised to see me, especially as he still owes me a fee. So no heroics. I can handle him.” Skirata gestured for the two commandos to stand back in the open lobby. “Look casual and read the menu. And don't throw up.”

The sprawling maze of rooms passed for a restaurant, bar, and hotel, but only if the Coruscant food hygiene inspectors were looking the other way. It was perfect in every way if you wanted not to be bothered. There was a certain anonymity in the rough end of the entertainment district.

It was just the kind of place where an awful lot of clone soldiers could pass in and out without drawing comment, at least after the novelty wore off. Skirata leaned on the intercom.

Qibbu the Hutt was at home. He just knew it. It was the skinny Duros suddenly standing in the doorway with a blaster that gave the game away.

“We're closed,” the Duros said.

“And I'm Kal Skirata.”

The Duros' gray fist closed on the blaster. “And I said we're closed.”

Ordo swung around the door and leveled his blaster in the Duros' flat face. “No, I do believe you're open, and we'd like to see tonight's special, please.”

The Duros paused long enough to gape, which was probably what saved his life. If he'd lifted the blaster, Ordo would have killed him. Ordo grabbed his wrist anyway and twisted it almost as a side effect of wresting the blaster from his grip, and there was the unmistakable snick of cracking bone. The Duros squealed.

“I think that means come right in,” Skirata said, and made sure he had his blaster in his waistband. Qibbu might have shelled out some credits for competent help after all. He wandered into the deserted restaurant and noted that the carpet didn't quite stick to his boots as much as it used to. He wandered behind the bar, as much to check that nobody was lurking there to give him a Very Unhappy Hour as to see if the glasses were clean.

Ordo's blaster whirred faintly as he raised it. When Skirata looked up, Sev and Scorch were covering one door each. Good lads. They'd all do fine out in the big bad world.

“Ka-a-al …” Qibbu inched out of the kitchens, a waft of exotic spice and burned fat escaping as the Hutt eased himself into the bar area. “So you come for your bounty at last. I thought you would never come. And you have staff and a nice jacket now … must be doing better business, yes?”

“Colleagues,” Skirata said. “I'll take hard currency, but if you haven't got that, we can negotiate.”

Qibbu was unattractive even by Hutt standards. His tongue flicked across his slit of a mouth, and he edged to the bar to slither onto his dais and pour a couple of drinks.

“Your boys want ale?” Qibbu indicated a jar of pickled gorg on the bar. “Snacks?”

“No thanks.” Sev and Scorch were a chorus, eyes fixed on the jar of very dead amphibians. “Couldn't manage another thing.”

“Okay, you and I talk, then, Ka-a-al.”

“I take it you haven't got ready currency?”

“Not that much. Give me time, and—”

“Let me make it easy for both of us.” Skirata pulled up a stool and sat down to bring himself level with the Hutt's eyes. “I'm a tourist. Can my boys take a look at your rooms? If we like what we see, we'll stay for a while.”

Skirata indicated the turbolift. Sev and Scorch drew their blasters and disappeared for a recce. Ordo locked the main doors again and paced slowly around the bar, probably committing the layout and every detail to memory. A right little holorecorder, Ordo: another superb advantage of perfect recall.