Ordo grabbed his gauntlet from the table and activated a holochart, holding it where Skirata could see it. The whole strike team was waiting on the conversation, including the clone trooper called Corr whose life had suddenly taken a turn for the bizarre that day.

“I'm going to need a little more reassurance than that,” Skirata said.

“I'm an intermediary,” the voice said. Coruscanti accent. No clue at all. “What reassurance would you like?”

“A very public place. If we both like what we see, and we trust each other, we meet somewhere more private to iron things out.”

“And you bring a sample.”

“Assault rifles? In public?” This was the test question, the one that would sort the gangsters from the Separatists. Weapons were instantly useful to criminals: raw explosives weren't, not unless you wanted to resell them. “Don't takis me, di'kut. My father didn't raise a stupid son.”

“My clients suggested you could obtain military-grade explosives.”

“I can. So you want a sample of that?”

Silence. Vau listened, head cocked.

“We do. What are you offering?”

“Top military-spec five-hundred-grade thermal plastoid.” Pause. “I think that fits the bill.”

There was a forest of enthusiastically raised thumbs in the hushed room. For some reason Skirata found himself focused on the anxious face of clone trooper Corr, perched on the edge of a chair with one of Dar's custom dets dismantled in his prosthetic hands.

“Noon tomorrow,” Skirata said. He winked at Jusik. “And I'll have my nephew with me, just in case.”

“On the south side of the Bank of the Core Plaza.”

“You'll spot me easily enough. I have a strill.”

Vau's face was a study in shock, but—like the professional soldier he was—he said nothing.

“What's a strill?” the disembodied voice said.

“A disgustingly ugly, smelly Mandalorian hunting animal. You can't mistake it for any other species, not even in this menagerie of a city.”

“Noon, then.”

The link went dead.

“Nobody but Seps would want five-hundred-grade thermal,” Vau said. “Too exotic for the average criminal. They certainly bit on the bait fast. Should that worry us?”

“They've lost their usual supplier, and this is far better stuff.” Skirata watched Delta descend on the holochart and begin planning sniper positions around the banking plaza. “This is purely surveillance unless they start shooting, okay, lads? Killing them there won't help us trace their nests. Least of all in broad daylight.”

“Understood, Sarge.”

Sev managed a smile. “As long as we get to use lethal rounds later. We like dead. Dead is very us.”

“I added some Dust to the unenriched thermal,” Jusik said. “You want some made into Verpine projectiles, so you can tag anyone you spot and track them, too?” Jusik was a ferociously clever lad and Skirata prized intelligence very much, as much as loyalty and courage. “I thought I'd make sure we didn't have to follow a suspect the hard way again. Am I forgiven for my lapse of judgment the other day?”

“Bard'ika, if you ever want a father, then you have one in me,” Skirata said.

It was the highest compliment he could pay him: he was fit to be his son. Jusik might not have fully understood Mandalorian culture yet, but he certainly grasped the sentiment if his embarrassed glance down at the floor and the broad grin were any guide.

Boss gave Skirata a cautious glance. “Does that mean we get to use your Verp rifles?”

“You're such a pushover for fancy kit,” Skirata said.

“They're the business, Sarge … kandosii!”

“But you bend them, and I'll bend you. They cost me a fortune, and they do not bounce.”

“How you going to get the caliber of those marker pellets right, though, Bardan?” Sev said.

“Multicaliber magazine and bore,” Skirata said. “You could load these Verps with stones if you needed to. That's what cost the money. That and the full-spectrum range of filters, variable velocity, and anti-reflective device.”

“Kandosii,” Sev said, almost sighing. “Shame you didn't pay a bit extra to make them more robust.”

“Cheeky di'kut ... okay, I reckon you're good enough to use them. Take a look.”

Skirata went to the cupboard and slid out one of the precious rifles, disassembled into three discrete parts: thirty-centimeter barrels, matte drab green, silent, horribly accurate, and Jaing's weapon of choice for going hiking with extreme prejudice, as he described it. Sheer ballistic beauty. An assassin's tool: a craftsman's tool.

He hadn't seen Jaing in months. He missed him. He missed all the Nulls badly when they were on long, distant missions.

Boss and Sev fondled the rifles and beamed. Even Fixer looked happy. The Delta boys didn't respond to food treats and pats on the head, then, but they loved new toys and praise. Skirata noted that.

“I need accurate ranges from your recce,” Jusik said. “I've got to pack the Dust into a medium that'll stay together until it's right at the target, or the stuff will disperse too soon. This has to splatter them close to the face so they inhale it, or it'll just sit on their clothing. If they dump their jackets, we'll lose them.”

“Fun,” Sev said, and obviously meant it.

Vau got up and wandered out toward the landing platform, no doubt to fuss over Lord Mirdalan before the slobbering thing did a real job for once in its life. When he was out of earshot, Boss turned to Skirata.

“Sargeant Vau loves that animal. Don't let anything happen to it. Please.”

“I won't. It knows I carry a knife.”

Corr, who had been the subject of much fussing and attention since Jusik had brought him back to Qibbu's, watched cautiously. Skirata ruffled his hair. He flinched. “Sorry about all this, son. Learning a lot?”

“Yes, Sargeant.”

“Want to be useful? I mean even more useful than you are now?”

“Yes. Please.”

Poor little di'kut. Skirata fought the urge to collect another damaged young boy, another stray in need of belonging, and lost immediately. He had been that orphan, and a soldier had rescued him.

“Dar, give him a crash course in using a DC-17, will you?”

Boss and Sev slid the discreet body armor plates under their tunics and checked their hand blasters. “Just off for a recce of the location, then,” Boss said. “Back in two hours, and then I suggest we insert as soon as possible so we're there before the bad guys.”

“What makes you think they won't be doing the same right now?” Etain said.

“Because it looks like a very hard location to lay up in for any length of time, and we're pros, and they're not,” said Boss. “So they'll probably go in closer to the rendezvous time.”

Skirata made a point of looking around the group so that he could see the reaction of the two Jedi. Both of them were very capable warriors but assassination—killing someone who was not about to kill you—was psychologically very different from using a lightsaber or blaster in combat.

The silent excitement that had gripped the room was palpable.

“Gentlemen—ma'am—this is a shoot-to-kill operation,” he said. “Not arrest. We want as many hut'uune identified, located, and dead by any means possible at the end of this deployment. Nothing else. We're cutting out a big chunk of this network in one slice. Are we all clear that's what we're doing?”

“Yes Sarge!”

It was one voice. And Jusik and Etain were part of it.

That was good. Anyone who hesitated would get the rest of the strike team killed, or worse.

“Okay, recce team, move out,” Skirata said. “And don't you dare drop my Verps.”