“Confirm—female target in blue, marked.” Fi tracked the rifle ninety degrees to his left. “Targeting the male farthest from Kal. Black jacket.”

Breathe easy. Relax. He aimed and adjusted the scope again, held his breath at the comfortable point of exhalation, and fired for a second time. Again, the man reacted and looked for something on his chest, then carried on watching Skirata as if nothing had happened.

“Male, black jacket—target marked. So they can feel it strike, then.”

“Don't hog them all,” Scorch said. “I want a go.”

“All yours, ner vod.”

“Targeting the male right of Skirata, gray robe …”

Fi lined up his EM scope on Scorch's target to observe. Scorch's breathing paused, and then Fi saw a puff of white smoke bloom on the gray robe. He didn't react at all.

“Now the other male, red vest, left of Skirata by the caf vendor … no, keep still, you di'kut … that's better.” Scorch was silent again. Fi watched through the EM filter. The projectile burst neatly on the man's shoulder and he brushed his nose without noticing, just like the first woman. Maybe it was a combination of seeing absolutely nothing as 'the pellet's binding agent vaporized, and being hyped up on adrenaline during a mission. They weren't tuned in to much beyond seeing and not being seen.

“Okay, who's taking Beard Guy? Perrive.”

“Me,” Fi said. “If I make it three for three, do I get to keep him? Y'know, stuffed and mounted?”

“He'd make a nice stand for your Hokan armor.”

Perrive—Beard Guy—stood at a slight angle, moving a little as he spoke to Skirata. He held the small pack of thermal plastoid in his hand, about a hundred grams of it, and was squeezing it between his fingers while glancing at the wrapping. It looked for all the world like a spice deal, and Fi wondered for a moment if they were all blind to how obvious that might appear.

Worry about that later. Tag him.

“Turn around, chakaar. I don't want to hit your back.”

Fi had settled into a rhythm now. He watched through the scope as Perrive slipped the plastoid into his pocket and stood with one hand on his belt, turning idly back and forth, presenting a good expanse of back and then a narrow angle of shoulder.

Fi relaxed, aimed and went for the shoulder, anticipating the turn.

Whuff.

The tracker projectile struck home and got no reaction.

“Okay we'll take a look at this and get back to you tomorrow at noon,” Perrive said. “If we like it, we meet somewhere private. If we don't, you never hear from me again.”

“Suits me,” said Skirata.

“What about the second woman?” Fi said. “Etain, where are you?”

“About three meters to her left.”

“Can you edge her clear of the civvies?”

“Okay …”

Fi listened. Skirata could hear all this on his comlink bead, too. It took some skill to carry on talking with someone having a five-way conversation in your ear.

“Excuse me,” Etain said. “I'm hopelessly lost. Can you show me how I get to Quadrant N-Ten?”

Fi watched as the woman simply paused, looked at Etain with surprise, and then began pointing out the connecting walkway. Etain moved. The woman stepped out farther, pointing again.

“Thank you,” Etain said, and walked on.

Whuff. The projectile plumed light on the woman's shoulder. And she brushed her nose.

“All six tagged,” Fi said. He changed channels with an exaggerated click of his molars. “Niner, you receiving?”

“Got 'em all,” said Niner's voice, several quadrants away in Qibbu's. “Nice vivid traces on the holochart.”

“Okay.” Fi let his head drop to ease his neck muscles. “You can wind up now, Sarge.”

“The old di'kut's good at it, isn't he?” Scorch betrayed a grudging fondness. Skirata could hear the conversation and Scorch knew it. “I'd love to know where he learned to do all that.”

Skirata's face didn't even twitch. Nor did Jusik's. Jusik was just looking around as a gangster's errand boy was supposed to, appearing alert but not too bright.

“My intermediary says you have lots of army friends,” Perrive said.

“Contacts,” Skirata said. “Not friends.”

“Don't like our army, then?”

“Just useful. Just clones.”

“Not worried what happens to them?”

“You're not some di'kutla liberal, trying to recruit me, are you, son? No, I don't give a mott's backside about clones. I'm in this for me and my family.”

“Just curious. We'll be in touch, if we like the goods.”

Skirata simply sat with his hands thrust into his pockets, apparently watching the strill, which had stretched out in an ungainly pile of loose skin with its head under the bench, trailing drool. Jusik chewed vacantly, also staring ahead. Fi and the sniper team watched Perrive and the five targets disperse into walkways and down-ramps.

They waited.

“Anyone else spot a Jabiimi accent there?” Jusik asked.

Skirata leaned over and appeared to be about to pat Mird. “I reckon so.” Fi waited for it to sink its teeth in him, but he stopped short of touching it and the animal simply rolled over to watch his hand with malevolently curious eyes.

Fi remembered the strill from Kamino. It seemed smaller now that he was a grown man. Once, it was bigger than he was.

Eventually there was a long sigh of relief. “I sense they're all gone,” Jusik said. “Niner, are they clear of the plaza area?”

Niner grunted. “Confirmed. You can move now.”

“Stand down, lads,” Skirata said at last. “Well done.”

“Nice job, Etain,” said Darman's voice.

“Yeah, okay, well done the Mystic Mob, too.” Skirata tugged on Mird's leash; the pile of fur scrambled onto all six legs and shook itself. “Let's thin out carefully, and don't forget to wipe off the face camo before you move. We'll RV back at Qibbu's by thirteen-fifteen. Then get some rest.”

“Sounds good,” Fi said. It was only when the tension had passed that he realized how stiff his joints felt and how much parts of him hurt from twelve hours and more lying prone on the makeshift padding of his jacket. “Hot bath, hot meal, and sleep,”

Skirata cut in. “You know I didn't mean that, don't you?”

“What?”

“About clones. Qibbu obviously mentioned you to his scum associates.”

“Of course we know, Sarge,” Scorch said. “You said you were in this for your family, didn't you?”

Logistics center, Grand Army of the Republic, Coruscant Command HQ, 1615 hours, 384 days after Geonosis

Ordo listened to his concealed comlink with a practiced expression of blank disinterest while he keyed in traffic movements. The holochart that covered every centimeter of wall space shifted and pulsed as consignments turned from red to green—now laden, cross-checked, and en route—and requests for replenishment stacked up in a panel of blue horizontal bars.

The holochart gave no numbers of troops, but a little common sense would have told anyone who wanted to spend the time thinking through the obvious that they were thinly stretched. There were, Ordo knew, at least a million troops now in the field spread over hundreds of worlds: small forces on some, multiple battalions on others. It meant long supply chains, and those were inherently vulnerable. So … why didn't the Separatist terror networks target them offworld? No ability. No suitable vessels or skills. Or … maybe the point was to intimidate the seat of galactic government after all.

Motive mattered. Motive gave you the capacity to think like the enemy, want what they wanted, and then snatch it from them.

And killing clone troopers—mainly troopers, if you didn't count the unfortunate civilians who were also in the way—made the point that the Seps could come and go as they pleased.