“I was in that speeder.”

“I know. Clever, wasn't it?”

Skirata took the det and checked that it was disabled before slipping it in his pocket.

“Ord'ika, let me talk to Jailer.” He held his hand out for the comlink to Obrim. “Can your people cover the locations we gave you?”

Obrim's voice was tight with tension. “We're pulling people back off shifts now. We're synchronizing this for twenty two-hundred, are we?”

“Correct. I'll patch you into my comlink for the duration, but don't talk to me unless it's critical. Other than that, stay away from the area coordinates we're going to transmit to you, and pretend we never existed.”

“Sorry about the arrest—not my team. A routine firearms control stop, I'm afraid.”

“At least it made them bolt. They're vulnerable when they bolt.”

“I'll talk to you in twelve hours if all goes smoothly, then. Next breakfast's on you, remember?”

“You take care, too, friend.”

The tangle of possibilities and risks in Skirata's mind had become crystal clear. Two key parts of the operation were now as pinned down as they could be: the synchronized raid on the lower-priority terrorist targets by CSF, and the interception of an unspecified number of key players at the landing strip, along with their vessels.

“Remember, vode. No prisoners.” Skirata took out his medpac and prepared a one-use painkiller syringe. Then he rolled down the soft leather of his left boot and stabbed the needle deep into his ankle. The pain made his muscles shake but he clenched his teeth and let it pass. This was not the night to be slowed down by a limp. “Shoot to kill.”

Fourteen men and one woman to kill maybe twenty terrorists. Very expensive use of manpower compared to droid kill rates. But worth it.

There were a few more targets still wandering around out there, ones they hadn't even tagged. But when it came to destroying a small organization like a group of terror cells, taking out a cell like this one would have enormous impact. It slowed them down. It set them back while they recruited and reorganized and retrained.

Even a few months made all the difference in this war.

“Walon,” he said. “Take one of my Verpine rifles tonight. Might come in handy.”

“I'm grateful, Kal.”

“Okay, vode. This is now Captain Ordo's command as ranking officer—even if we have no ranks right now.”

Skirata swung his arms through the full range of movement to check the fit of his armor, the sand-gold suit that his adoptive father Munin had given him. He put his knife—the knife he had retrieved from his real father's dead body—up his right sleeve, handle uppermost. He could barely remember his parents or even his original name, but Munin Skirata was as vivid as life and still with him every day, one of the precious departed whose names he recited each night.

He hit his gauntlets against his chest plate to snap himself out of memories. Both squads jumped.

Lord Mirdalan, jowls flapping, threw its head back and let out a long, low, moaning howl. The preparations had worked the strill into a hunting frenzy. It could see its master in full Mandalorian armor, and it smelled and heard men who were tense and ready to fight. All its instincts and training said hunt, hunt, hunt.

And Vau held his gloved hand out to Atin. Astonishingly, Atin took it. There was nothing but the battle in mind now. They were all saving it for the enemy.

Skirata felt the visceral thrill tighten his throat and stomach. It had been many years since he'd put on this armor to fight.

“Buy'cese!” he said. Helmets on!

It was, he knew, a sight few would believe—Walon Vau and a Jedi Knight both in full Mandalorian armor, and Republic Commandos, ARC troopers, and a clone trooper in fighting order so closely modeled on that armor he wore himself that they looked like one united army. He pulled on his own helmet before anyone noticed the tears in his eyes.

“I ought to get a holo of this,” Corr said.

Etain stood among them, incongruously fragile.

“I could have lent you my Hokan armor, General,” Fi said. “Only one careless owner.”

Etain lifted her tunic to reveal plates of body armor. “I'm not stupid.” Then she pulled out two lightsabers. Skirata winced. “Mine, and Master Fuller's. He'd have relished a fight like this.”

She was not herself tonight, if her usual self was that worried, awkward, but tenacious soul who found it so hard to be a Jedi. She was utterly alive. Darman seemed to be able to strike sparks off her. Skirata hoped she did the same for him.

Vau flung out his arm to signal the strill to race ahead. “Oya! Oya!” Let's go hunting! “Oya, Mird!”

The strill bayed at the top of its voice and shot out the doors to the landing platform.

Ordo turned to the strike team. “Oya! Oya, vode!”

It was electric. It had never happened before, and it would probably never happen again.

And they went hunting.

Buy'ce gal, buy'ce tal

Vebor'ad ures aliit

Mhi draar baat'i meg'paijii'se

Kote lo 'shebs 'ul narit

A pint of ale, a pint of blood

Buys men without a name

We never care who wins the war

So you can keep your fame

–Popular drinking chant of Mandalorian mercenaries—approximate translation, edited for strong language

Landing area, CoruFresh Farm Produce distribution division, Quadrant F-76, 2035 hours, 385 days after Geonosis

The produce distribution depot was as familiar as Arca Barracks now. Everything was as the holochart and holocam images had modeled it, although some of the vessels had been moved in the last hour. Ordo took a small risk and flew the airspeeder over the CoruFresh landing strip at a cautious height just for reassurance. The depot was a lake of harsh white light dotted with loader droids, trucks, and an assortment of speeders. There were more vessels parked there than Perrive had said. They were probably legitimate transports shipping nothing more deadly than fruit.

“I think CoruFresh might be annoyed about the damage to their fleet in the morning,” Ordo said.

“That's their problem for not being too choosy about the company they keep.” Sev secured one of the Verpine rifles to his webbing. He seemed to take Skirata's warning about bending anyone who bent his kit quite literally. “They must be bankrolled by crime gangs themselves.”

“We'll be doing CSF a favor, then.”

It was always a challenge to insert teams into a busy location. Air traffic data said the strip clocked an average of 120 trucks and cargo lifters passing through the strip every twenty-four hours; 2000 to 2300 hours seemed to be the period when it almost shut down completely. That was probably why the Separatists had picked the 2200 time slot for Skirata to deliver the explosives. They'd be loaded and gone by the time the overnight deliveries started again at 2300.

If the teams had gone in early, they would have needed to avoid an awful lot of people and droids.

“You ever carried out an assault on an urban objective before?” Sev said.

“Yes. N'dian. Heard of it?”

Sev paused to check his HUD database. Ordo could see the icon flash up on his own HUD over the shared link. He heard Sev swallow.

“I meant one where you had to leave the place pretty well intact, sir.”

“In that case, Sev, no. It'll be a first.”

“Me, too.”

“Glad we could share this moment, then.”

Ordo parked the airspeeder next to the small substation that routed utilities to the industrial area where the CoruFresh depot was located. A meter-wide conduit carrying pipes and cables stretched out twenty meters from the substation to span a gap that was five hundred meters deep. That was their route in.