The night was young, and Bazine Netal was hunting. Curled up on a stool in formfitting black that matched her eyes, lips, and hair, she scanned the room for her contact and found only fools. Clumsy admirers frequently took her cold stare for an invitation. In her line of work, being beautiful was often a boon. But it was also an inconvenience.
“Good evening, my lady.”
She looked up and frowned. She’d noted this witless Devaronian earlier, when he’d suffered a spectacular loss at sabacc. Now, reeking of liquor and overconfidence, he reached for her knee, slurring something about the heat of the desert sands and the curves of her bountiful dunes. Before his filthy fingers could touch her, she snapped his wrist like a twig. He screamed and fell to the sand-dusted floor, calling her all manner of names, but she only yawned and looked away. He clearly was not the man she was looking for. His friends hurried up to him, took one look at Bazine, and muttered dark promises as they carried him out, the man squealing like a Huttlet the entire time. She eased farther into the shadowy corner, swirling the drink in her glass with fastidious, black-tipped fingers.
She hadn’t tasted the drink, of course. She never did.
Drinks could be poisoned at any moment. She’d already poisoned one tonight. The effects wouldn’t be obvious until her mark was safely back home, contentedly sleeping. He wouldn’t wake up again. And then her comlink would bing softly, letting her know her unknown employer was pleased and had deposited creds in her account.
What Bazine needed now was a new job to keep her occupied. She’d been waiting for this new contact for hours and was already bored, and the men could smell it on her. Another one appeared at the edge of her table, fingers stroking his blaster.
“You lonely, sweetness?” he asked, flipping a toothpick with his tongue.
She looked him up and down. The slight human junker presented neither threat nor enticement. Definitely not her man. He looked her up and down in return. High-heeled wedge boots, black leather leggings clinging to shapely legs, tight-fitting jacket that concealed armor and weapons, not that he could’ve known that, nor could he know that the severe black bob was a wig. When his eyes reached her stark, chiseled face again, he leered. “Because you look…lonely.”
“And you look like a diseased mynock. Move along.” She waved a hand at him and scooted farther back in her booth, kicking her legs up onto the table to discourage further disturbances.
“You think you’re too good for me?” he sputtered, reaching for his blaster with a shaking hand.
“Of course not. I know I’m too good for you.”
With one simple but elegant kick, she struck a nerve cluster in his thigh that sent him sprawling onto the rough floor. This man had no friends to pick him back up. He had no choice but to crawl away on hands and knees, cursing her.
That, at least, made her smile a little.
A waitress appeared, wiping a wet rag across the table as she watched the junker’s retreat.
“You keep openly maiming the customers and Suli won’t let you in the door,” the orange-eyed Duros girl said. “They can’t tip with broken bones.”
Bazine tossed a few credit chips on the table. “It’s not my fault Suli’s establishment attracts scoundrels, Ooda.” It was as close as she’d come to an apology, and Ooda nodded and scooped up the creds, which was as close as she’d come to forgiveness. They had an unspoken agreement, these two, even though they’d been in the same orbit for years. It was the same arrangement Bazine had with all her acquaintances: no asking questions and no getting friendly.
“Oh, and Suli said to tell you he’d be here soon.”
Ooda turned to go, and Bazine called after her, “Who?”
The Duros shrugged as she walked away. “Didn’t ask, don’t want to know.”
Bazine had an agreement with Suli, too. He’d send jobs her way, and in return she acted as unofficial bouncer, quietly removing anyone who caused trouble. Even the most violent drunks would follow her outside for the promise of a kiss. Technically speaking, she had told the cantina owner that she’d wait to maim the customers until they were out back in a private alley. She scanned the bar for Suli, made eye contact, and gave the barest nod to indicate understanding.
The night wore on, and her contact didn’t show. She’d gently rebuffed seven more scoundrels and watched twice as many bad hands at sabacc when something clattered in her glass, splashing amber liquid onto the stained table. Her head jerked up, hunting for the source of the interruption. The scenery had not changed. Not a single new pair of eyes watched her; nor were any strangers circling her table as they practiced bad pickup lines under their breath. She knew this bar, and she knew all the other mercs, and she recognized most of these lowlifes, even if they didn’t recognize her, thanks to a rotating gallery of disguises. But she had never before had any suitors attempt to gain her attention by dropping a room key in her glass.
Her eyes cut left and right before her elbow shot out, knocking the drink over.
“Oops.”
She hooked a finger through the key ring, doing her best not to smudge the matte-black rishi eel ink she wore painted on her forefingers to cloak her fingerprints. ROOM 3, the tag read. Could be an invitation. Could be the job. Either way, she was going to find out. Sliding off her stool, she stood and stretched, readjusting her severe but exquisite outfit as she subtly checked her weapons. Snub-nosed blaster: check. Slender blade: check. Small thermal detonators hidden in the wedges of her boots: check. Seven throwing knives sewn into her jacket: check. Whatever the hotel guest hoped to pay her for, he were going to be surprised by her bag of tricks.
She headed for the long hallway that housed the beyond-loathsome toilet and the door to the stairs. She’d never visited the bar’s second-floor lodging area, knowing it was used only by the dancing girls and high rollers, whether together or separately. The stairway was narrow and stank of sweat and worse, and she drew her blaster as she edged upward, careful not to touch the filthy banisters.
Aiming her blaster down each side of the hallway, she found nothing worth shooting. Identical numbered doors marched down the sand-colored paneling, various sounds whispering or thumping rhythmically behind them. She paused beside door number three. Her back to the wall, she leaned an ear against the plasteel and heard nothing within. She knocked twice, quick, and slowed her breathing as she waited, blaster held aloft, for a response. None came.
How inhospitable.
Blaster in one hand, old-fashioned key in the other, ready to run or shoot, she unlocked the door and nudged it open with one boot. She had expected blasterfire, an enemy’s cackle, or the smooth sounds of a jatz band and a fool’s compliments, but what she got was utter silence. Slipping a small mirror from one of her pockets, she used it to scout the room through the open door.
A lone figure sat on the disheveled bed, utterly still. Even in the low light, she could tell it was a protocol droid, and not one of the new, fancy ones. This one was skeletal and missing an arm, the barest sketch of a sentient being. The rest of the room was slightly off, towels on the floor and chairs askew, as if the person who’d left her the key had done so on his or her way out.
“Hello?” she called, voice pitched low to sound inviting.
There was no answer. She didn’t know if she was more intrigued or annoyed. Sure, she’d been bored in the bar and waiting for a mission, but she preferred her work like she preferred her clothes: tidy, no nonsense, a good fit, and ready to burn if she had to run.
She slipped the mirror back in its pocket and took up her blade. Both weapons drawn, she stepped into the room, ready for the worst.
The rusty protocol droid’s head slowly ratcheted up to scan her face.
“Greetings, Bazine Netal,” it said in a dull, heartless monotone. “I have a job for you. Do you accept?”