by Heather Melville


Sharra N’Aquiva checked her personal chrono again. 
Her contact should be here by now.  The only thing
moving in that she could see was the fog.  A shiver of
cold touched her shoulder.  She spun.  Nothing there. 
She unholstered her blaster.  Something was coming,
and it didn’t need for her to get close enough to use
a light saber.  She spun her senses out into the fog,
enhancing the physical senses and using that extra
sense that she had learned to call the Force.  

Voices.  Whispered.  A scrape of shoe on pavement. 
Nothing in the Force.  Nothing.  Oh Gods, that
COULDN’T be right.  Oh hell oh hell, she had to get
out NOW.  Her contact was probably dead—or had sold
her out.  Bantha fodder!

She planned her best escape route, then chucked it. 
Too obvious.  She retraced all the hiding spots she
could think of.  She’d take those.  Even if she did
get caught, she would make life miserable for them on
the way.  The least she could do was take out a few. 
She checked her blaster and her smaller hold out
blaster.  Both power cells full, as she always kept
them.  Her knives were loose in their sheaths.  Her
lightsaber was firm to her belt, the same belt that
held her wire garotte.

Sharra ran, hearing voices through the fog become


She drew her knees into her hiding place.  Dark eyes
narrowed as they watched her pursuers charge past. 
They’d be back, no doubt.  This had to be part of the
cordoned search area.  All this for little old me? 
She chuckled grimly to herself.  That was what she got
for becoming important.  Funny how she’d never been a
personal target before signing up with Nik Vie.

A woman in black followed the first group at a slower,
more considered pace, accompanied by her own corps. 
Sharra’s eyes widened.  Darana.  The stakes had gone
way up.  And here was one of the few targets she had
orders to take out even at the cost of her own life.

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