Allegiance (10 page)

“Terrific,” Casement growled. “Like we didn’t have enough trouble with pirates already. Especially with the Imperials now pretty much ignoring them.”

“Maybe not,” Porter said. “The swoopers were shot off us by a pair of stormtroopers.”

He couldn’t make out Casement’s expression in the starlight, but the abrupt stiffening of the other’s stance was almost as impressive. “
What
?”

“You heard me,” Porter said. “A scout on an Aratech speeder bike and a regular trooper in a landspeeder,
working out of an old freighter—I didn’t recognize the make. They also had a pair of plainclothesmen already on the ground and at least one more running backup inside the ship.”

“Plainclothes?” Casement repeated thoughtfully. “Not fleet or army fatigues?”

“One hundred percent pure civilian,” Porter confirmed. “I’m thinking ISB or maybe some special commando squad.”

“Then why did they let you go?” Casement looked up suddenly at the sky. “Unless this is a trap.”

“If it was, they should have sprung it by now,” Porter said. “No, I don’t think they had the faintest idea who or what we were. I think all they were after was the swoopers.” He grimaced. “I just wish I knew what that meant.”

“Nothing good for us, that’s for sure,” Casement said, tucking the gang patch into his pocket. “I’ll send a report to Targeter. She’ll know the right people to kick it on to.”

“Good,” Porter said, gesturing toward the working shadows. “Meanwhile, we’ve got cargo to load.”

“And suddenly this rock doesn’t seem quite so cozy anymore,” Casement agreed grimly. “Let’s get this done.”

T
HE MANAGER OF THE
P
EVEN
A
UCTION
H
OUSE ON
Crovna wasn’t much help. Both the seller and the buyer of Glovstoak’s private art objects had been anonymous, and neither the manager nor any of his employees had recognized either of the representatives who’d been sent to the auction. The house had no records or indication of how the objects had come to Crovna; nor had the manager any idea what kind of vessel they’d left on.

He did, however, remember that he’d had to bring the artworks in for appraisal on two separate occasions before the actual sale took place. Both times they’d been in his office less than an hour after he’d contacted the seller’s agent. Furthermore, he recalled that they’d been brought by landspeeder, not airspeeder.

They could have been stored before the auction in a private home, Mara knew. But with thieves routinely slicing into auction house records in the hope of finding a good target, that would have been both dangerous and stupid. The seller would more likely have kept them in a vault somewhere in the area, someplace secure, private, and easily accessible.

A little research turned up just over fifty storage businesses within an hour’s drive of the auction house. Most of them were small facilities, however—adequate for storing spare furniture or business papers but hardly up
to the task of protecting half a billion credits’ worth of artworks. There was, in fact, only one facility Mara could find that fit all the parameters she was looking for.

It was called Birtraub Brothers Storage and Reclamation Center, a sprawling complex of interconnected gray buildings not far from the city’s main spaceport. With thirty or forty ships parked in its docking bays at any given time and several thousand workers buzzing about like hive insects as they accepted and dispersed and stored hundreds of thousands of crates and lockboxes a day, she could well believe its claim to be one of the largest such facilities in Shelsha sector.

But there was something else about the place, something that sent her senses tingling. Perhaps it was the grim-faced guards she could see from her table at the tapcafe across the street from the facility, guards who carried the unmistakable stamp of the Fringe in their expressions and body language. Perhaps it was the fact that many of the ships she could see moving cargoes in and out of the docking bays had clearly forged markings on them.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Mara’s very presence here at this window table had set off quiet alarm bells all the way to the tapcafe’s back room.

Lifting her glass, she took a sip, surreptitiously glancing at her chrono as she did so. She’d been here since just after the lunchtime rush, and in the past three hours had nursed her way through two small drinks and an appetizer plate of tomo-spice ribenes, watching the traffic going in and out of the facility. For those same three hours the tapcafe’s staff had been watching her, their quiet vigilance punctuated by numerous comlink calls to party or parties unknown. The calls had become increasingly intense in the past hour, and though Mara was too far away to overhear any of the conversations she could sense a growing nervousness.

Which wasn’t really surprising. If the higher-ups at Birtraub Brothers had guilty consciences, they would immediately have checked all the nearby spaceports for her ship, pulled every record that might possibly pertain to her, probably even contacted people familiar with a wide range of law enforcement personnel in the hope of identifying her.

None of it would have done them the slightest bit of good. The name on her identity tag was complete fiction, her ship was unregistered, and neither face, prints, nor DNA pattern was recorded in any file or computer or surveillance droid memory anywhere in the Empire. As far as an inquiry would determine, she simply didn’t exist.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tapcafe manager walking toward her through the sea of tables and stretched out with the Force for a quick assessment. He was as nervous as ever, but there was a determination that hadn’t been there earlier. Apparently they were finally ready to make their move. “Excuse me, miss?” the manager said tentatively.

Mara looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but we need this table,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

“Oh?” Mara said, looking around. In point of fact the place
had
gotten more crowded in the past half hour, with nearly all the tables now hosting at least one occupant. However, since most of them appeared to be hired thugs pressed from the same mold as the Birtraub Brothers’ door guards, it didn’t seem a particularly relevant argument.

“I’m afraid so,” the manager said, gesturing toward the bar. On cue, one of the waiters started toward them, balancing a drink on a tray. “One final drink—on the house, of course—and you’ll have to leave.”

The waiter arrived and set the drink in front of her.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Mara said, lifting the glass and sniffing once. The odor was well hidden, but her sensory enhancement techniques were more than equal to the challenge. “Instead of trying to drug me,” she went on, giving the liquid a swirl and setting it back onto the table, “why don’t we just go across to the facility and have a chat with the brothers Birtraub?”

The manager blinked. Clearly, this sort of thing wasn’t in his usual job profile. “Ah … I don’t understand.”

“Never mind,” Mara said, looking around the room again. Her eyes settled on a man a couple of tables away, a few years older than the rest of the toughs, with a watchful look in his eyes as he pretended to ignore the conversation. “You,” Mara said, gesturing to him. “Shall we end this nonsense and go see your boss?”

The other smiled in a carefully tailored attempt to show amusement as he glanced over at her, noting her plain gray jumpsuit and lack of weapons. “What makes you think he’d be interested in anything you have to say?” he countered.

“Trust me,” Mara said, letting her expression and tone harden as she looked him straight in the eye.

He hesitated a moment, then gave a small shrug. “As you wish,” he said, rising from his chair and gesturing to the door. “This way.”

Mara stood up and reached for the satchel she’d placed on the seat beside her. The crew leader was quicker, his hand darting forward to grasp the handles. “Allow me,” he said, picking it up.

Mara inclined her head in acknowledgment, and together they crossed the room. As they reached the door two of the bigger thugs silently fell into step behind them.

A long landspeeder was waiting for them at the curb. Mara and the crew leader took the backseat while the
two thugs unfolded jump seats across from them. “Master Birtraub’s office,” the crew leader instructed the driver, and they pulled out into the street.

“You have a name?” Mara asked.

His lip quirked. “Pirtonna,” he said. “You?”

“Call me Claria,” Mara said.

“Nice name.” Pirtonna gestured to her satchel, resting on his lap. “May I?”

Mara nodded. All her weapons and other gear were in there, but the more incriminating ones were hidden inside various pieces of electronic equipment, and she doubted Pirtonna would bother with more than a cursory examination until they reached their destination.

He didn’t. He spent probably a minute going through the spare clothing and electronics, then sealed the bag again and set it on the seat beside him. “Happy?” Mara asked.

“I was never anything but,” he replied, smiling back.

A few minutes later the driver pulled up beside a nondescript entrance tucked out of the way between a pair of empty docking bays. Pirtonna led Mara inside and down a brightly lit corridor, the two toughs again trailing behind. In contrast with all the activity Mara had observed earlier outside the facility, this particular area seemed completely deserted.

A couple of turns later they reached an unmarked door. “In here,” Pirtonna said, palming the release plate and gesturing Mara forward.

It was indeed an office, but it obviously didn’t belong to either of the Birtraub brothers, or to anyone else with a scrap of real authority. The desk was old and stained, the chairs plain and unpadded, the lighting simple and bright and functional. From the rows of file cabinets along the sidewalls, she tentatively tagged it as a record keeper’s office.

But it was just as obvious that the man standing glowering
at her from beside the desk was no minor executive. “
This
is her?” he demanded, looking Mara up and down. “This—this—
girl
is the one that has you all worried?”

“This is her,” Pirtonna confirmed stiffly. “And a person who doesn’t show up on any records is well worth worrying about.”

“Really?” the man asked acidly.

“Really,” Mara confirmed. On the back of her neck she felt a whisper of air currents as the two thugs came in behind her and closed the door. “Which Birtraub brother are you?”

He smiled thinly. “The nastier one.”

“Fair enough,” Mara said. “To business, then. I want the name of the person who rented the space where six valuable artworks were being stored a year and a half ago.”

Birtraub’s eyes widened. “You want
what
?” he demanded, his air of hostility momentarily eclipsed by bewilderment. “Artworks?”

“Fine,” Mara said, hiding a grimace. To her Force-enhanced senses, it was clear that Birtraub wasn’t lying; he really
didn’t
know anything about the artworks or their sale. Too bad; that would have made things so much easier. “In that case I’ll settle for a list of everyone who had spaces here at that time.”

Birtraub’s bewilderment vanished, his face darkening. “You’re either insane or joking.”

“Then how about just telling me why strangers watching your facility make you so nervous?” Mara offered.

Birtraub’s face settled into hard lines, his eyes flicking to Pirtonna. The other nodded and stepped around behind Mara, and she felt the pressure as his blaster muzzle was pressed against her back between the shoulder blades.

Mentally, she shook her head.
Amateurs
. The first thing a professional learned was that touching an opponent with a weapon did nothing but show the opponent exactly where the weapon was. “That would be an extremely bad idea,” she warned Birtraub. “The penalties for assaulting an Imperial agent are fairly gruesome.”

Birtraub snorted, but Mara could sense a flicker of uncertainty. “You’re no Imperial agent.
You
?”

“I’m sure your men hope you’re right,” Mara said calmly.

The uncertainty winked out again. “Find out who she’s working for,” Birtraub ordered. “Then kill—”

And right in the middle of his order, Mara turned 180 degrees to her left in a dancer’s spin, swinging her left arm up to catch Pirtonna’s and knocking the blaster away from her back. He fired, a fraction of a second too late, sizzling the blue fire of a stun blast into one of the file cabinets. Mara slid her left hand to his wrist, grabbing it as she snapped her right hand around his arm at the elbow. Shoving against that pivot point, she twisted his forearm over his shoulder and lined up his blaster on the first of the two thugs.

Pirtonna’s finger was still filling the trigger guard, blocking access to the trigger itself. But that was all right. Stretching to the Force, Mara reached beneath his finger and flicked the trigger to send a blue sizzle into the thug, then shifted her aim and stunned the second man. A quick torque against Pirtonna’s wrist and the blaster came free into her left hand, and she fired a final burst directly into his torso.

She tossed the gun across to her right hand and had it lined up on Birtraub’s face before the first of the thugs even hit the floor.

“Stun settings,” she commented approvingly as the triple thud of falling bodies faded away. “So Pirtonna wasn’t nearly as ready to play all-or-nothing with me as
you are. Smart man. Means he gets to live through the night.” She lifted the blaster slightly. “What do you think
your
odds are?”

Birtraub was staring at her, his body rigid, his face gone a pasty white. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. “So, now,” Mara continued. “You were going to explain why you were ready to kill me just for being in your neighborhood.”

Birtraub’s throat worked, and his face sagged subtly in defeat. “There’s a man,” he said, the words coming out with difficulty. “Name’s Caaldra. He works with a pirate gang—a big one. They store a lot of their loot here. They … don’t like people watching them.”

“I don’t blame them,” Mara said. So perhaps Glovstoak’s artworks hadn’t come from Rebels after all. “Where do I find him?”