They were both so stupid—just went along with what she told them to do even though obviously she was sending them off to get killed to buy time for her, Mack, and Buggo to get off the planet with the cargo. No, those two idiots were dead, for sure. They hadn’t called in, and if they’d taken out the Jedi they would have asked for a pickup.

Ugh, she thought.

This was supposed to be the easiest job ever. She was so proud of herself for thinking it up. She’d heard that these four people had tried to go it alone in the Outer Rim, live “authentically,” cut themselves off from their rich family on Alderaan. It made her so mad. They had everything, these Blythes, and they threw it away to go dig in the dirt. But some people didn’t have a choice like that. They were born in the dirt and they’d die there—people like her. Until the Nihil, anyway. Lourna Dee had recruited her with a promise…they were all in it together, they were a family, a new family…it all sounded so good. And it was working, too. She’d made Cloud, and found Strikes of her own to command—it was all coming together.

And then when she’d come up with this idea to take the Blythes and ransom them back to their rich grandparents on Alderaan, and her Storm had liked it and taken it to Lourna Dee herself, and then she’d taken it to Marchion Ro and he’d liked it, too, and she’d gotten the Paths she needed to pull it all off. It was supposed to work out.

But then, Jedi.

“Boss! What are we going to do? Boss!”

Buggo, bugging her, like he did. She should have sent him up into the hills to ambush the Jedi. But he was her second cousin’s husband, which was family in a way, close as she had.

Laser blasts zipped past the cockpit—warning shots.

Mack was on the guns, returning fire, but she had no confidence in his ability to shoot down a Vector. They moved like ghosts, flipping and moving around and doing impossible things. Like the Jedi themselves, in fact.

Dent reached forward and tapped a few buttons on her control console. She wasn’t supposed to make contact while on a mission—signals could be tracked—but what did she have to lose?

A voice came over the comlink—her Storm, a funny, charming Ugnaught named Zoovler Tom.

“Dent!” he said, happy to hear from her, apparently. “What’s the good word? You got the packages we sent you to pick up?”