Alliances (Star Wars: Thrawn, #2)(32)

Anakin leapt straight up just as Thrawn began the maneuver, turning in midair as the man dodged to the side and reached for the detonator. His hand began to emerge, his lips curling into a snarl—

Which became a gasp as Anakin hurled his lightsaber, sending the blade spinning through the detonator and half of the man’s hand. The thug fell to the ground and lay crumpled against the ancient wall, his face screwed up in pain as he gripped the remains of his hand.

The landspeeder had braked nearly to a halt by the time Anakin landed on the hood again. He used the Force to recall his lightsaber to his hand, then dropped into a crouch to catch his balance and spun back to the thug who had taken that single shot at him.

Double vision: shots coming at torso and head—

He blocked both, sending the second shot into the thug’s own chest and dropping him to the street beside his comrade. Even as he collapsed, Thrawn was climbing stiffly out of the landspeeder and hurrying to the two he’d rammed earlier. “Well?” Anakin called, giving each of the other thugs a quick look.

“Both are injured and unconscious,” Thrawn said. “Have we one who can still speak?”

“I think so,” Anakin said, turning his eyes and his lightsaber toward the leader. The thug was staring back, the grip half of his bisected blaster still clenched in his hand. “Not really sure.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said. He crossed to Anakin’s thug, drawing his blaster as he walked. “You’re not a warrior.”

Belatedly, the man’s eyes shifted to the Chiss. “I’m…no, I’m…”

“Your name?” Thrawn prompted.

The man swallowed visibly. “Oenti,” he said. “I’m an inspector. Just an inspector. A cargo inspector.”

“Haven’t done a very good job of it, have you?” Anakin suggested mildly. “Let’s take this talk inside, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” Thrawn agreed. “These are your people, General. You’d best lead the way.”

“No problem,” Anakin said. He got a grip on Oenti’s arm and pulled him over to the door his group had been focused on. A double lightsaber slash through the cheap lock and equally cheap hinges, a flick of his hand to send the door flying inward with a crash, and he gave the thug a more insistent shove inside.

The room they were in was a shop of some sort, with shelves and bins loaded with exotic curios, poorly made counterfeits of Core World art objects, and a lot of unidentifiable bits of flotsam and jetsam. A faded damask curtain hung over a doorway beside the counter, and as Anakin pushed his prisoner toward it two long-snouted beings flung it aside and charged out into the front room.

And came to a sudden halt as they spotted the intruders already halfway to them. One of them raised his blaster—

“Don’t,” Anakin said, lifting his lightsaber a little higher over Oenti’s shoulder.

The would-be attacker hesitated, focused briefly on Oenti, then looked back at Anakin. “Who are you?”

“We’re not your friends,” Thrawn said, moving out from behind Anakin and taking a couple of steps to the side. “But we’re not necessarily your enemies. We seek information, and believe you can supply it.”

“Or we can kill all of you and get what we want from this one,” Anakin offered, tugging on the shoulder of Oenti’s shirt with his free hand. “Your choice.”

One of the long-snouts swallowed, a long, rippling motion of the throat, and lowered his weapon. “Yes,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the curtain. “Come inside. We shall talk.”

“Yes, we shall,” Anakin said. “You can just leave the weapons here.”

The two long-snouts looked at each other. Then, wordlessly, they set their blasters on the counter, pushed back the curtain, and disappeared through the doorway.

Anakin and Oenti were right behind them.

The room looked to be a stockroom of sorts, with crates and shelves and more bins scattered randomly around. The bartender was lying on a dilapidated couch, his head propped up, still looking bleary-eyed from the aftermath of the gas attack. Two humans and another long-snout were seated on stools clustered around him, all three of them now twisted around at the waist as they stared at the newcomers. “Oenti?” one of them demanded cautiously as the first two long-snouts silently walked around behind the rest of the group and took up positions there.

“Hello, Janott,” Anakin’s prisoner said, a dark note in his voice. “Don’t bother to get up. So—Janott the friendly bartender. This explains a lot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the bartender protested. But his eyes were suddenly awake and alert.

“Oh, I think you do,” Oenti said, looking around at the rest of the group. “Your friends are on the duke’s list, you know. The whole gang is. You realize I’d have been shot if he figured out what you were doing?”

“I don’t know—” Janott began again.

“Enough,” Thrawn said. His voice was quiet, but somehow it cut like a lightsaber through the growing argument. “We have no interest in watching you posture. Allow me to save time by telling you what has occurred. You will then tell us what we want to know.”

He gestured to Anakin. “And he will tell me if you’re lying.”