Sacrifice

swiveled. The helmet got his attention the way a chest plate alone didn't. "Ohhh, you got the nerve to come in here, have you, you Mando slag?"

He ducked below the counter for a split second, and that meant only one thing. Mirta wasn't sure if she had her blaster level before Ba'buir did, but when the man straightened up with a highly illegal short-barreled Tenloss disruptor that could have reduced them both to ground nerf, he was looking down the muzzles of Fett's sawn-off EE-3 and her BlasTech 515.

It startled the barkeep long enough for Fett to land a left hook straight in his face. He fell back against the glasses stacked behind him, and a couple smashed on the tiles. Fett caught the disruptor as it clattered onto the counter; Mirta instinctively covered his back, but none of the customers moved. She was starting to feel comfortable doing this double act. The sense of camaraderie—a long way short of family bond—had crept up on her.

Fett examined the disruptor and jammed the safety catch on hard, one- handed. "Remember—no disintegrations."

The bartender staggered upright, cupping one hand under his nose to catch the dripping blood. "The last Mando who came in here wrecked this place. You're all the kriffing same, and I don't want you in here, so why don't you—"

Mirta realized she must have missed some fun and games after she'd left the gray clone to his hunting. "That was a long-lost relative," she said. "We're looking for him."

"Well, when you have your family reunion, I want him to pay for the damage from last time."

The man didn't seem to recognize Ba'buir, but then Fett wouldn't have taken a contract from this low down the food chain. Senators, crime lords, and the wealthy who could afford him knew his armor. Bar-keeps tended not to.