Chapter 21 : Black Sun's Gambit - Part 2
The supply run should be routine. I've made this delivery six times in two weeks without incident. Weapons to Syndicate warehouse, payment confirmed, return to safehouse. Simple transaction in a business that's anything but simple.
R4's sensors sweep the industrial corridor constantly. "Route analysis: no deviations detected. Probability of hostile contact: 12.7%."
"Keep scanning."
The warehouse appears ahead—standard Syndicate location, guard posts visible, security protocols active. Everything looks normal. Which is exactly when things go wrong.
The first blaster bolt hits my personal shield before I register the attack. Energy barrier flares, absorbing impact. My brain catches up three seconds later: ambush.
Black Sun enforcers emerge from concealment—cargo containers, alcoves, overhead catwalks. Ten of them. Coordinated assault. Professional execution.
They knew my route. My timing. My cargo.
"Inside information. Someone sold me out."
Second bolt strikes shield. Third. Fourth. The barrier holds but energy drain is visible—blue shimmer fading toward critical failure.
I dive behind cargo crate, fumbling for my blaster. Hands shake so badly the weapon nearly slips. Return fire—miss wildly, bolt scorches wall three meters from nearest target.
"Master's combat capability: inadequate," R4 announces while deploying countermeasures. "Probability of survival without assistance: 3.7%."
Smoke grenades detonate. Thick chemical fog fills corridor. Black Sun advances through it like ghosts—thermal imaging or cybernetic enhancements letting them see through obscurement that blinds me.
My shield fails after seventh hit. The barrier collapses with electrical whine. I'm exposed now—just cortosis armor between me and incoming fire.
Eighth bolt hits my chest plate. The impact feels like being kicked by speeder. I'm thrown backward, ribs screaming. The armor holds—no penetration—but the kinetic energy transfers brutally.
"Can't breathe. Ribs broken. Maybe punctured lung."
I try activating emergency beacon. Black Sun jammer kills the signal. They planned this perfectly. Cut me off from reinforcements, trap me in kill zone, execute at leisure.
Ninth bolt grazes my shoulder. Cortosis absorbs most of it but heat burns through underlay. Pain sharp enough that I cry out despite trying to stay silent.
R4's photoreceptor pulses urgent red. "Master critically compromised. Initiating emergency protocols."
The droid interfaces with nearby industrial equipment. Massive cargo loader activates—hydraulic arms swinging with lethal force. One Black Sun enforcer doesn't dodge fast enough. The machinery crushes him against wall. Horrible sound of breaking bones and screaming.
R4's first kill. The droid's casualty count just became non-zero.
I use the distraction to relocate—crawling behind different crate, trying to find angle that isn't completely suicidal. My hands won't stop shaking. Fear is absolute. Physical. This is how I die—shot by criminals in industrial corridor, bleeding out alone.
Black Sun adjusts tactics. Two flank left, three flank right, remaining four provide covering fire. Professional military movement. I'm fighting trained soldiers with expensive equipment and actual competence.
I throw thermal detonator—poor form, trembling hands, desperate Hail Mary. It bounces wrong direction, detonates thirty meters from intended target. The explosion creates temporary barrier of fire and debris but hits nobody.
"Master's explosive deployment: 0% effectiveness," R4 observes. "Recommendation: cease attempting offensive action. Focus on survival until assistance arrives."
"Assistance isn't coming! They jammed the beacon!"
"Incorrect. Syndicate monitors supply routes through independent sensors. Deviation from schedule will trigger automated response. Estimated arrival: three minutes forty seconds."
Three minutes. Eternity measured in heartbeats and incoming blaster fire.
Black Sun realizes this too. Their tactics shift—rapid advance, overwhelming assault, finish before reinforcements arrive. Two enforcers break from cover simultaneously, firing continuously.
I return fire blindly. Pure panic response. No aiming. Just pointing weapon in their general direction and pulling trigger until power cell depletes.
One bolt—pure luck—strikes enforcer's leg. He goes down. Not killed. Just wounded. But it's my first successful hit in actual combat.
R4 activates more industrial equipment. Overhead crane swings cargo container. Black Sun scatters. The container crashes down, crushing another enforcer. Droid's casualty count: two.
My breathing is ragged. Broken rib definitely. Maybe worse. Each breath feels like knives in my chest.
Blaster fire intensifies. They're committing everything now. One enforcer reaches my position—close quarters, no time to aim. I swing the depleted blaster like club. Connect with his jaw. Bone crunches. He staggers backward.
Then his partner shoots me.
Chest shot. Direct hit. Cortosis armor absorbs the plasma but kinetic impact breaks something internal. I'm on the ground, vision blurring, tasting blood.
"This is it. This is how it ends."
The enforcer approaches for execution shot. Weapon aimed at my head. Cortosis won't save me from point-blank headshot.
Then Thax arrives.
Syndicate reinforcements flood the corridor—eight soldiers with my weapons, trained by my specifications, equipped with technology Black Sun can't match. BR-85 rifles open fire. Energy shields absorb return fire. Jump kits provide tactical superiority.
The remaining Black Sun enforcers retreat. Fighting withdrawal. Professional to the end. Four dead, two critically wounded, three escaped.
I'm collapsed behind cargo crate, cortosis armor scorched in multiple places, breathing in short gasps, vision swimming. Blood in my mouth. Definitely broken ribs. Possibly worse.
Thax kneels beside me. "You fought like drunk nerf herder. But you survived. That's something."
I vomit from stress and pain. Adrenaline crash hits like physical blow. My hands won't stop shaking.
"Medic," Thax barks at his soldiers. "Get him to clinic. Discrete one."
They load me into transport. R4 hovers anxiously, photoreceptor focused on my vitals. "Master's condition: stable but concerning. Broken ribs confirmed. Possible internal bleeding. Recommend immediate medical intervention."
The transport ride is agony. Every bump sends pain through my chest. I fade in and out of consciousness.
The illegal clinic is Level 1893—no questions asked, no records kept, expensive discretion. The doctor is Bith, with massive cranium and calm demeanor that suggests he's seen worse.
"Three broken ribs. Bruised lung. Severe contusions across torso. No internal bleeding detected but monitoring required." He injects something that makes the pain fade to manageable levels. "You're extremely lucky. Another centimeter lower and that chest shot would have hit heart. Cortosis armor saved your life."
"How long until I'm functional?"
"Two weeks minimum for ribs to heal properly. But you'll be mobile in three days with pain management." He prepares bacta treatment. "This will accelerate healing. Expensive though. Five thousand credits."
I transfer payment without hesitation. Money means nothing compared to mobility.
Thax waits outside treatment room. "Black Sun hit four different targets simultaneously. They're escalating. Getting desperate."
"They knew my route. My timing."
"Inside information. We're investigating. Someone in our network fed them intelligence." His expression darkens. "Boss wants meeting tomorrow. This changes things."
After treatment, they transport me to a Syndicate safehouse—different from my secondary location, better security, armed guards. I'm too exhausted to argue.
R4 projects damage assessment: "Master's shields: destroyed, requires 8,000 credit replacement. Cortosis armor: serviceable but damaged, 3,000 credit repairs recommended. Emergency beacon: jammed, 5,000 credit upgrade to unjammable frequency. Total: 16,000 credits defensive equipment restoration."
"Calculate my combat effectiveness."
"Master personally injured zero enemies. All hostile casualties resulted from: luck (one), droid intervention (two), allied forces (four). Master's personal combat capability: minimal bordering on nonexistent."
"At least I survived."
"Survival achieved through equipment quality and allied response, not through master's skill. Probability master survives second direct assault without improvements: 8.7%."
I lie on the uncomfortable bed, ribs screaming despite medication. First real combat where I was primary target. Zero kills. Multiple near-death experiences. Saved entirely by allies and expensive equipment.
I'm not a warrior. Not even close. I'm merchant playing at criminal while actual criminals try killing me.
That night, pain makes sleep impossible. I review the ambush obsessively. Ten enforcers. Coordinated assault. Inside intelligence. Black Sun committed serious resources to eliminating me.
"They see me as threat. As asset worth destroying."
The realization should feel like achievement. Proof I matter in gang warfare ecosystem. Instead feels like target painted on my back growing larger.
Thax's message arrives at 0347 hours: "Boss confirmed meeting tomorrow 1600 hours about Mandalorian introduction. Price is 50k plus favor to be named later. Non-negotiable. You need protection—Black Sun won't stop."
Fifty thousand credits just for introduction. Plus undefined future favor to criminal syndicate. The price of survival keeps escalating.
But Thax is right. Black Sun won't stop. They've committed to eliminating me as Syndicate asset. Next attempt will be more professional. More deadly.
I need protection beyond Syndicate. Need political shield that makes me too valuable to casually murder.
Mandalorians remain only visible option despite terrible odds.
My datapad shows updated balance: 568,595 credits after medical treatment. Enough to pay Kreel's price. Enough to arm Mandalorian warriors if they don't execute me first.
R4's probability projection appears unbidden: "Master's survival probability over next thirty days: 15.3%. Contributing factors: Black Sun assassination attempts, Jedi investigation, CS manhunt, gang war escalation, combat inadequacy, health deterioration."
Fifteen percent. Down from twenty-seven before the ambush. The math keeps getting worse.
I take another pain medication dose and try sleeping. Dreams come eventually—Black Sun enforcers wearing Anakin's face, lightsabers and blasters merging into single weapon, Thax's voice announcing my death percentage while I bleed out in warehouse forever.
Morning brings no relief. Just pain, fear, and the knowledge that tomorrow's meeting with Kreel might be last negotiation before situation becomes completely untenable.
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