The twin suns of Tatooine had long since dipped below the dunes when Quinn Arapto stepped into the palace.
The Zabrak mercenary moved with the confidence of a man who belonged there, though every instinct beneath his dark red skin screamed otherwise. His black horns caught the glow of hanging lanterns as music thundered through the sandstone corridors. Silk-draped dancers spun beneath clouds of spice smoke while smugglers, assassins, and crime lords crowded around banquet tables stacked with roasted meilooruns and glittering bottles from Core World vineyards.
The Hutts were hosting a summit.
Which meant every predator in the Outer Rim was inside one building.
Perfect cover.
Quinn adjusted the embroidered sleeves of the stolen servant’s robe and lowered his gaze as two Gamorrean guards shoved past him. Their axes scraped the walls. Neither bothered to look twice at another servant carrying wine.
That was the difference between professionals and amateurs, Quinn thought. Professionals became invisible.
The holocron rested three floors below the palace in a private vault maintained by the Hutt kajidic. Ancient Sith Empire artifact. Priceless. Dangerous. The kind of relic that powerful men killed entire cities to possess.
Which explained the party above.
The Hutts planned to auction it tonight.
Quinn had spent three weeks preparing for this job. He bribed a dock clerk to learn supply routes, blackmailed a Nikto accountant for vault schematics, and nearly lost a hand stealing a security cipher from a drunken Weequay captain. All of it for one chance at entering the vault without triggering alarms.
A reckless thief would have tried explosives.
A dead thief, more likely.
He slipped through a service corridor behind the kitchens, counting the seconds between surveillance sweeps. The palace security network rotated every forty seconds. He had learned that by sitting across the street for five nights pretending to repair vaporators.
Thirty-nine.
Forty.
Quinn moved.
The servant robe came off first. Beneath it waited matte-black armor fitted tight against his lean frame. He crossed the corridor silently and pressed a small spike into a security panel. Numbers flashed red, then blue.
Access granted.
“Too easy,” he muttered.
That thought nearly got him killed.
The floor shifted under his boot.
Quinn reacted instantly, throwing himself backward as a concealed vibro-blade shot from the wall exactly where his throat had been. It sliced through empty air before retracting.
Pressure-sensitive trap.
Not on the schematics.
His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he crouched low, studying the floor tiles. Tiny discolorations marked the triggers. Nearly invisible.
The Hutts had upgraded security for the auction.
Of course they had.
Quinn exhaled slowly and navigated through the corridor one careful step at a time. Sweat rolled down the side of his face despite the cool underground air. One mistake here would alert every guard in the palace.
Ahead stood the vault door.
Circular. Massive. Durasteel plated with overlapping electronic locks and an old-fashioned mechanical wheel at its center. Two guards stood outside in crimson armor, both carrying heavy blasters.
Quinn remained hidden in the shadows.
He didn’t draw weapons.
Blaster fire was noise. Noise became panic. Panic became sealed exits and bounty hunters.
Instead, he waited.
Patience was the sharpest weapon he owned.
One of the guards eventually wandered toward the end of the hall to smoke. The other stayed behind, bored and alone.
Quinn slipped forward soundlessly.
The guard sensed movement too late. Quinn wrapped one arm around his throat and jammed a shock injector against the man’s neck. Electricity crackled. The guard collapsed without a sound.
Quinn dragged the body aside just as the smoker turned the corner again.
The second guard frowned.
“Hey—”
Quinn hurled a small metal cylinder.
The flash grenade detonated silently in a burst of white light. The guard staggered, blinded, and Quinn crossed the distance instantly, driving an elbow into his jaw before slamming his head against the vault door.
Silence returned.
Quinn checked the corridor, then knelt at the vault controls.
Three minutes later, the door rolled open with a deep metallic groan.
Inside, the vault resembled a shrine more than a treasury. Credits, jewels, and golden idols lined the walls, but Quinn ignored them all.
At the center of the chamber sat a black pyramid-shaped holocron atop a stone pedestal.
Even from across the room, he could feel it.
Cold.
Hungry.
The air itself seemed heavier near the artifact.
Quinn approached cautiously. He had heard stories about Sith relics whispering into the minds of the weak. Men slaughtering friends for power they barely understood.
He didn’t believe in legends.
Still, when he reached for the holocron, a faint voice brushed the edges of his thoughts.
Take me.
Quinn snatched his hand back.
The holocron glowed crimson for a split second.
Then palace alarms erupted overhead.
Quinn froze.
Not his fault.
Someone else had made their move.
Blaster fire echoed faintly from the upper floors. Shouting followed. The rival crime families had turned the summit into a battlefield.
Quinn swore under his breath.
The palace would lock down in moments.
He grabbed the holocron and sealed it inside a padded satchel. Immediately the vault lights shifted red. Automated security protocols activated with mechanical clicks inside the walls.
Turrets.
Quinn sprinted.
The first cannon dropped from the ceiling behind him and opened fire. Red bolts tore through the corridor, scorching stone. Quinn slid beneath the barrage and vaulted over a collapsing guard rail as more explosions shook the palace overhead.
By the time he reached the main levels, chaos had consumed everything.
Rodians exchanged blaster fire with Trandoshans across banquet tables. A chandelier burned on the floor. Screaming servants ran in every direction while Hutt enforcers tried to restore order.
And through all of it, Quinn walked calmly.
Fast, but not running.
Panicked people noticed runners.
A composed man carrying a servant’s robe under one arm? Invisible.
He crossed the ballroom as firefights erupted around him. A blaster bolt scorched the wall inches from his head. Nobody cared. Everyone was too busy killing each other over a relic that was already gone.
At the palace entrance, a Nikto guard shouted, “Seal the gates!”
Quinn threw a thermal detonator down a side corridor.
The explosion thundered through the palace. Every guard turned toward the blast.
Quinn slipped outside into the cool desert night.
His speeder waited exactly where he had left it beneath the cliffs.
Only when the palace disappeared behind him across the dunes did Quinn finally remove the holocron from the satchel.
Its crimson glow illuminated his tattooed face.
Again, the whisper came.
Open me.
Quinn stared at it for a long moment before accelerating harder into the darkness of the desert.
Whatever secrets the Sith had buried inside that thing, someone else could pay to discover them.
Assuming the holocron let him sell it first.