The hot sun of Concordia beat down on the biker, urging him to lift his bottle back to his reptilian mouth. Laying back against the saddle of his Swoop bike with his stalky legs propped up on the handle bars, the Trandoshan snarled as he tossed the bottle into the air, drawing his blaster pistol and firing off three wild shots. Each lazyily fired bolt missed its mark. With a guttural sigh, he collapsed back against his bike and laid their drunk and limp.
Drink no longer interested him and he'd eaten his fill of fresh, raw meat. This town quickly bored him. To his left, other members of the gang, all varying from Twi'leks, Devaronians, Weequays and Duros sat around a table in the shade of the porch playing Paza'ak. An old woman sluggishly brought drinks to the bikers, a look of despair creased her face, knowing the drinks would never be paid for. But off to his right a scream could be heard, a woman. There was laughter too, Yuriim's laughter. The boss was having fun with the locals. This town was his now, along with everyone and thing in it. The Trandoshan licked his razor sharp teeth. He wasn't hungry but that hadn't stopped him before from having a little fun of his own.
As the biker lowered a clawed leg from the handle bars, the sounds of engines quickly approaching reached his ears. Squinting his slit, yellow eyes, he spotted a cloud of dust vastly growing as it got closer and closer. The biker suddenly jumped from his swoop and dove out of the way of the accelerating swoop. It passed by him, narrowly crashing into his own swoop and instead crashing into the wall of the building behind him. The explosion shook all of the bikers from their stupor of relaxation.
The Trandoshan eased to his feet, dizzy with drink and shock. He hissed as he moved to the wreckage with swaying steps. The Devaronian and Weequay both approached as well.
"What happened?" The Devaronian asked with wide eyes. The Weequay knelt down to inspect a body lying mere feet from the wreckage. He grasped the body's thin, wiry braid and pulled the head from the hard, dusty ground. It was another Weequay with leathery, cracked skin and a smoking black hole in its forehead. The biker was dead even before the crash.
The Weequay dropped his dead gang member in a panic and fumbled for his blaster worn on his hip. With a yelp, he was suddenly shot down by a single blast. Everyone was on alert now. Each gang member was on their feet and retrieving their blasters with their anxiety mounting by each second. With wide eyes, they searched left and right for any sign of the attack. Suddenly the roar of rockets pierced the sky. A hail of blaster fire dropped like rain on the harsh ground. Dancing to avoid the lethal bolts of red and green, the bikers scrambled for cover. The Twi'lek kicked over the table, scattering Paza'ak cards in the dust.
Hovering in the orange, noon sky were three gleaming figures. The bikers squinted and looked away from the figures. All at once, the three figures dropped to the ground, flames flaring from the boosters of their jetpacks as they reached the hard surface. Kneeling in the street were three armored figures, each strongly built and armed for a small war. Each wore a full helmet on their heads, donning a fierce black 'T' on the face, Mandalorians. The swoop gang knew them all too well, more than that, they knew they didn't stand a chance.
The first figure standing to the left sported green painted plates adorned over tan fatigues. Hefted in his hands was a heavy repeater blaster rifle. He laid down a stream of blaster bolts as the Mandalorian to his right was the largest of the three, a broad brute of a man who didn't fear to show it. His blue fatigues were cut off at the shoulders. His bare biceps flexed as he leveled his own snub rifle. The Mandalorian to the far right leveled his own rifle and fired mercilessly, killing three bikers within a single second. His silver and yellow armor was the most weathered and worn of the three.
From the roof of another building, another armored man dropped hard, flaring his jetpack too soon, but he was unfazed. His dark grey and maroon armor was clad over drab fatigues. Hanging from around his neck, a tattered red cape flowed with his every move. One hand was held out for his comrades to see and in his other, was a carbine. The blaster fire ceased instantly, none of the bikers had let off a single shot as they cowered behind cover.
"Afternoon, boys," the Mandalorian in grey armor said with a strong accent. "Where's your boss?" Eyes peeked over their cover, wondering if this cease of fire was real and not merely a figment of their imagination. None dared answer. Suddenly a voice called out from the window of a three story building to the left of the road. The voice spoke in Leku, the language of the Twi'leks. Hanging half out of the open window, half naked, was Yuriim, their target. From behind his helmet, the Mandalorian grinned, easy credits.
"What is this? Shoot! Shoot you sons of banthas!" Yuriim shouted in Basic. As if suddenly switched on, the gang popped from their cover and let off wild shots of their blasters. But the Mandalorians stood their ground. Suddenly, more blaster fire fell on the bikers. From the roof tops, five more, darkly clad armor figures unleashed a hail of sniper fire. The bikers ducked again, remembering they were cowards. The lead Mandalorian raised his hand again.
"Hold," he commanded. Still the blaster fire fell. "Hold!" he barked again, looking up at the roof tops to the Mandalorians posed and ready. The blaster fire ceased once again. Eyes wide with fear, Yuriim's lip quivered as he started to back away. The silence was violated by another roar of rockets as another Mandalorian suddenly appeared, hovering in front of the open window.
"There you are," a harsh voice said from behind the terrifying, black helmet. With a large hand, he grabbed Yuriim by the throat and wrenched him out the window. Descending rapidly, the fearsome figure only held the Twi'lek for one story before tossing him to the hard ground. Yuriim sputtered and coughed as he tried to rise to his knees.
"H-how dare you!" Yuriim coughed. "Don't you know who I am?"
"Doesn't matter, Gornuda Korrem wants you dead," the lead Mandalorian said. "But its your lucky day, I don't kill unarmed targets," he added. "So get the hell out of here and don't come back. Otherwise, Korrem will hire someone that doesn't give a damn." The Twi'lek looked up at the Mandalorian with a face swept with surprise. Yuriim then smiled and laughed with relief.
"Y-y-you got it!" he exclaimed.
"And that goes for the rest of you as well," the Mandalorian shouted to the remaining bikers. Yuriim suddenly dove to the ground to grab a blaster pistol from his dead Trandoshan biker.
"Jaster!" shouted the large Mandalorian as he leveled his snub rifle again. The Mandalorian in black was faster on the draw. Snapping his own pistol from his hip holster, he fired a single precise bolt. Still bent over, Yuriim fell dead on the ground. Gasps escaped the mouths of the bikers, then silence. Jaster looked from Yuriim's dead, crumpled form to the poised and anxious bikers.
"Get out now, we won't ask again!" The black armored Mandalorian slowly drifted the aim of his pistol to the bikers, daring them to make a false move. Quickly they scrambled and fumbled as they jumped onto their parked swoop bikes, the party was over. One by one, they engaged their engines and sped out of the town as fast of they could with the fear of death hot on their trails of dust. Moments later, the large cloud of dust settled and all was quiet. Jaster Mereel looked again at Yuriim's dead body. This was the job he actually accepted but he still would have preferred that Yuriim, in the state he was in, would have lived. Had Yuriim fought back with a blaster in his hands and got caught in the cross fire, Jaster wouldn't have cared then, that was just the nature of a fire fight.
"By the way, Mereel," The Mandalorian in black said as he holstered his pistol. "You're welcome. Now we can get paid in full."
"You'll get your cut, Viszla," Jaster said as he turned away to join the other three.
"And I'm going to be there when I do," Viszla said harshly. Jaster paused and looked over his shoulder.
"As you wish." From behind the cover of his helmet, Tor Viszla glowered at the Mand'alor, this little arrangement wasn't pleasant for either of them. Jaster continued past his own men then reached into a pouch on his belt for a holo transmitter.
The five other darkly clad Mandalorians joined Viszla, none of them slinging their blaster rifles and neither did Jaster's three. Pert Jerok, one of the five clad in black armor inched closer to Viszla.
"Got some news, Meltch and Ludo have called in."
"Where?" Tor demanded impatiently.
"Zanbar," Pert answered. "They have the package," he added with a sneer.
"Tell them to prep it, I'll be there shortly," Tor said. It seemed that he wouldn't be present at the payoff after all. What awaited him back at base was far more vital than a mere 25,000 credits.