Private Bad to the Bone

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Some people survive on luck. Kinley Pryse survives on bad decisions and pure spite.​

Nar Shaddaa never smelled clean, but the High Security Lockdown managed to make the rest of the moon seem pleasant by comparison. The district loomed around Kinley Pryse in layers of durasteel, and armed checkpoints. Security towers watched every intersection while patrols moved through the streets with the mechanical precision of predators that knew their prey had nowhere left to run. The entire sector felt less like a neighborhood and more like a cage.

Which was fitting, because somewhere inside that cage was Flint Chapin.

Kinley adjusted the collar of her jacket and stepped around a puddle of something she didn't care enough to identify. She'd crossed half the moon tracking down leads, favors, and debts just to confirm what she'd already suspected. Flint had gotten himself arrested.

Again.

Most bosses had the courtesy to avoid prison. Flint treated incarceration like an inconvenient business trip. The worst part wasn't that he'd gotten himself locked up. The worst part was that it had become her problem.

A toothpick rolled from one side of her mouth to the other as she walked. Flint owned ships, businesses, people, and enough secrets to start a small war. Kinley happened to fall into the "people" category, which meant when the Black Sun underboss managed to land himself in a detention block surrounded by enough security to hold a Hutt kajidic hostage, she got to be the poor soul sent after him.

Lucky her.

A pair of security officers passed on the opposite side of the street. Kinley didn't look at them. They didn't look at her. Everyone pretending not to notice everyone else was usually a good sign on Nar Shaddaa.

She'd gotten into the district easier than expected. That bothered her. Nothing worthwhile was ever easy.

Getting out would be the difficult part.

The extraction route depended on a corrupt security officer who'd been paid a substantial amount of credits to look the other way at exactly the right moment. Maybe the man would honor the arrangement. Maybe he'd decide he could earn more by selling them out. Maybe he'd try both.

Kinley hated maybes. Especially when they wore badges.

Her hand brushed the grip of where the blaster should have been beneath her jacket as she turned down another crowded thoroughfare. This place might look like a district, but it was secretly part of the prison, and that meant no weapons. Well, not the obvious ones anyway.

Neon advertisements buzzed overhead while distant sirens echoed between the buildings. Somewhere in this mess was Flint Chapin, and if she was very unlucky, he'd be enjoying himself.

With a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a growl, Kinley disappeared deeper into the lock down district and began asking questions.

She just hoped that dirty cop was making the preparations to get them out.

Harvey Denson​

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Harvey Denson]

Location: High Security Lockdown, Shadow Town, Nar Shaddaa
Tags: Kinley Pryse

A few drops of acidic rain tapping on the window of the train car turned drew Harvey’s attention to the glass first, then the neon glow beyond it, right before the drizzle turned to a proper shower outside. Shadow Town had all the same glam and lights as the rest of the moon, but it was just a dolled up prison the size of a neighborhood. Made the detective glad he was riding in on the railspeeder and not roughing it on the ground. Harvey was getting too old for that chit, and besides his knees aching when it rains, there wouldn’t be any cute alien ladies to bring him drinks.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said with a wink as a near-human woman with lavender skin poured a fresh cup of caf from her rolling cart. She passed the paper cup with a nod. “Your stop’s next, Officer Denson. Is there anything else you need?” Harvey smiled, then shook his head. “Nah, I think I’ll manage.” He took a generous sip and sighed. Few things in the galaxy felt the same as the first sip of good coffee. Maybe whiskey, but it was too close to tell.

Thankfully, the last sip was just as good as the first—and it went down just as the scenery outside began crawling to a stop. “You have a nice evening, Officer.” The woman spoke warmly but moved with corporate precision; his name might carry some weight, but serving passengers was a business and she needed to clear him out to make room for the next.

“Do the same,” he said as he slipped a few cred sticks in her apron pocket.

The rain hadn’t slacked as much as he’d like, but Harvey’s trench coat was made of fine thranta leather—a bit nicer than his wallet would call worthwhile, but the perfect onboarding gift from his commanding officer. Captain Kazden was a gritty old bothan, a real hard ass with a chip on his shoulder, but he cared about his unit and looked out for his guys. That made him a rarity on the Smuggler’s Moon, but Harvey hadn’t questioned it. Whatever it was that kept an honorable man on the force in a place like this was too dangerous for the new guy to look into.

Especially when Harv was walking down the station with eyes peeled for a Black Sun contractor in need of a skeleton key to the prison. He’d half a mind to light up a cigarette, were it not for the rain. His shoulders slumped under the weight of nicotine’s absence as he carried on toward the meeting.

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

The Devil collects souls. Kinley Pryse collects interest.​

The third person she questioned lied. The fourth wanted payment. The fifth took one look at the easy smile on Kinley's face, decided he rather enjoyed breathing, and pointed down the street toward a run-down gambling den wedged between a pawn shop and a noodle stand.

"He ain't in a cell," the Nikto muttered. "Not exactly."

Kinley sighed. "'Course he isn't." She flicked him a credit anyway. Information deserved payment. Good information deserved generosity. Besides, generous people got remembered.

The gambling den looked like every other dive on Nar Shaddaa. Dim lights. Sticky floors. Too many eyes pretending not to watch the door. Two bored security officers loitered outside with rifles hanging from relaxed slings, the kind of posture that came from believing no one was stupid enough to start trouble here.

Kinley walked past them without breaking stride. Inside, the noise hit first. Sabacc tables. Dice. Cheap music losing a war against louder conversations. The air smelled of spilled lum, burnt circuitry, and bad decisions.

Then she found him.

Flint Chapin lounged in a corner booth like he'd reserved the place. His tailored charcoal coat hung neatly over the back of the seat, one polished boot propped on the table while a deck of sabacc cards danced effortlessly through his fingers. Across from him sat two anxious-looking men who were doing an admirable job pretending they weren't terrified.

Flint smiled. One of them quietly pushed a stack of credit chips across the table. "Pleasure doing business." The pair practically trampled one another getting away.

Kinley stopped beside the booth, folded her arms, and simply stared. Flint continued shuffling the cards for another few seconds before finally looking up. "There you are." She pulled the toothpick from her mouth. "I've been looking all over this deceptive excuse for a prison."

"It builds character."

"So does getting shot. Doesn't mean I recommend it." His smile widened at the annoyance in her tone. "And somehow you're gambling."

Flint made a lazy gesture around the room. "They encourage recreational activities."

Kinley rubbed a hand over her face. Every time she thought the galaxy had reached peak stupidity... "You know," she muttered, "I almost came in shooting."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't. They took my blasters."

"Which is precisely why I called you instead of someone impulsive."

She gave him a deadpan look. "You called me because everyone else said no."

Flint considered that for a moment. "...Also true." The cards disappeared into his pocket. "I trust you brought me a way out."

Kinley nodded once. "The route's ready. Corrupt guard. Timed window. We leave quietly."

"Excellent." Flint rose smoothly from the booth. Without warning, Flint stepped onto the bench, planted a hand on the backrest, and vaulted over it in one fluid motion. The man standing behind the booth barely had time to turn before Flint buried a homemade shiv beneath his ribs.

The prisoner's eyes went wide. Flint twisted the blade once. Then let him fall. For half a heartbeat, the gambling den fell silent.

Someone shouted. Another prisoner swung a chair. A security officer reached for his alarm. The room exploded. Tables overturned. Cards scattered through the air like confetti. Prisoners piled into guards as fists, bottles, and improvised weapons flew in every direction. Riot sirens began screaming almost immediately.

Kinley shut her eyes for exactly two seconds.

Of course.

Flint hadn't gotten himself arrested. He'd gotten himself invited. He'd infiltrated the prison to kill one man, and now, in the middle of a full-blown riot, it was somehow her job to get him back out.

Harvey Denson​

A Smooth Criminal