Chapter 7: HUNTING THE HUNTERS
Kess made the same mistake every night.
I'd been watching him for three days, mapping his patterns from rooftops and shadowed doorways. The bounty hunter was a creature of habit—same cantina at dusk, same route back to the Guild quarter, same blind spots he never checked because he'd never been hunted before.
Tonight, that changed.
He left the cantina at the usual time, slightly drunk, moving with the loose confidence of someone who expected the galaxy to make room. I followed from a block away, keeping to shadows, using skills I'd learned tracking insurgents through Kandahar alleys.
Something felt different tonight. Sharper.
I noticed Kess favoring his left leg—old injury, probably, the kind that flared up in cold weather. I saw how he checked blind spots in a three-count pattern: left, right, behind. Predictable. Exploitable.
My mind catalogued these observations automatically, faster than conscious thought. The way his shoulder tensed when he turned. The micro-adjustment in his stride when he sensed movement. Every tell, every weakness, every opening.
Is this new? Or have I always been able to do this?
The question nagged at me as I closed the distance. Combat instincts, maybe—three tours in Afghanistan had trained me to read threats. But this felt different. More precise. More certain.
Kess turned into an alley that dead-ended at a maintenance shaft. Perfect.
I stepped out of the shadows behind him.
"Stop."
He spun—and before his hand touched his blaster, I knew exactly where the shot would go.
Shoulder tensing. Hip rotating. Drawing right-handed, barrel will arc left-to-right.
I moved left. The shot scorched air where I'd been standing.
Kess's eyes went wide. He fired again—I was already ducking right, inside his guard, closing the distance he needed to aim effectively.
My hand closed around his wrist.
Focus. The blaster. Visualize it. The blaster.
The jolt came.
The weapon appeared in my other hand.
Kess stared at his empty fingers.
"What—how did you—"
I pressed the barrel against his forehead.
"Listen carefully."
His mouth opened and closed. Whatever he'd expected from tonight, a blaster teleporting between hands wasn't it.
"Ven Calder is dead. The crash killed him two weeks ago. You saw the body. Confirmed it personally."
"I don't—"
"You're going to report exactly that to Rendo Vesh. Ven Calder died in the wasteland. Case closed. Bounty canceled."
Kess's jaw worked. Fear was winning over confusion—I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Argue with the man holding the gun, or agree with whatever he wanted?
"Okay. Okay, I'll tell Vesh."
"Convince him."
"I will. I swear."
"Good."
I hit him with the butt of his own blaster. He crumpled against the alley wall, unconscious but breathing.
First time holding a gun since Afghanistan.
Different shape. Different technology. Same weight. Same potential for ending lives with a finger's pressure.
I checked the power cell—charged, maybe forty shots remaining. The grip felt foreign in my hand, but the principle was familiar. Point. Squeeze. Kill.
Some skills translated across universes.
The shaking started when I reached the warehouse.
Adrenaline crash. I'd felt it before, after firefights in mountain villages, after IED strikes that left friends in pieces. The body pumped you full of chemistry for survival, then demanded payment when the threat passed.
I sat against a support pillar and waited for my hands to steady.
What happened in that alley?
I'd seen the fight before it happened. Not precognition—nothing supernatural, just... enhanced reading. Kess's body had telegraphed every move, and my mind had processed those signals faster than conscious thought.
Combat Prediction.
The name felt right. Not a new ability, maybe—just existing skills amplified by whatever this body had become. Three tours had taught me to read enemies. This galaxy was teaching me to read faster.
How fast? How accurate?
I needed to test it. Needed to understand.
But first: the active selection.
Kess's blaster sat heavy in my hand. I'd visualized it, focused on it, willed it to be mine—and it had transferred instantly. No cooldown that I'd noticed. No limitation on distance from the target.
What else can I take?
The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
I'd seen Kess's ship three days ago—a small freighter in the public hangar, registered to his hunting license. If active selection worked on personal weapons, why not vehicles?
Too visible. Too risky.
But the thought wouldn't leave.
I tucked the blaster into my belt and started planning.
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