Furieux dropped into realspace twenty klicks from the extraction zone with a knot in his stomach the size of a gin glass. He’d just received his orders from the Patocuda League via internal comms. The Last Dance purred and whined as he reduced the throttle and brought the pink Corvette to a halt. Rubbing the sweat from his face with both hands, he shuddered at the thought of what he’d just been asked to do.
Five point nine million credits. It’s just a job. It’s just a job like all the others.
Composing himself, he reached for the bottle and took a deep swig before tucking it safely under his flight chair within easy reach. It was a comfort knowing it was there.
He flicked the safety and the ship’s weapons deployed with a satisfying buzz and crunch.
The vessel before him fired a min...