Hyperspace. Two days to the rendezvous.
Sorr's been quiet in the holding cell. Eating his rations. Sleeping. Plotting, probably. Doesn't matter. The cell is escape-proof.
Checked the payment transfer. Fifty thousand credits, pending successful delivery. Already allocated: engine repairs, new sensor array, and a reserve fund for the next job.
The New Republic contact is waiting at the coordinates. Clean handoff. No complications.
Then I disappear. Back into the Outer Rim. The next contract. The next hunt.
This is the way.