Leyla slipped her pistols back into her thigh holsters and kept her hands ostentatiously clear of the weapons. The surviving thugs did likewise though they must have been ordered to do so and none of them looked happy about it. The aliens were dressed in flowing robes the color of rock and wrapped in bandages that left only metallic eye pieces visible. They called to each other in their own language as they cautiously approached. Leyla sensed that these were young males, proving their bravery by approaching, while older more experienced marksmen provided overwatch from the ridgeline.

“Just idle curiosity,” Leyla observed sotto voce, “but is there anything to stop them just killing us to avoid paying. If Cleo had an answer he didn’t provide it, merely standing by as the aliens approached. One pried open a box with the end of a bladed staff and lifted a long rifle, still slick with grease from the darkened interior. The weapon didn’t seem to fit quite right in his hand but he had no difficult drawing one of the metal magazines from another section of the crate and loading the weapon. He pointed it into the air and fired off a deafening burst before brandishing the weapon overhead and shouting what might as easily have been a warcry as instructions. The other raiders surged forward grabbing boxes and dragging them away into the desert. To Leyla's surprise, despite their burden, they vanished completely within a few dozen feet of the rendezvous. After a moment there was nothing but silence and the whisper of desert wind.   

“Well that was exciting,” Leyla commented to no one in particular.

“What's say we get the Hells out of here before someone tries to shoot us, eat us or both?” Before a decidsion could be made on the point a heretofore unseen Weeqauy slank out from behind the skiff.

“Space trash,” the thing grated in Huttese, “Da boss want to see you.” The Weequay made a gesture towards the skiff with a quad barreled shotgun that must have weighed half as much as it did.