Star Wars Scoundrels 2

Or rather, most of a man. Half of his face was covered in a flesh-colored medseal that had been stretched across the skin and hair, with a prosthetic eye bobbing along at the spot where his right eye would normally be. It wasn't just any eye, either. It was something alien-designed, glittering like a smaller version of an Arconian multifaceted eye. Even in the cantina's dim light the effect was striking, unsettling, and strangely hypnotic. With a jolt, Han realized he'd been staring and forced his gaze away. Not only was it rude, but a visual grab like that was exactly the sort of trick a clever assassin might use to draw his victim's attention at a critical moment. But the man's hands were empty, with no blaster or blade in sight. In fact, his right hand wouldn't have been of any use anyway. Twisted and misshapen, it was wrapped tightly in the same medseal as his face. Either it had been seriously damaged or else there was a prosthetic under there that had come from the same aliens who'd supplied him with that eye.-Chpt.2 pg.19

"Master?" the protocol droid called hesitantly from the doorway. "It's time."

"Time for what?" Eanjer asked, focusing on the mirror in front of him as he eased the last of the medseal strips off his face. "His High Exaltedness awaits your presence," the droid said, sounding even more nervous than usual. Not surprising, really. "Tell His Exaltedness I'll be
there when I'm ready."

"Yes, sir." The droid hesitated. "If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather wait here until you're ready."

"Fine," Eanjer said. "Suit yourself." Gently he prodded his cheek where the medseal had covered it. He hadn't realized what three weeks of being wrapped up like that would do to the skin. It was red and puffy, was mottled in places, and itched like deep core chaos. His right hand and arm looked nearly as bad. Still, the symptoms were temporary. They would fade away soon. What wouldn't fade so quickly was the annoyance of a job only half done.
Any group of thieves or mercenaries could have gotten him into Villachor's mansion and over, around, or through all the guards while still leaving enough of Qazadi to be identifiable. The only reason for him to have lured Solo to Wukkar in the first place, and then manipulated him into taking the job, was so that the casually arrogant smuggler would be where Eanjer could nail him when it was all over.

So maybe he should consider the job only a third successful? Still, what was past was past. All the annoyance and regrets couldn't change that. And if only a third had been successful, it was never-
theless the biggest and most rewarding third. The bounty for Qazadi's death would more than make the whole operation worthwhile. There would be other opportunities to catch up with Solo and Calrissian. Patience, as always, was the key.

"Master?"

"I heard you." Standing up, he picked up the battered Mandalorian helmet and set it on his head. "Jabba had just better have my credits ready."

"I am sure he does, Master," the droid assured him hastily. "Good." Boba Fett gestured. "Lead the way."-Chpt.24 pgs.440-441