Squib Games
Operating without a storefront wasn't really possible.
Even if they did all the manufacturing in the Tombs, they definitely weren't bringing any clients down there. And while Ree had been successful, or just lucky, with off-world transactions, it was far simpler smuggling chit around Denon than it was getting through customs with contraband.
Sure, in the past he could have just dropped a few bribes and not bothered with masking what he was doing. That time had passed. Now he had to rely on fake identicards and getting around customs. Both of which were costly endeavors. Particularly the more he did it.
The Corpos were cracking down, but none of them could afford to stop what they were doing.
Seven Corners was still out of the question, obviously. CorpSec had practically turned the whole District into a police academy campus. And with the seizure of the landfill, Moonfall was no longer safe territory either. Instead, the once forgotten wastes seemed to have become a sanctuary for the bounty hunters and other illicit human traffickers who were doing so on the Corpo dime. Or, at the very least, paying the going rate for bribes.
Other planets had government.
Denon had a business model.
Of course, Ree was a Squib. Business models were his religion. His people proselytized with accounting spreadsheets and shared the good news of life in profit. So he could play the Corpo game. And he had, in fact, been playing the Corpo game.
Right up until he hadn't.
It was an Atrisian laundromat and cleaner on the corner of 308th and Tarkin. When he'd been a garbageman, Ree had driven by the place at least once a week and never thought twice about it. Come to find out, they were laundering more than just clothing. The currency exchanges on Denon were a profitable enterprise, in part because they had that extra surcharge for no questions asked. When the Squib had been fishing for information on possible locations where Darkwire might dip a toe into the proverbial waters, his contacts inside the Corellian Exchange had turned him onto this operation.
So Ree did what his faith in money called him to do. He preached from the gospel of the deal and somehow came away with his ass intact and both tails still attached.
It did what he needed it to do. A little shop on Denon where people could come, drop off their laundry, get that blouse that was dry clean only professionally steamed and peruse the finest selection of disruptors or sonic grenades while out taking care of their laundry for the week.
What could be tidier than that?
Of course, now that Ree had some biomolecules for sale on the black market, he imagined he might get some interesting customers looking for dry cleaning.
