They returned comments, and it was obvious that neither of them trusted the other enough to lower his weapon.
"Just put it down Fett. I won't hurt you. I promise," Solo told the hunter.
"I don't trust you Solo," Fett had replied in his usual cold and flat tone.
"Then it looks like we'll just have to kill each other."
"What do you look like under there?"
"You'll find out if you kill me."
"Why do you want to kill me so bad?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me it does. I never did anything to you."
"That's not a concern."
Solo looked enraged. Fett had been a sore in his side for decades. Fett was not enraged, but was thinking to himself. He didn't have anything to live for, he decided. It was with that thought that he made his decision. As Solo opened his mouth to ask another question of the hunter, Fetts index finger squeezed the trigger of his blaster, sending a crimson laser blast from the barrel of the gun through Solos chest. Solo's heart and lungs vaporized and a large portion of muscle, flesh, and organs flew out of Solo's back with the kill bolt. Solo's eyes widened and he fell to his knees. The ex-smuggler brought his gun up as he fell, putting it to Fetts gut. He never had a chance to fire. Fett kicked Solo back onto his back and watched the man lie in a puddle of his own blood. There and then on Jubilar, Han Solo, hero of the New Republic, died at the hands of Boba Fett. Fett turned on his heel and left Solo's body lying in the puddle of blood. He made his way to his ship, a cold smile creasing his features.