Be completely honest! While lying through your teeth of course!

You begin to sob (Don't overdo it!) as the rifle inches closer to your head. If you say the wrong thin: at this range; there won't even be a hole in your head. Just chunky salsa sauce all over the locker.
"My- my name is Derrick Halloway, I- I'm a transporter, taking a shipment from Junk Moon to Hephaestus."
"Who's your client?!"
"His- his- his name is Murphy. He's a scrap-dealer and he asked me to transport a shipment of palladium and iridium. He's an old friend and he hooked me up with the job."
If there is a church to Lady Luck, you promise to convert as soon as you make landfall. Taking Murphy's job actually gave you a reason to be in the area the warehouse bombing took place in and vouches for your 'good character' since the job is 100% legit. You might also want to buy a bottle of something rare and exotic for Murphy as well.
"And how did these scum get on your ship?" You notice the rifle has been lowered a few degrees...
"I'd just finished loading the shipment when a fuckin' Calikasian and a Phyrellian charged into the cargo hold and put a gun to my head. They made me fly the ship and then knocked me out. I woke up in this locker."
The rifle almost completely drops and you blink your eyes, wiping them and taking a couple of deep calming breathes. You finally manage to get a good look at the holder and try to avoid gulping. It's a Drinotol. You have to fight to avoid shaking in your boots. Drinotol's have a galaxy wide reputation as one of the most vicious 'civilized' races in the galaxy. They average around seven feet tall and at least three feet across. And all of that form is pretty much pure muscle over very tough skin. This one is at least EIGHT feet tall. Honestly he doesn't need that rifle. He could just pick you up and fold you in half. Any resistance your spine might have to that idea wouldn't even be noticed.
"Can I... can I get out of this locker now?"
The Drinotol nods and steps back, his posture relaxing a bit. You take a few cautious steps forward and mumble "Did you get the two assholes that did this to me and my ship?"
"Yeah we got 'em. But they stopped to pick up some friends. We caught nine of them."
... What? You only picked up- oh shit! Poker face, poker face! Don't react! He's trying to trip you up!
"That- that many? Man, you guys must know what you're doing!" Slightly sycophantic butt-kissing. You really hate having to use it, but always a good move to keep in reserve if the situation gets dire.
He smirks through a mouthful of fangs "They didn't have a chance."
That remark... worries you. Isabella will not be pleased if any of her gang have been killed. She won't take it out on you, but you'd rather not be around to see her reaction in person. Blades and bullets will be going everywhere.
"What err... what happens now?"
"Now... I message this Murphy guy that you mentioned and check that you're telling me the truth. And if I find anything that suggests otherwise... I get angry..." 'And you get dead' is the implied end of that sentence.
About thirty minutes later, you're standing at the entrance of the passenger door, just off the cockpit, bidding a very relieved goodbye to the black-clad team of heavily armoured 'IPF' agents. Murphy's call seemed to have left you in the clear. He answered all questions directed at him about me, my ship and his cargo, thanked them profusely for their exemplary service and the dept that he personally owed them for my safety and his cargo and authorized me to give a reward straight away. You want to wince at that last part, since it means your bonus is going out the window, but better a smaller payment than a dead captain. For added incentive you throw in a bottle of very expensive Castillian rum. As you hand over the bottle to the Drinotol, you slip a tracer onto the back of his armour when he turns to leave the ship. Thankfully it slips just under the shoulder joints, almost completely hidden from sight. It'd take a professional crafter to identify it. Anyone else would just think it was part of the armour.
You wait about an hour and then head down to the cargo bay, following the path that you set Rhian on. You reach the hatch and activate it, sticking your head through and spotting her almost instantly. The blue emergency lights you'd set up cast an ethereal light over her. Apparently she got hot in the enclosed space, since most of her clothes lay in a nearby pile; she's only clad in her shirt and panties and is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Despite the situation, you pause briefly to admire how severely fuckable she looks. Her eyes flicker to yours.
"What happened?"
"I think we're in the clear for the moment. But we can't follow these guys like this. If they spot us, they'll get suspicious and we can't get them back with just the two off us. If we're going to plan a rescue mission, we're going to need a few things..."
Rhian crawls over towards you and you have to fight the urge to forget everything else and pounce on her right here and now "Like what?"
"Money. More than I've got already and more than this delivery job will pay. Tech. Schematics of wherever they've been taken. Another ship. Mercs to fill it. Explosives. And weapons. A metric fuckton of weapons."
Rhian's face is only a few inches from yours, a fiery determination filling her eyes "Well then... I guess we've got a lot of work to do."