the smuggler’s bible

Fiona

Fiona wears a vest under her sweater that’s made of porcelain or something—left over from the war. When the gang tough jams his friggin’ thirty-cent scrap metal gasher into her stomach, it bends like tin foil. There’s no blood, but it still feels like getting stabbed. Sort of.

The tough blinks and rears back for another shot. With a yowl, the cat drops onto his head from the fire escape and starts scrabbling around.

“You bastard,” Fiona gasps, hefting her pipe and digging deep for a golf swing at knee height. “I’m gonna have a bruise for a week.”