the smuggler’s bible


Hamlet hunkers down behind a pillar, thankful that it’s real metal and not a facade over cheap plaster. Bullets patter against the other side and ping off of floor and wall.

“Are you counting?” he asks through teeth clenched on a bandage, pulling it tight over a spreading patch of red on his upper arm.

“As well as can be expected,” Horatio says. “Eighty-five percent chance of a lull in sixteen seconds.”

“The odds are getting tighter.”

“There are more men shooting at you.”

“Uh huh. Police?”

“Among others.”

“Copy that,” Hamlet says, bracing to run. “Give me a countdown.”