the smuggler’s bible


She winds a scarf around the crowbar and sets the chisel edge carefully against the ignition. The rock is on the floor somewhere. She feels around, keeping her head low. It’s dark outside—she broke two flickering streetlamps and dumped sand into a trash fire to be sure—but if one of the factions catches her in here, things could get much darker indeed.

“Just a little torque,” Fiona mutters, “and then the trick shot.”

The rock thuds against cushioned metal. One, two, three. The lock shudders, and then, moments later, laughter and the thrumming song of rubber against asphalt.