the smuggler’s bible

Pluto Vespasianus

He hurdles the windowsill at a sprint, nearly rolling his ankle on a heap of plastic. The room is coated in sooty black smears where people got burned to atoms so fast their shadows lost track of them. He grunts and shoulders his way into the lobby, past gaping elevator shafts and up the stairs.

Ignore the smell. Try to remember where you saw the glare. Three flights, turn left out of the landing. Count the odd rooms on the north side.

The door is slightly ajar. “Bingo,” Pluto Vespasianus says. He kicks it hard and shouts, “snipe this, bitch!”