the smuggler’s bible

Lark

There’s a small nook near the door with a few wire hangers. It isn’t exactly a closet, but a man can stand in it and not get blasted from the hallway. He waits a moment. The elevator chimes. He hears footsteps and a soft knock.

“Room service.”

A trick to make him unsure. But it only works if you don’t recognize the voice. Lowen is silent until the seam of light appears. Flashing metal. A shirt cuff. Then he throws his weight against the door.

“Evening, Lark,” he says.

She grunts. “Don’t get familiar. I’ll still have to shoot you.”