the smuggler’s bible


He chops her wrist and the gun drops with a harsh thud. Too easy. He pulls the door open, then twists sideways, flattening against the opposite wall as Lark’s other hand rises holding a second gun—snub-nosed, small enough to fit in her palm. She fires and blows a fist-sized hole in the plaster under his elbow.

Her lips move. “What?,’ he says. His ears are ringing but he still has hold of her wrist. She fires again. Something tugs at his jacket. He yanks roughly, catching her in an armlock.

Lark smirks. “I said you’ve still got it, champ.”