the smuggler’s bible


The vents are in bad shape. It’s a government black site, so it makes sense that they might not get the janitorial staff down every weekend, but come on.

Faisal coughs. “Jesus. Hope nobody has allergies,” he says and plants his heel against the cheap aluminum grate. It crumples and flops outward in a cloud of dust. Faisal slithers into the room after it, gasping.


Command pipes up in his earpiece. “Missed that. Come again, please.”

“I figure we’re probably busted,” Faisal says into his collar mic. “Unless you think I have time to swiffer the joint before extraction.”