“Not from where I’m standing.” Micah pulled open the front of his uniform as if looking for somewhere safe to stow the bottle.
“Sixty—forty, then,” said Karrev, his breathing easing as the waves of pain from his stomach subsided a little.
Micah looked down his nose at the crouching man. “Why should I give you anything?”
“Thirty—seventy.”
Micah snorted a laugh and took a step toward the door. Karrev stood up. The heavy black box was in his fist. Micah paused. He took another step to the door.
“Give it to me,” said Karrev, holding the box like a weapon. He held out his other hand, palm upward.
Eyelids hooded, Micah edged farther away.
“Give it me,” said Karrev, “or so help me, I’ll—”
Micah held the bottle out at arm’s length. “If you hit me, I’ll drop it. From this height, it’ll smas
