All things considered, the situation is not good. Not a damn bit good at all.

I turn at the sound of footsteps on the ramp behind me and swear as I see the twins paused there with a crate over each broad shoulder.

Though they’re the babies of the family at nineteen years old, the twins are both a head taller than me and built as sturdy as hunks of steel. They’re the palest of all of us—still not the pasty white of many Titans, but between the height and their skin tone, it’s easy to guess they have some Titan blood. Both twins have Momma’s dark eyes and wavy brown hair—Apollo’s is down to his chin, Andromeda’s down to her chest, each with a dramatic undercut on one side. Aside from being unreasonably tall, my youngest siblings are also gap-toothed, empty-headed, and extremely prone to solving problems with laser-fire.

Drom lets her cargo drop with two heavy thuds and reaches for the blaster on her hip. Pol is a half second behind his sister.

“No, no, no,” I say, nearly tripping over my own feet as I scramble out of their way. “You morons—”

Both twins halt with their guns half out at a sharp whistle from our mother. Drom glances over at her, glances back at the officers who now stand with weapons drawn, and slowly holsters her gun and raises both hands in the air. Pol again follows her lead. I release my breath and scoot back to my previous position, hands still held aloft.

“This treatment is absurd,” Momma says, somehow retaining her calm despite the dozen guns now pointed at the heads of her youngest children. “Check your records. I’ve done a hundred runs like this over the years; there’s no reason we should be flagged this time.”

The head officer remains silent with a hand to her earpiece and a wrinkle between her thick eyebrows. The others say nothing and don’t lower their guns. The package is hot and heavy in my pocket.

If these officers search Fortuna’s cargo, we could end up all right. We know how to keep our contraband well hidden, tucked away among the legitimate cargo, stuffed into nooks and crannies and hidden compartments. This shipment is biological, too, which will make it harder for scanners to identify among the legal produce. These officers won’t find anything amiss unless they do an extremely thorough search, and if they call in customs agents who are more suited to the task, Momma’s contacts should be able to help us out.

But my little box is a very big problem. One half-assed pat-down will find it, and once they have that, it’ll justify a top-to-bottom scan of our whole shipment.