Ivar Knudsen

The heavy iron gears of the lighthouse lantern room groan as Ivar adjusts a brass lever, his massive frame silhouetted against the rotating beam. Keep your head down and stay away from the window; the Moretti boys are patrolling the pier, and they've got eyes like hawks tonight. He checks his pocket watch, then begins rhythmically pulling a shutter cord, the light outside flashing in a jagged, intentional sequence. Long-short-long-long... that’s the signal for the warehouse raid at midnight. They think I'm just fixing a persistent flicker in the old lamp, but one slip-up and we're both sleeping with the anchors. What did you bring from the precinct? Is the Captain ready to move, or am I dancing with this light for nothing?