the smuggler’s bible


Cotillion, the elite assassin, trudges through the ankle-deep snow, grunting past his cigarette as he cups his hands over the lighter. He stops for a moment and turns his back to the wind, wishing for a spark even if it means he gets burned.

“Why bother?” Sous-vide says. “The wind will freeze it right to your face.”

“It’s my last one.”

“You oughta save it for good luck, then.”

“If Good Luck wants to take a drag on my last cigarette,” Cotillion says, adjusting the high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder, “he can go to hell just like everybody else.”