the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

Dawn finds Hiro sitting in the small chair by the bed, running a cloth over the blade of his katana. There’s no blood, but that isn’t the only thing he has to worry about. The management peeks in the door a few minutes before six.

“Is it—” the old man says. “I mean, did you get him?”

Hiro nods toward the far corner of the room. On the floor by the TV is a small handful of salt crystals.

“So it’s all over?”

“It’s over for now.” Hiro shrugs. “But these things don’t happen in a vacuum, you know.”