the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

Hiro moves like a willow frond across the dance floor. He sways in the current, watches closely as the nightclub’s heavy bass vibrations move bodies around him.

And then they are there. Five men emerge from the crowd, eyes shining dully like river-washed flint.

Under the strobing lights, the dance jolts forward. Hiro blocks a jab and lashes out. Palm, fist, elbow. The striking edge of his hand connects with a windpipe, and the man falls choking.

Blows rain down into the space where Hiro stood. He rolls forward on the leading edge, following the moment wherever it may lead.