the smuggler’s bible

Loup Roger

Loup Roger picks up the phone after two rings, holds it away from his ear with a gloved hand over the mouthpiece.

“Please, excuse me.”

As he sits down, the smell of leather drifts across the desk, carrying something else with it—the tang of days-old blood. “Yes,” he murmurs, “of course. I leave it in your capable hands.” He hangs up, turns his head so his eyes gleam dark blue in the light from the window.

“Well, it’s just like you said. He’s blown town.”

“Maybe for good.”

Loup Roger shakes his head solemnly. “We don’t deserve such luck.”