the smuggler’s bible

Hammer Claw

The gatlings shear off one of the glider’s wings on its second pass. The craft wobbles, then falls into a spin. Smoke billows out of the crevice where it lands and Hammer Claw can feel heat from the fire when his crawler pulls up a short distance down the hillside. The rocks flicker orange-red.

“No prisoners,” he says. His men fan out among the trees and scrub. “And keep your eyes peeled for scrap. We’ve gotta salvage our ammo cost at least.”

Hammer Claw watches the wavering plume of smoke glide west. Shanktown’s close now, he thinks. It must be.