the smuggler’s bible


Fiona dumps the cat through the window and stands for a moment with a hand shading her eyes, scanning the horizon.

“Storm from the south,” she says, clambering in past the roll cage. “A big one. Going to drive all the vermin in from the gutter.”

She disengages the emergency brake and the car coasts a hundred feet down the hill before she manages to get the engine started.

“Whatever bolt-hole we find is likely to be crowded, so keep your wits about you.”

The cat purrs softly, curls itself against Fiona’s thigh on the bench seat, and falls asleep.