the smuggler’s bible

Fiona

Fiona can smell burning rubber as she hits the curve. That hurts. That’s expensive. She’s driven through the dust and wind all night with a gibbering horde of motorpunks on her ass just so she can leave a few streaks of her vehicle’s life expectancy on this crumbling off-ramp.

She grits her teeth. At least they’ve stopped shooting at her.

A few of the punks discover they can’t hang with the g-force and Fiona hears them screaming faintly over the whine of her engine. The cat digs its claws into the seat beside her as the doors begin to rattle.