the smuggler’s bible

Hammer Claw

Shanktown waits nestled among the foothills below the pass. Hammer Claw parks the convoy beside a wide sweep of river running against the city’s flank and sends men after coolant and fuel. He tells them, also, to bring back news.

They return with the supplies and nothing else.

“Forget that nobody’s seen him coming,” Hammer Claw says. “He should already be here.”

They spread the maps out across the hood of a truck, and somebody holds a light while Hammer Claw traces routes. It’s almost a straight shot from where they separated. Just miles and miles of nothing in between.