the smuggler’s bible

Fiona

Fiona pops off a few quick shots over her shoulder, then ducks over the handlebars. The cat, huddled on the seat in front of her, digs its claws into the leather and yowls.

“Please,” Fiona says, cringing as bullets whips furrows into the dirt inches from the bike’s front wheel, “there is already so much going on right now. I kind of need you in my corner.”

She pulls the handbrake and stands the bike almost vertically on its nose as they skid around a turn. The cat, if it has any complaints concerning the maneuver, keeps them to itself.