the smuggler’s bible


The mistake comes—as Gül knew it must—after several minutes in the tense darkness of the chapel. With a storm hammering on the roof outside, every rustle and creak in the dusty gloom starts to sound a lot like the other man’s finger on the trigger. It’s hard enough to stand for someone who isn’t a nervous wreck with a messiah complex.

The preacher tries to say something but barely gets a syllable out. Gül’s gun is already in his hand. He simply pulls the trigger.

Quickdraw work is for the circus, and nobody here paid for a show.