the smuggler’s bible

Rumble

A stocky man with grey hair steps into the room, sliding sideways out of the corner where two shelves meet—a space almost three inches wide.

“Yeah, I guess this checks out,” he says, shaking his head as he turns a quick circle. “The shit I burned to get in here was expensive. I was saving it for a rainy day.”

“So what?”

“So I’m banking on a storm coming. Any other, perhaps even better, questions?”

“Who are you?” Rumble says after a moment. “Where are we?”

“I’m Huron. And you tell me, brother, it’s your name on the mailbox.”