the smuggler’s bible


Pronto zips the cash into the duffle and tosses it in the back seat with the other bags. He clambers in over the greasy fast-food cartons and drink cups and tries to balance his gun between his knees a few different ways before he decides that he can’t do that and also look cool. He shrugs and just lays it across his lap.

“Ready yet?”

“Go for it,” Pronto says.

“How much did you grab?”

“Gosh, I dunno.” He fidgets with the gun again, thinking maybe he should saw the stock down somehow. “But I bet it’s enough for pizza.”