the smuggler’s bible

Ravi

Ravi sits in his big leather chair, face lit by the the flickering black and white light from a bank of security monitors. The situation on the dance floor is degenerating rapidly.

On the screens, feet stamp in unison. Arms wave or bang against the walls. He hears it through the floor, like a church bell ringing in the distance.

A barrier collapses and the crowd surges. Security is washed away in a moment. The DJ struggles to cut the music—far too late.

Ravi lifts the phone on his desk. “Profitable,” he says, nodding his head to the rhythm.