the smuggler’s bible

Voski

There’s a sick, shrill whine coming from the engine when Voski shoots over the ridge and lands forty feet downhill. She picks the comparitively subtle noise of crumpling metal out of the racket, but all the wheels keep turning. The burning smell, she suspects, is all that remains of one of her—now very rare indeed—small mercies.

“All right, sweetheart,” the radio says. “Straight shot. Just bring her on home.”

“How about the law?”

“Right on your ass and growling like they might intend to bite.”

“But no choppers.”

“Sorry, beautiful. No choppers.”

“Goddamnit,” Voski says, punching the dash. “Fucking misogynists.”