Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

out. Right now the LAPD… they’re kind of stretched thin, right? After the quake? Not to mention the jails and the courts.”

“They’ll still come investigate a fucking meth lab,” Annie says. She looks very tired then, stretched too thin herself.

“Yeah, but, like, probably not right away.”

“And what about evidence? How’s the DA gonna build a case if there’s no meth?”

“Look, no matter what we do, this meth is gone. They can’t hide the lab, but they will hide the meth if they think trouble’s coming. At least this way, it’s toast.”

It’s possible we could destroy the drugs here – flush them down the toilet, or dump them into a sink and run the faucet. But forty bags is a lot. The Legends might not know where we are right now, but I’m not sure we have time to hunt down a bathroom and flush the stuff. And as for dousing it with water in a sink… I have no idea if that would work. I know nothing about meth chemistry. They might be able to dry it out, or something…

“We can find somewhere to torch it,” I continue. “Someone who knows how to do it safely. Africa – dude, you get it, right?”

And he does. He’s slowly nodding to himself, lips pursed. I knew he would. Wiping a whole whackload of meth off the map, taking it and burning it – or whatever, I don’t actually know the best way to destroy it – is right up his alley.

“Mmm,” he says. When Annie snaps a look at him, he says, “You know, it is actually not a bad idea.”

“Are you serious?”

“We take the drugs.” I walk around the table, tapping my palm a finger. “We get out, and then we call the cops. Maybe they come, maybe they don’t, but either way we do some damage. Boom. Done. Chalk one up for the good guys. And let’s face it – we’re still no closer to finding out where those guns came from. Why not walk away with a win?”

Africa claps me on the shoulder, the sound loud in the low-ceilinged space. “You think smart, huh? Big brain inside that small body.”

I slap his hand away, but without much anger. I’ll let the condescending comment go, this once. The job’s been hairy, but it’s turning out OK. Better than OK, in fact. My bad mood from what these jackasses did to this fine kitchen has dissipated, now that I know payback is coming.

Annie pinches the bridge of her nose, looking too exhausted to argue. “And how were you planning to get the shit outta here? You can’t just walk down the street with a box of meth. Even in this city.”

In answer, I walk over to the pile of the guards’ belongings on the counter, scooping up the two sets of keys I find there. “Nobody walks in LA.”

Africa grunts a laugh. Annie just sighs. “Fine. Let’s go already.”

“Yes!” I punch the air. “You will not regret this.” I turn to grab the drugs – and my day gets even better. On a shelf nearby, there are three bags of potato chips. I actually squee as I dance over to them, jamming them into my pockets. They’re my favourite kind, too, the kind that have an ingredients list that takes up the whole back of the packet and which taste like a xenomorph barfing on your tongue. They’re the best.

Before long, the meth – all forty-or-so pounds of it – is in a big, plastic storage box. We can’t find a lid anywhere, but it doesn’t matter. Africa hefts it – yes, I could lift it with my PK, but the last thing I want is to run into somebody while walking next to a floating box. Instead, I do the real hard work of stuffing my face with radioactive chips. I figure I found the place and saved our lives with the couch stunt, so I’ve earned a snack. We leave the same way we came in, and I make sure to crunch the lock on the doors with my PK, jamming them shut. A few good kicks will probably knock them open, but why make things easy?

The employee parking lot is almost empty, a dank and muggy space littered with trash. But there are a couple of vehicles in the spots. A beat-up Prius with a big scratch down one side, and a Mercedes Sprinter. I admit, I was a little worried that the guards parked their cars in another lot somewhere, but one of the sets of keys has a big Mercedes logo, and the van opens right up.

Africa holds out the box to me, then gets behind the wheel. I climb in next to Africa, Annie scooching in on the second row of seats, bringing the meth with her. There are no shouts of alarm, no running feet.

There’s a metal gate at the top of the ramp, next to a card reader, but that’s no more barrier to me than anything else I’ve used my PK on today. As we drive up the ramp into the blazing, muggy afternoon, I wind down the window, casually lean my arm out. The chips filled a hole all right, but I’m going to need something more substantial. Fried chicken, maybe… yes, definitely fried chicken. With slaw.

And you know what? I freaking earned it. We freaking earned it. I’m still seriously pissed at whoever decided to mess with us by telling the bikers who we really were… but we turned a bad situation into a good one. We didn’t die, and we severely disrupted the Legends’ shit. And the best part? We’re getting away. They don’t even know we’re down here.

The ramp comes out onto the sidewalk, on the east side of the hotel. As we crest the top, I glance to my right, and find myself looking straight at Robert the biker.

He, Alan and half a dozen of their leather-clad friends are walking in our direction. They come to a