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

his reaction times and wheel control improving. Behind us, there’s a giant, thudding crunch as one of the bikes slams into the obstacle.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Annie says. She glances at the meth, which is in an open-top plastic box on the seat next to her. Maybe forty thin Ziploc baggies filled with off-white, greasy-looking powder.

Now it’s just four bikes chasing us, and they’re a lot further back. I don’t think they’re going to be able to catch up – and it would take one hell of a lucky shot to hit us. We’re accelerating again, approaching the next bridge up – Main Street, I think, a simple four-lane job crossing the storm drain, with thick concrete supports.

“See?” I tell Africa. “We’re fine.”

He grunts a laugh. “You bloody toubab. You nearly get us ki— Wooooahshit!”

The biggest SUV I’ve ever seen is roaring down the sloped side of the storm drain, heading right for us.

It’s a black tank, with a bull bar you could use to shift an elephant. Even inside our truck, I can hear the thundering growl of its engine. It bounces as it hits the flat, heading straight for us, thirty feet away and closing fast.

“Teggan?” Africa’s voice is high and panicky, and it fucking well should be, because that bull bar is getting very large.

“On it.”

I send out my PK in a huge wave, wrapping my mind around the SUV’s engine components like you’d close your hand around a glass of water. Then I squeeze, compacting steel and wire and gasoline.

The growling engine cuts off with a giant bang. But the truck doesn’t stop. It’s simply built up too much speed.

Africa accelerates, turning the wheel to the right, trying to get us some space. Not fast enough. Behind me, Annie sucks in a breath, the kind you make if you’re trying to squeeze past someone in a crowded room.

I reach out for the truck’s wheels, the body panels, trying to slow it down. But the truck just has too much momentum. Africa twists his body away as that black bull bar fills the window.

There’s a giant, world-obliterating bang.

The truck crunches into the metal above our vehicle’s back left wheel. The spin we go into is so violent that it snaps my head around on my shoulders. Africa is bellowing, fighting with the wheel as the storm drain spins around us, a flash of black as the SUV crosses behind our car – it spun us completely one-eighty – and then it’s gone and we’re still spinning and Annie is screaming and then another dark shape looms in my window and I have just enough time to realise it’s one of the Main Street Bridge supports and—

And then I don’t really know what happens.

An eternity of darkness and silence. Punctuated by short bursts of noise and light.

Africa ducking behind the door as a gunshot shatters the driver’s window. Broken glass nicking my cheeks.

Annie yelling that we have to get out. From somewhere behind me, there’s an odd crackling sound.

More darkness. I’m yanked out of it when Africa starts shaking me. The guy is seven feet tall with hands like dump truck scoops, so it’s hard to ignore him when he grabs hold of you. It also alerts me to just how much pain I’m in. My back, my shoulders, my neck… oh fuck me, my neck. That is going to suck later.

“They are coming,” he spits.

“Who’s coming?” I say. Or try to. It comes out as “Whsmngz?”

There’s something on my face. Something powdery. It’s on my skin, my teeth and tongue, up my nose. Jesus, it’s in my eyes. And it burns: searing, acrid, horrible. I sneeze, and it’s like an explosion going off inside my skull.

I sit up, blinking hard against the pain. There’s a bag of meth on the dashboard in front of me, split wide open. It must have flown right out of the box and through the gap in the seats when we crashed, smacking into the windshield. Popping like a balloon.

Oh fuck. That’s what’s on me. Burning my throat and nose and tongue. White powder fills the air around me. The bag that hit the windshield can’t be the only one split open, but it looks like it’s the only one that happened to explode right in my face. Annie and Africa must gotten some on them too, but I got most of it.

I claw at my skin in horror, hacking, spitting, trying to force the drug out. There’s no way you can get high from a face full of the stuff, right? No way. It doesn’t work like that… you’re supposed to snort it or smoke it or…

The bikers are riding up, holding very big guns and looking… I’m going to go with annoyed. It’s an image caught perfectly by the bright LA sunlight, their patched leather jackets highlighted just right.

Our ride is totalled. One side bent and smashed from when the SUV hit us, the other mangled from the impact with the bridge support. It’s staggering that we’re all still alive – if we’d hit at another angle, we might not be.

Which isn’t much comfort, because we’re on fire.

The hood has popped open, and there are flames visible at the edge. Big flames. There’s smoke, too, thick and white.

“Don’t breathe!” Annie yells. “Just hold it in.”

Africa has the presence of mind to bury his mouth and nose in his elbow, but not me. I’m too busy trying to get the awful meth powder out of my face, so I get a big lungful of the smoke. I cough and splutter, twisting my head to one side. My throat closes to a pinhole, cutting off my air. My chest is on fire, my nostrils filling with the sick, acrid tang. The meth powder and the smoke tag team to shred my sinuses to pieces.

We have to get out. We have to get out of here right fucking now. Forget the guys with the guns – we can figure that out afterwards. All I