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

or Robert, or one of the others, I can’t see. I react, snarling, grabbing whatever trash I can get my PK on and hurling it at the figure. Bottles and lightbulbs and shreds of plastic wicker through the air, a storm of jagged edges, slashing right through the figure, which—

Isn’t there. It’s gone. My projectiles clatter to the ground, ricochet off the walls. The only sound is my breathing, hot and harsh and harried.

There was someone there, I know there was, I heard them…

The slightest sound from my right. The crunch of a foot on broken glass. The slight click of a switchblade. My reaction is almost involuntary, like twitching your foot when the doc hits your knee during a reflex test. Everything in the corridor not nailed down goes flying, turning the air around me into hurricane.

There’s nobody there. Of course there’s nobody there. There never was.

Gotta get some Howlin’ Ray’s. Best fried chicken in LA. You won’t even need the drugs any more, just some hot sauce and—

I put the knuckle of my right middle finger in my mouth. Bite down hard. Keep it there until my breathing slows down. Until my shoulder stop shaking.

Jesus Christ. What if I do that when I’m with Annie? Or Leo? What if I hurt them? What if I mistake them for someone else, and end up hitting them with a broken bottle, shards of glass sticking out of…

Just take a little bit. Just a tiny hit. A tiny little grain, that’s all I need. No more pain. No more seeing things. Just clean, clear power.

A dot of blood wells up from my knuckle, touching my tongue. I pull my finger out of my mouth, spit, grimace, my head a little clearer.

Fuck that. Not happening.

Twenty seconds later, I slip out a door into the main depot. There’s a big flatbed train car near the door I came out of, its bed sitting empty, but with conveniently huge wheels to hide behind. I scoot down next to it, eyes closed, sending out my PK in a wide arc – or as wide as I can manage without passing out. The headache pounds at me, as if furious that I didn’t give it what it wants.

Lighting in the depot comes from huge, widely spaced banks of fluorescents, most of which are burned out, leaving the space in twilight. There are low voices from somewhere nearby, along with the clinking of metal on metal.

My heart starts to hammer. What seemed like a smart plan when I was kicking ten shades of shit out of Pop and company is looking less smart by the second. It would be pretty simple to take out most of the bikers on the floor, especially if their guns didn’t work. But I can’t stop them shouting, and I’m almost certain that whoever is holding Nic and Annie would hear them. I cannot let that happen.

Of course, there’s a whole other side to the depot, opposite the end I came out of. More offices, more winding corridors, a whole open section that looks like a machine shop. I have maybe six or seven minutes, and I don’t think it’s going to be enough. I have no idea where my guys are being kept.

Somewhere outside the depot, thunder rumbles. The rain’s starting to come down a little more heavily now. It’s full dark now – I have no idea what time it is, though. 7 p.m.? Eight?

OK. Maybe if I get closer to the other side, I can use my PK to track down Nic and Annie. All I have to do is use it to locate a couple of guns close together. Guns means guards, and guards mean prisoners.

I hope. I’m kind of winging this.

I take another look over the top of the car, then scoot round it in an exaggerated roadie run, moving on the balls of my feet. At any second, I’m expecting a startled yell, thundering footsteps. I’m so wired for them that I almost lose my footing on a slick patch, cursing under my breath as I nearly trip over a rotting sleeper. Somehow, I manage to keep my feet, ducking behind a stack of plastic boxes. They’re identical to the ones you’d rent for an apartment move.

Someone clears their throat around the corner of the boxes, no more than ten feet away. “I still say the eighty-one point game was the best.”

“Are you serious?” The second speaker has a voice like charred gravel. I can already feel his gun, as well as his partner’s. “You think that’s better than Game Seven at Boston?”

“Game Seven? No way. Kobe was the ultimate selfish player. I mean, he went six of twenty-four—”

“And won a championship, so who cares?”

“I miss the Mamba though, man. For real.”

A few seconds of silence, followed by a resigned sigh. “Shit, me too.”

I lick my lips, trying not to think about time ticking down.

The last time I spoke to Nic, we were yelling at each other. And Annie… that argument we had. I can’t let that be the last time I speak to them. I don’t care what we were fighting over – it doesn’t even matter. I’m going to find them again. I won’t let them die.

And Leo… Christ, if they’ve hurt him, I will tear this fucking building down with them inside it.

I risk a peek over the top of one of the boxes. The bikers are twenty feet away – one bent over a Harley, the other leaning idly against a train car. He’s the one with the gravelly voice, and looks like a sasquatch dressed up in human clothing. I flash back to Pop – four feet tall, female, Haitian. How in the name of blue fuck does she hold sway over a man-bear like this guy? Who is she?

I duck back down. Whatever. These two are distracted, not looking in my direction – I can sneak past them, get behind the next train car over.

Just use the damn meth.

My determination