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

melts away like ice cream on a Venice Beach afternoon. Because if there was ever a time to supercharge my PK, it’s now, right? I don’t have time to play find-my-friends. I don’t have time to deal with imaginary attackers creeping up behind me. A single wrong turn, a single minute spent looking in the wrong place, and they’re done. And there are so many places to search.

The indecision paralyses me. For a few seconds, I quite literally can’t move. All my attention is focused on my pocket. A few moments later, my hand moves on its own, feeling out the shape of the meth crystals. A tiny bit, just a couple of grains, enough to at least boost my echolocation. That’s all I need right? That’s—

“Oh shit,” says a deep, gravelly voice from above my head.

I look up – right into the face of the sasquatch.

THIRTY-TWOTeagan

I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming.

OK, yes, part of it was a giant genetics lab belonging to my parents, where they created me and my brother and sister. But a ranch is a ranch, and that means we spent a lot of our childhood playing with guns.

Nothing crazy – my parents weren’t cult members, or militia psychopaths. We didn’t spend time drilling with AR-15s. But we had a fair few pistols and hunting rifles lying around. We spent a lot of time popping varmints and aiming at tin cans.

Adam and I couldn’t hit a damn thing, but Chloe was a natural. It might have been part of the genetic ability my parents gave her: the ability to see infrared radiation. I told her she was good because she could see the targets better than we could, and she just rolled her eyes and said that wasn’t how it worked. Then I may or may not have dumped a bottle of water over her head, and she may or may not have chased me around the yard with a giant stick while Adam howled with laughter.

Point is: my idyllic American childhood means that while I might not like guns, I know how to handle them.

Sasquatch’s pistol is a big one. A Glock, maybe. He is very startled when I take it away from him with my PK and jam it under his chin. He jerks in place, and his mouth snaps shut.

I hold a finger to my lips, not looking away from him. Yes, I am short and not too fit and having one of the worst days ever, but I can be fucking scary when I want to be.

“Minnie?”

It’s the dude fixing his bike. I glance over quickly – he’s up on one knee, but hasn’t looked over his shoulder yet. That situation’s going to last about three seconds, after Minnie here – and what the fuck kind of biker name is Minnie? Is it short for something? Minneapolis, maybe? – doesn’t holler back.

I reach out with my PK, snatch up the other biker’s spanner, and give him one hell of a whack on the noggin. He grunts, slumps against his bike.

Do I feel bad about hitting so many people in the head? Leaving a trail of concussions and possible brain injuries? Sure. But they started it. And besides, no one gives Batman shit when he beats up a warehouse full of the Joker’s goons.

Minnie looks like he wants to pass out, and tear my head off, all at once. His left hand quivers, starts to reach for the gun under his chin.

I move it upwards, lifting his head. He actually goes up on his tiptoes. “Bad idea.”

He stops, glowering at me. His gaze keeps flicking over my shoulder, as if expecting Pop and her goons to come to his rescue.

“Hey.” I snap my fingers. “Focus, Minnie Mouse. You’ve got two of my friends. Tell me where they are.”

He starts to speak, but I cut him off with a raised finger. “Just point. Jesus.”

After a few seconds, he does, indicating one of the train cars about a hundred yards away, towards the middle of the depot. Only one end of it is visible. It’s a flatbed, like the one I hid behind… only this one has a shipping container plunked on top of it.

There are probably a few more bikers standing guard – I can’t tell from here, they’re a little out of my range, but it’s a sure bet. Well, that’s OK. I don’t have to go over there myself. Not when I have Minnie to do my dirty work for me.

Quick as anything, I zip the gun around to the back of his head, jamming the barrel into the fold of fat at the back of his neck. I certainly don’t plan on killing him… but he doesn’t have to know that.

When I tell him what I want to do, the sour look on his face gets even worse.

He slowly turns, starts walking… then looks back. “Who the hell are you?”

I show him my teeth. “I’m Batman. Get moving, jackass.”

As he turns, a thought occurs to me. “Wait. Give me your phone.”

He stares blankly at me. I have to snap my fingers at him, like an entitled customer at a restaurant. “Come on. Give.”

He hands it over. I didn’t think it was possible for the look on his face to get even more sour than it is already, but it does. I wink at him, pocketing his iPhone. Can’t have him sending texts for help while I have him under the gun, can we?

I gesture to him to start walking. He threads a path between the trains, heading for the shipping container. I follow, keeping my distance – far enough to be out of sight, but close enough to keep my grip on the gun. When we’re within about fifty feet of the container, I duck behind a stack of rotting wooden railway sleepers, eyes closed, focusing as hard as I can. There can’t be more than a few minutes left on the clock, if that.