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

The woman is lying, she has to be. Whatever Pop has planned for these kids, it’s not good. Human trafficking is definitely a thing – maybe she’s planning to sell them to factories, or…

Except: what possible reason could Pop have to set up a classroom like this? To bring in – let’s not sugar-coat this – a school teacher? If she wanted to put these kids to work as some kind of fucked-up slave labour, she wouldn’t be spending time getting someone to read to them.

“Solo intentábamos ayudar,” the sobbing woman says. Then: “We were just trying to help. Please.”

“Annie,” I say. “Watch the door.”

No response. Annie is taking deep, steady breaths.

“Annie. Watch the damn door. Now.”

She glances at me, her expression unreadable. She takes a quick look at Leo, then does as I ask, heading over and poking her head out into the corridor. I cross over to Nic, threading my way through the kids, most of whom are giving me confused, wounded looks.

“What did we just walk into?” I mutter to Nic when I reach him.

“I mean…” He bites his lip. “It’s possible. Nobody says these biker dudes can’t help a bunch of kids if they want.”

“But they… they sell guns, Nic. Like, actual assault rifles. Why would they…?”

But I’m starting to understand.

You’re probably shocked to hear this, but I listen to a lot of hip-hop. Rappers idolise drug dealers – hell, some of them even steal their names. Rick Ross, Noreaga, Freeway. Rae from Wu-Tang. You can’t listen to rap without getting to know a little bit about the people these artists took their names from. The dealers. The hustlers. The real-life bad guys.

Those same bad guys gave out free turkeys on Thanksgiving, used their profits to build community centres, paid rent for struggling friends and relatives, coached youth basketball teams. They’d spend the day flooding the streets with dope, and then head on over to the local church to help out at the homeless soup kitchen. Part of it was about image, sure… but not all of it.

Who’s to say Pop isn’t the same? Who’s to say she doesn’t see herself as the hero here? The woman getting these kids off the streets, helping them out when the government won’t. Can she really justify doing that, while turning around and selling guns and drugs to everybody else?

It doesn’t matter whether she can justify it or not. In her mind, it’s totally fine.

“Nic,” I say quietly. “Go get Leo.”

He gives me a worried look, then makes his way over. Leo holds out his arms eagerly, and he doesn’t catch Nic’s slight hesitation, the same look on his face that he had when we were coming down from the stadium – like he’s being asked to carry a bomb. But all the same, he scoops the kid up.

“What do we do with the rest?” I say.

Nic looks over Leo’s shoulder at me. “What do you mean, what do we do?”

“About the kids. About… whatever this is.”

“Teags – we don’t have to do anything. We just take Leo and go.”

“We can’t just leave them!”

“Why not?” He nods to the woman. “They’re supervised. Annie did a number on her, but she’s OK.”

There must still be some worry in my expression, because his own softens. “Look, I know we don’t always agree on this stuff, but there’s nothing we can do for these kids. We can’t take them with us.”

He’s right. Of course he is. He might not have handled the situation with Africa at Dodger Stadium well, but he’s still one of the sharpest people I know.

He hefts Leo, adjusting the boy’s position in his arms. “We can find Leo’s dad. We can do that much. Right, buddy?”

“I don’t wanna go,” Leo says.

“I know, my man. But we can’t stick around for ever.”

“I wanna hear the rest of the story!”

I bite my lip. We don’t have time for this. Any second now, Pop’s goons are going to burst through the door.

I’m expecting the kids to protest as we take Leo away, maybe to demand the return of their friend. They just watch us, clustered around the still-sobbing Gabriela Garcia.

I didn’t really look at them before, but I’m doing it now. And what I see is trauma.

I’ve been around it enough to know the look, even in little kids. There’s a coldness in the eyes, a mistrust. A way of standing, with slightly hunched shoulders, as if bracing for a hit. These kids… they’ve all been through something. And here we come, busting into their one safe space, taking their friend away.

It’s not like that. Stop it.

All the same, I can’t help turning to the teacher and saying, “I’m… we’re real sorry.”

“Just go. Please.”

I put an arm around Annie’s waist. She resists me for a second, then follows.

I’ll come back for these kids, when this is all over. Make sure they don’t have to live in abandoned train depot/drug den. I’ll get the authorities involved – somehow – make sure the kids can… can…

Can what? Go into foster care? Be placed with new parents? Do I even have the right to make that decision? And if I do, do I actually trust the US government to do it properly?

I have no idea.

We head back into the main part of the depot in silence. I scan for anybody approaching, but there’s nobody. We pick our way between the trains, hopping over the disused railway sleepers. A sudden surge of guilt – should we call an ambulance or something for the bikers I beat to shit? I could use Minnie’s phone. But what if Reggie… what if she’s monitoring 911 calls?

Fuck me, what a day.

Amazingly, this place has exit signs. We end up slipping out on the west side of the building, into what used to be an employee parking lot. It’s raining more heavily now, dots of chilly rain spattering my skin.

There are no cars there. Instead, there’s a messy line of Harleys – or