Eye of the Sh*t Storm Jackson Ford (detective books to read txt) 📖

“Nice catch,” I tell Annie.

She lets go, giving me a dark look before striding off.

“What?” I say, to her retreating back.

“Just be more careful.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long day.”

I’m alongside her then, and I just catch her rolling her eyes.

Everybody’s got their pet peeves. Mine are eye rolls. “Sorry, Annie, am I being a drag? My bad. I’ll try not to pass out on you.”

“OK,” she says. Her even tone – like the kind you’d use on a crazy person – just stokes the fire.

“Hey, what the hell is your problem?” I say.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Then why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not angry,” she says, stepping very carefully over what looks like the remains of a fire, a charred pile of blackened coals, long since dead. An empty can lies wedged in the middle, like a buried artefact.

“Come on. Don’t get me wrong, I owe you for the assist back there, but I didn’t ask you to come get us.”

“True. He did.” She gestures at Nic, who is still walking with Leo.

“That’s what I’m saying though. I know you think I can’t handle myself—”

“You can’t.”

“Says you.”

“You’ll just get your ass killed.”

That does it. “Annie, I can turn anything into a weapon. If somebody comes at me with a knife or a gun or a… or a fucking two-by-four, I can shut that shit down. You’ve seen me do it. So stop pretending like I’m this delicate flower.”

“Let’s get one thing straight here.” She says it loud enough that Nic and Leo turn around. “You can do whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck. Get yourself hurt, killed, whatever. That’s one thing. But here’s what you can’t seem to get through your thick skull – it won’t just be you. It’ll be me, Africa, Reggie. It’ll be him.” She points at Nic. “You think you’re invincible. But you’re not, and neither are the people around you. I don’t want to have to be your collateral damage.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this.” I all but hiss the words. “Not a single fucking second of it. That’s what you can’t seem to get through your thick skull.”

It’s like she doesn’t hear me. “In one day – one freaking day – you’ve got us all involved in a gunfight, kidnapped a little kid, and by the way, don’t think I can’t see that you’re still high off your tits. Look at your pupils, man.”

The line sounds weirdly familiar, and all at once, it comes to me. Bad Boys II. Martin Lawrence, high on ecstasy, Will Smith giving him shit and saying the exact same line. Martin guffawing, asking how the hell he can look at his own pupils, crossing his eyes. I get a sudden urge to say the same thing to Annie, let her chew on that for a bit.

This is… insane. Does she think I got high on purpose? That I wanted to keep going after our dust-up with the Legends?

“Woah, woah, what?” Nic says.

Annie half-laughs. “She ain’t tell you? Homegirl here took a faceful of meth a few hours ago. She’s still coming down.”

The look on Nic’s face isn’t disbelief. It’s worse. It’s more like resignation – like he knew, but didn’t have the energy to ask.

I turn my attention back to Annie. “I don’t believe you. If it was up to me, I’d be working in a restaurant somewhere. I wouldn’t even know you. So—”

“Hey,” Nic bellows.

He’s got a good bellow. He’s spent enough time in court, after all.

I’m expecting him to say something like We don’t have time for this. He doesn’t. Just looks between us, eyes flashing.

Next to him, Leo is staring daggers too. It’s almost funny – like he’s trying to copy Nic. Hell, maybe he is.

Annie spits something ugly in Spanish. She strides away from me, moving past Nic, putting distance between her and us.

I have a sudden urge to throw something at her. Even just something small. Give her a little reminder that actually, yes, I can handle myself…

Which she would probably use as evidence that I think I’m invincible. Oh yeah, using your voodoo in public again, like nothing can happen.

The comedown is making itself known again. The same yawning pit in my stomach, the aching pinch at the base of my skull. A couple of fun and exciting new symptoms too: the skin on my arms has started to prickle, and my tongue feels fat and dry, my mouth parched. It’s stopped coming in waves now – it’s become a constant presence, something I just have to ride out. No wonder people get addicted to meth. If living without it feels like this, then why not stay on it all the time? Where would I even get some, anyway? I might have taken down a meth lab this morning, but I don’t actually know where to buy it on the street. I’d only need a tiny bit, a few grains maybe, just enough to stop feeling so goddamn awful all the time…

I grunt. There is no way – no way, ever – that I’m touching that shit again. I can’t. I won’t.

At least I’m not hallucinating any more. There are no flickering movements at the edge of my vision, no feeling that someone is walking up behind me. Except for the vision of Jonas Schmidt you just had. Why settle for meth hallucinations when you can have the real thing, thanks to your friendly neighbourhood Zigzag Man?

We’re right alongside the river now, on a narrow path, maybe six feet, made of hardpacked, uneven dirt. On our left, the rushing water. On our right, more bamboo, thick and dark. There’s a smell of rotting garbage somewhere, worming into my nostrils and squatting there.

Leo glances over his shoulder at me. “Ugh,” I say, grinning, trying to force the bad vibes away. “Stinks right?”

“She got mad you.” He points at Annie, a trudging figure fifty feet ahead of us. “Did you do something bad?”

I sigh. “She thinks I did.”

“Are you