Jackson Ford - Eye of the Sh*t Storm

Moira is perfectly within her rights to oversee things… but she has never requested access to the system during an op before. Not once. It makes Reggie deeply uneasy.

When the Join request from Washington doesn’t come through. Reggie waits a beat, then says, “Moira, I’m not getting anything this end. Did you—?”

She’s cut off when Tanner barks, “What do you mean, there’s no connection? Fix it!”

It takes Reggie a second to realise that Moira isn’t speaking to her. “Still nothing here,” she says. “Waiting on your handshake.”

There’s a scuffling sound, as if Moira is passing the phone from hand to hand. “It’s a problem on our side,” she snaps. “They’re having trouble getting a good connection. Jesus Christ.”

Reggie raises an eyebrow. Moira Tanner swearing? Dear God, it must be the end times. It certainly will be for whoever runs Moira’s communications in Washington, if they can’t get the connection working.

Wait a minute …

First, someone disrupts the China Shop job with the Legends, blowing their cover. Now, there’s a communications issue with Washington. It can’t be a coincidence.

She quickly briefs Moira, being as succinct as she can. When she’s done, Moira is silent. “Run diagnostics,” she says after a few seconds. “See if there’s been a network intrusion – we can coordinate on our side. Signature- and anomaly-based detection.”

“Do you want the team to stand by on site?”

“No. Keep them in play – we need to know what we’re dealing with. But they are to approach and observe only , they are not to engage. You are to stay in contact with Mr Kouamé, and I want updates on this line the second you hear anything.”

“I could find a way to patch you in somehow, a phone connection or—”

“I don’t want some broken-telephone link where I’m hearing everything second-hand. I want full audio and video. Just call me with any developments.”

“Moira… is this someone from the same place as Matthew Schenke? The same School?”

Perhaps now Moira will share what she knows. She’s been investigating the source of these extranormal individuals, but so far, she’s kept China Shop in the dark. Two months since they found out about the supposed School in New Mexico, and nothing. Whatever Moira Tanner has, she’s keeping it very close to her chest.

When Tanner speaks, her voice is sub-arctic. “We don’t know. But we will know if your team performs.”

“What if it is? What’s the plan?”

“It will be communicated to you in due course. Stay with your team, run those diagnostics. Tanner out.”

By 2 p.m., we’re in Glendale, in the Valley, and my stomach wants to crawl out of my mouth.

I mean that literally. Not the food inside the stomach – the stomach itself. It’s like the muscles in the lining have become sentient and want to make a bid for freedom. Right up out of my mouth, over my tongue and teeth, and head for the horizon. I sit in the back of the China Shop van, breathing very carefully, and not opening my mouth even a little bit.

I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve done to myself. What if this is permanent? What if I never stop feeling like this?

Annie’s still with us. Africa and I managed to get her before she left – she was standing on the curb outside Ray’s, waiting for her ride. I desperately need to ask her if she thinks I’ll be OK. But every time the words get to the tip of my tongue, even worse paranoia drags them back. I can’t let Annie think I’m a meth addict. She’ll… she’ll…

I don’t know what she’ll do. And Africa. He must hate me. God, they’re going to kick me out of China Shop, make me go back to Waco, let me get cut open. Neither Annie nor Africa have looked at me since we left Ray’s. Fuck them. They don’t know what it’s like. Well, no, they do, because they got a little of the stuff, but nothing like I did. I got an entire faceful. They’re fine. They’re peachy. They can’t feel the horror that is my stomach, or the searing, blinding pain at the back of my skull. Like ants, digging tiny mandibles into my flesh. Fuck them fuck them fuck them.

I’ve never felt like this before. It’s the polar opposite of what the meth felt like before. Instead of the open, clear freedom, all I get are invisible prison bars, my cell shrinking by the minute, crushing my chest. If I can just find more meth … even a little bit … I wouldn’t feel so—

No. No way. Stop it .

I take everything back. I hate meth. I don’t care how powerful it makes me, I’m never touching it again.

Africa’s driving, Annie riding shotgun. She didn’t look happy to see us. Then I told her what Reggie said, and she looked both furious, and very, very scared.

I don’t blame her.

We pull off San Fernando into an industrial area, the road lined with warehouses and vacant lots. It’s not hard to find our destination. It’s the one further down the block surrounded by flashing red and blue lights.

Africa comes to a stop on the opposite side of the street. “That is it?”

“Nah, it’s the other warehouse with a zillion cops around it,” Annie murmurs. There’s no venom in her words. It’s like she says them on autopilot.

I want to remind her that it isn’t actually a warehouse, but I don’t trust myself to open my mouth. I’m still trying to get a handle on this – it’d be tough to process, even when I’m not on a horrifying meth comedown. You can’t electrify concrete. Or wood. I don’t even know how you do that without the entire building exploding.

Except: something – or some one – has.

It shouldn’t be hard to believe. I can move shit with my mind, and last year I met a boy who could cause earthquakes. But there is something about this situation, something about the way it tells the laws of physics to go fuck themselves, that scares me. Bad.

“Yo, Teagan.” Annie doesn’t look away from the building. “Get the shit.”

“ Hmmm… grerp .”

“Come on, let’s go. The jackets and IDs.”

“ Hrrrrrr oookay.”

The whole world does a loop-de-loop as I get to my feet, the tools lining the walls of the van doubling and tripling in front of me. I nearly thump back down, and it’s a goddamn miracle I manage to stay standing. I’m sweating buckets, but I can’t stop shivering.

I regret everything.

FBI. Jackets. ID. Yes. But where do I even look? Since Paul died, the back of the China Shop van has been a disorganised mess. Bins overflowing with clothes, tools lying everywhere, duffel bags, a can of paint – from the surveillance job we did in San Jacinto, maybe? And a whole bulging folder of fake IDs.

I start with that. Or try to. The letters are moving a lot . There are multiple IDs with my own photo on them, and I swear the little smile I have on them mocks me.

“Teagan, what’s the hold-up?” Annie doesn’t wait for my response, clambering into the back and taking the ID folder, flipping through it. “Just get the jackets. They’re in that bin right there.”

The jackets should be easier. They’re not. When Paul was around, they’d be neatly folded and itemised. Now? They’re a mess, sleeves everywhere, some folded, others balled up. Sorting through them right now is like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube after a whole bottle of tequila. In the end, Annie has to help.

She hates me. I let Paul die. She’s going to let me suffer, she’s going to make me do the job, even though she knows I’m sick. Oh God. I can’t do this. There’s nothing for it. I have to get more meth. Maybe there’s some in the front passenger seat, where I first got a dose… no, that was in a different van, not this one, shit. Shit.