Jackson Ford - Eye of the Sh*t Storm

I sigh, tapping my fingers on the counter.

I have got to stop doing this to myself.

I never wanted to be a government agent. Still don’t. The only reason I’m doing this job and working for Tanner is because if I don’t, she’ll hand me over to a bunch of scientists who are itching to cut me open and see what I’m made of. What I really want to do, more than anything in the world, is be a chef. To cook, in a professional kitchen, just like this one. I used to have these big plans about using my off hours from my secret agent job to go to cooking school, eventually figuring a way out of this mess and pursuing what I really wanted.

Problem is, it’s not just the threat of dissection that keeps me working for Uncle Sam. There are other people out there like me – other people with abilities. All of them have been bad news. Tanner convinced me that I’m one of the best people to try and stop them. But she also said that I had to commit to it – I couldn’t train to be a chef on the side, not when it would distract me from the mission. And as much as I hated to admit it, she was right.

I’m still going to be a chef one day – I don’t know how, especially since there are very few cooking schools left in Los Angeles after the quake. But for now, I’ve had to put all of it on the backburner.

Backburner. Poor word choice, in this case.

Before long, the guards and the two meth cooks are bound and gagged, thanks to a roll of duct tape Africa pulled from his jacket. Of course he has duct tape. If I suddenly needed, I don’t know, a printout of the Declaration of Independence, I’m pretty sure I’d find one in Africa’s inside pocket, along with coins in ten currencies and a signed copy of Prince’s last album.

He stands over the bags of meth, hands on his hips, nodding slowly to himself. Africa doesn’t like drugs, and he especially doesn’t like meth, on account of his girlfriend Jeannette having been addicted to it once upon a time. I met her once, when she was living on the streets, and she was nothing more than a skeleton.

“This is good,” he says. “Mrs Tanner will be pleased.” He picks up one of the bags, tucks it into his jacket. “We take, we test.”

“We’d better call the cops anyway,” Annie says, eyeing the captives. I’ve already gone through their pockets, wanting to make sure none of them made a covert call before we shut them down. Their phones, walkies, wallets and keys sit in a neat pile behind them on the countertop. “Once the Legends find out we were here, they’ll shut this place down in a second, set up shop elsewhere.”

One of the meth cooks – a guy who looks like Ben Stiller – mmphs behind the tape, as if to agree.

The scowl is back on Africa’s face. “ Dina le nokh ,” he spits at Ben Stiller. Then, to us: “OK. Come. We can call police when we are in the car.”

He and Annie move to go, but I linger, resting my hand on the counter. “Hey… guys?”

They turn to look at me.

“What if we just took it?” I ask.

Annie screws up her face. “Like… to sell?”

“What – no! Why would you even say that? No! God!” I point to the meth. “We’ll destroy it.”

Ben Stiller growls into his gag again.

“Zip it, Pinkman,” I tell him.

“No,” Africa says, although he looks unsure. “Too much trouble. It’s not part of the mission.”

“But listen, hear me out. Right now the LAPD… they’re kind of stretched thin, right? After the quake? Not to mention the jails and the courts.”

“They’ll still come investigate a fucking meth lab ,” Annie says. She looks very tired then, stretched too thin herself.

“Yeah, but, like, probably not right away.”

“And what about evidence? How’s the DA gonna build a case if there’s no meth?”

“Look, no matter what we do, this meth is gone. They can’t hide the lab, but they will hide the meth if they think trouble’s coming. At least this way, it’s toast.”

It’s possible we could destroy the drugs here – flush them down the toilet, or dump them into a sink and run the faucet. But forty bags is a lot. The Legends might not know where we are right now, but I’m not sure we have time to hunt down a bathroom and flush the stuff. And as for dousing it with water in a sink… I have no idea if that would work. I know nothing about meth chemistry. They might be able to dry it out, or something…

“We can find somewhere to torch it,” I continue. “Someone who knows how to do it safely. Africa – dude, you get it, right?”

And he does. He’s slowly nodding to himself, lips pursed. I knew he would. Wiping a whole whackload of meth off the map, taking it and burning it – or whatever, I don’t actually know the best way to destroy it – is right up his alley.

“Mmm,” he says. When Annie snaps a look at him, he says, “You know, it is actually not a bad idea.”

“Are you serious?”

“We take the drugs.” I walk around the table, tapping my palm a finger. “We get out, and then we call the cops. Maybe they come, maybe they don’t, but either way we do some damage. Boom. Done. Chalk one up for the good guys. And let’s face it – we’re still no closer to finding out where those guns came from. Why not walk away with a win?”

Africa claps me on the shoulder, the sound loud in the low-ceilinged space. “You think smart, huh? Big brain inside that small body.”

I slap his hand away, but without much anger. I’ll let the condescending comment go, this once. The job’s been hairy, but it’s turning out OK. Better than OK, in fact. My bad mood from what these jackasses did to this fine kitchen has dissipated, now that I know payback is coming.

Annie pinches the bridge of her nose, looking too exhausted to argue. “And how were you planning to get the shit outta here? You can’t just walk down the street with a box of meth. Even in this city.”

In answer, I walk over to the pile of the guards’ belongings on the counter, scooping up the two sets of keys I find there. “Nobody walks in LA.”

Africa grunts a laugh. Annie just sighs. “Fine. Let’s go already.”

“Yes!” I punch the air. “You will not regret this.” I turn to grab the drugs – and my day gets even better. On a shelf nearby, there are three bags of potato chips. I actually squee as I dance over to them, jamming them into my pockets. They’re my favourite kind, too, the kind that have an ingredients list that takes up the whole back of the packet and which taste like a xenomorph barfing on your tongue. They’re the best.

Before long, the meth – all forty-or-so pounds of it – is in a big, plastic storage box. We can’t find a lid anywhere, but it doesn’t matter. Africa hefts it – yes, I could lift it with my PK, but the last thing I want is to run into somebody while walking next to a floating box. Instead, I do the real hard work of stuffing my face with radioactive chips. I figure I found the place and saved our lives with the couch stunt, so I’ve earned a snack. We leave the same way we came in, and I make sure to crunch the lock on the doors with my PK, jamming them shut. A few good kicks will probably knock them open, but why make things easy?

The employee parking lot is almost empty, a dank and muggy space littered with trash. But there are a couple of vehicles in the spots. A beat-up Prius with a big scratch down one side, and a Mercedes Sprinter. I admit, I was a little worried that the guards parked their cars in another lot somewhere, but one of the sets of keys has a big Mercedes logo, and the van opens right up.

Africa holds out the box to me, then gets behind the wheel. I climb in next to Africa, Annie scooching in on the second row of seats, bringing the meth with her. There are no shouts of alarm, no running feet.