Blood & Tacos #3 Read Online Free PDF

Storm Unstoppable?
    “Drug City” Floods Eastern Seaboard with Cheap, Legal Cocaine
    Police Say Their Hands Are Tied
    “If only someone would put a stop to this,” says teary-eyed mother whose drug-addicted son went on a drug-fueled killing rampage to get drug money to buy drugs
    That article was like a catalyst in a chemical reaction in Dax’s soul, even though Dax knew that souls didn’t really have chemicals in them. Thinking about them as if they did, though, made it easier for him to understand, because Dax knew more about chemicals than souls.
    It was bad enough that Chico Juarez had killed his wife and daughter; now he was using Dax’s own drug formula to make millions by turning decent Americans into cloud powder junkies. Dax had unfinished business in Drug City. It was payback time. Time to even the scales, like a chemist weighing out the chemicals of justice.
    So here he was, stuck in a cell in Averyville, with no way out.
Or was he
?
    Dax waited for the sheriff to leave, pretending to sleep. When he heard the door to the police station close, he jumped to his feet, pulling out a small plastic bag of green powder that he had hidden in his rectum. Opening the bag, he rubbed some of the powder in rings around the bottom and top of one of the bars to his cell. Before his eyes, the steel rusted away. After a few seconds, he gave the bar a powerful kick. It broke loose, flying across the police station. Dax slipped through the opening and grabbed his pack, which the sheriff had left on his desk. Where he was going, he was going to need it.
    Dax paused to remember how he had first come into possession of his pack. He had been on his way home to be with his family when he had spotted the pack in the window of a store, not unlike the window of the drugstore that he would later look into and remember how he got his first chemistry set when he was ten. Looking at the mottled brown cotton bag, he knew he had to have it for his chemicals, which he always carried with him. That was a habit he had picked up in Nam, while working for Special Chemical Division. “Be prepared,” he murmured to himself, recalling the Boy Scout motto. He’d never had time for the Boy Scouts, because he was so busy mixing chemicals as a kid. Maybe if he’d joined the Scouts, things would have turned out differently for him. Maybe if he hadn’t stopped that day to buy the pack, he would have been home in time to save his wife and daughter from Chico Juarez’s thugs. But maybes didn’t put food on the table, and they sure as hell didn’t bring the dead back to life.
    “Hey, what are you doing?” barked a deputy who had just walked into the police station, shaking Dax out of his reverie.
    Dax dropped him with an uppercut to the jaw. Sometimes the best chemical reaction for the job was the firing of neurons that caused a fist to slam into a face. Dax picked up his pack, noticing a desk calendar underneath it. Today’s date was circled, and inside the circle was written:
    9PM MEET CHICO JUAREZ AT MAIN DRUG FACTORY
    BIG DRUG SHIPMENT GOING OUT
    That was just the sort of intel that Dax had been hoping to find when he deliberately got himself tossed into jail. He checked his watch. It was 8:30 p.m. He hoisted his pack onto his back and walked out of the police station. Dax had a party to crash. A drug party.

    Dax lay on a warehouse roof, surveying the arrival of six eighteen-wheelers behind a factory with a sign that read “Apex Lawn Furniture.” Dax knew that the sign, like the rest of Averyville, was a lie. The Apex Lawn Furniture factory didn’t make lawn furniture. It made drugs. Drugs that were made with the chemical formula that Dax had formulated. Everyone knew that Apex Lawn Furniture made drugs, of course, but new signs cost money. And drug dealers didn’t have to advertise. Drugs sold themselves. How many lives had Apex Lawn Furniture ruined with his formula, wondered Dax. How had things gotten so out of control?
    Dax closed his