Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  He blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”

  The tone pulsed through her, igniting adrenaline. Flee. No fight. Her instincts bellowed to run. “I said, knock this nonsense off. The people here are sad and they’re scared. Step up and help them.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  Good. She’d gotten through to him.

  “Haylee is dead because of me,” he whispered, the sound broken.

  She shook her head. “No, she is not. She’s dead because a bacteria was unleashed and Cruz purposefully infected a young girl. That’s not on you. None of this is about you.”

  “I’m the Vanguard leader,” he exploded, red shooting across his cheekbones. “It’s all on me.”

  Caution screamed at her but she ignored it. “You’re not their leader. You’re their protector.” She sucked in air, facing death. “They fucking need a leader, and it’s time you stepped up.” What the hell was she doing?

  His head jerked. Those eyes focused. “What did you just say?”

  “There’s a difference between defending and leading, Jax,” she said softly.

  His lids lowered to half-mast. “Is there now? Is this about Shawn?”

  Shawn? It took her a moment to remember Shawn. “The kid you left in Twenty territory?” Oh. So that was eating away at Jax, too.

  “Yes. You think I should’ve brought him back.” That quickly, any hint of being lost disappeared from Jax’s hard face. “I made the right decision.”

  “Did you?” She truly didn’t know. Would a true leader have brought the kid home to rehabilitate him? Or had Jax possibly saved the group from another attack? “Either way, it’s done and time to move on.”

  “Move on? I’ve known that kid for months, through famine, pain, and war. I liked him.” Jax shifted his weight, and glass crunched beneath his boot. “I left him for Cruz. I left another fucking kid for Cruz.”

  Another? They all knew what Cruz did to enemies. At the very least, he’d infect Shawn. “I know.” Lynne sighed. Then her gaze caught on Jax’s right hand, the one with white scars. Red dripped from his knuckles and between his fingers. “How many windows have you punched in your time?” she asked.

  He lifted an eyebrow and glanced at his bleeding hand. “More than I can count, but the scars aren’t from windows.”

  It wasn’t the right time to ask him about the scars, that much she knew for sure. “The new ones will be, and you’ll need stitches.”

  “Probably.” Jax glanced around the apartment and then began striding her way. She tightened her leg muscles to keep from backing up. He reached her.

  She stopped breathing.

  Slowly, as if not wanting to spook her, he lifted his undamaged hand and ran a knuckle down the side of her face. Gently and with warmth. His arm dropped, and he moved past her to the door.

  Her breath whooshed out, and tingles lit her abdomen.

  He disengaged the locks. “I’ll send somebody in to clean up.”

  The world tilted. She’d had enough of people for the night. “I don’t want anybody here. I’ll clean up.”

  He left without another word. When he locked the door from the outside, Lynne turned and sagged against it, her gaze on the demolished room. She’d made a huge mistake in seeking out Jax Mercury. He was damaged, and he was dangerous, but instead of wanting to flee, she wanted to heal him.

  There was no healing for any of them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nothing brings man closer together than a common enemy to fight.

  —Dr. Franklin Xavier Harmony

  He shouldn’t have punched the window, because he was still bleeding an hour later after doing weapons inventory. Jax swore as blood dripped through the rag he’d wrapped around his injury even as he moved to the next locker. At this rate, his guns would outnumber his ammunition ten to one by the end of the week.

  He slammed the last door and hurried from the storage building, skirting the cemetery and keeping his gaze away from the new crosses. Just for tonight. Tomorrow he’d look again.

  Rain slashed across his face, and he ducked his head, shoving through the back door of the infirmary. Voices alerted him, and he jogged faster.

  Dim lanterns cast a yellowish light through the grimy room of the old kitchen, and microscopes with documents had been shoved to a far counter. Tace, Wyatt, and Raze sat around an old card table, half glasses of whiskey in front of them. Maps of the county were scattered across the table with circles drawn around future raiding areas.

  “Figured you’d be out running all night, so we’ve been planning,” Tace said.

  “You’re bleeding,” Wyatt murmured, tipping back his drink.

  Raze, as usual, didn’t say anything. But at least he was spending time with the group. Perhaps he’d loosen up and start to earn Jax’s trust.

  Tace kicked a chair toward Jax and reached over his shoulder to yank out a drawer. “Sit down.”

  Wyatt dug another glass from under what used to be a working sink, poured whiskey into it, and nudged it across the table. “You’ll want a drink first.”

  “You’ve dipped into our hidden reserve.” Nothing wrong with stating the obvious. They’d found a couple of bottles while scouting homes to the east about a month ago.

  “Life’s the shits.” Tace withdrew a sewing kit. “The needle has already been burned. I’m prepared.” He threaded the needle and grabbed an old golf-bag towel to place on the table before settling a lantern close to it. “Hand.”

  Jax tipped back the whiskey and let it burn down his throat before placing his damaged hand on the towel. He held his breath when Tace dug the needle in. Jax forced his body to stop feeling, at least to stop registering pain. It was a trick he’d learned as a kid, and it had saved his life more than once overseas. “Where’s Sami?”

  “Training with some of the kids. They’re angry and scared, and she’s helping them fight through it. Literally,” Wyatt said. “Said she’d be finished by ten-ish tonight and would drop by to check out the new schedules.”

  Raze frowned. “The woman can fight. Where did she learn those skills?”

  “Dunno,” Tace said, his face lowered as he stitched. “She won’t talk about her past.”

  Wyatt watched him move the needle, gaze sober. Raze also watched but looked as if seeing needles drawn through flesh might put his ass to sleep.

  “Are we boring you?” Jax asked Raze.

  “Yes.” Raze poured himself another shot and drank it down, the glass looking small in his hand. A series of scars scored up his arm in what appeared to be burns.

  Agony flared between Jax’s fingers when Tace hit a nerve. “I haven’t asked for your story,” he said.

  “I know.” Raze nudged the bottle toward Wyatt, who refilled all four glasses.

  “Would you like to share?” Jax asked, trying to focus on anything but his hand.

  “No.” Raze tipped back his glass, his eyes glowing in the dim light.

  Wyatt snorted. “You’re such a fucking prince.”

  Raze didn’t blink. “We’re up.” He stood from the table, drawing a nine mil from his waist.

  Wyatt groaned and stood. “Great. I get patrol, in the fucking night, with Mr. Personality here.”

  Jax forced a smile. “Watch each other’s backs.”

  Raze and Wyatt left.

  Tace continued to stitch. “What do you think his story is?”

  One of loss and pain. “I don’t know or really care so long as he doesn’t try to kill us.” Because if he tried, he’d probably succeed. Jax shut his eyes and tried to relax his body. He’d lost the luxury of curiosity months ago. “Do you think I’m doing a good job here?”

  “I think”—Tace slid the needle back in—“we’d all be dead if you weren’t doing a good job.”

  Jax winced. “Haylee is dead.” As was Shawn, probably.

  “Not your fault.” Tace tied the string tight. “We’re out of antibacterial stuff.” Without warning, he poured his shot of whiskey on the wound.

>   Agony ripped into Jax. “Fuck it, Tace.” He breathed out, his eyes watering. “God.”

  “Sorry.” Tace replaced the kit in the drawer and stood. “You really ready to go after Cruz?”

  “I’ve wanted him dead for a long time, and he deserves to be gone.” Jax’s lips tightened. “I owe that bastard.”

  Tace’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t push the subject. “We don’t have full check-in from all the lieutenants until tomorrow night, but I can confirm everyone seems to be willing to stay here under your leadership, even if you are a carrier.”

  Jax scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “They don’t have much of a choice, now do they?”

  “Sure, they do. They trust you, and Lynne’s stock went up a lot when she protected April and Haylee. They don’t trust her, but they’re willing to let her be.”

  Good, because he could only provide her so much cover, and he was stretched thin. “What else is going on?”

  “Well, we lost all three of the Scorpius victims inner territory.”

  Ah, hell. “I’m sorry. What else?”

  Tace sighed. “We’ve got two fevers at the main hospital, and an ear infection.”

  Jax stilled. “Fevers?”

  “Not Scorpius. My guess? Strep or just the flu.” Tace rubbed a hand over his hair. “Which is bad enough.”

  Jax tried to flex his pounding hand. “Yeah, it is. Do you think we’ll have to separate into survivors and non-infected people?”

  “Maybe, but the problem is we don’t know who a survivor is, you know? Right now, that’s not an immediate concern.”

  True. Thank goodness. Jax nodded. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know. So far, I’m not right.” Tace took one of the two lanterns. “For now, if I don’t get some sleep, my head is gonna explode.” He strode away.

  Alone, Jax slumped in his chair and lifted his feet to the wobbly table. Tace wasn’t right? What the fuck did that mean? Jax sighed and shut his eyes as his hand pulsed in heartbeats of pain.

  Things had calmed down enough that he could finally go after Cruz and slice his jugular.

  The whiskey and rawness of the day dug into Jax, and he finally relaxed, slipping into the slim world between wakefulness and sleep. He couldn’t afford sleep, but he could drift.

  Suddenly, he was ten years old, taking a beating against jagged concrete from Bast Ace, a kid from his school. He’d told his younger brother to run home, and for once, Marcus had listened. Thank God. But Jax had remained to protect his brother, and he was definitely losing the fight. The fists pummeling into his face didn’t hurt as much as the old beer bottle glass cutting into his back. Suddenly, Bast stopped.

  Jax blinked blood from his face and looked into the sun. Wincing, he turned just as Bast knelt down. “Your mama’s a whore,” Bast spit out.

  Yeah, she was. “So is yours,” Jax mumbled through split lips.

  The punch didn’t hurt this time, which was probably a bad thing. “You’re a half-breed piece of shit.”

  Jax swallowed blood. “So are you.” He shouldn’t mess with the fourteen-year-old bully, but sometimes he just couldn’t stop talking.

  “Maybe. But you’re half-white.” Bast punched him in the gut.

  Jax cried out and lifted his knees toward his chest.

  Then suddenly, Bast lay face down on the concrete, with a boy pounding his face into the ground. Blood sprayed in every direction.

  Jax spat blood and rolled over, struggling to stand on unsteady legs. Boys surrounded him, all older, all bigger. All wearing specific colors—all shades of purple. Twenty colors. The gang ruled the neighborhoods to the east. Ruthlessly. Finally, when Bast was out cold, but probably not dead, the boy beating him stood.

  Definitely Hispanic, tall, and a few years older than Jax, the kid had several kill tats already down his neck. “You Mercury?” he asked.

  Jax spat more blood. He couldn’t outrun all of them, and if they wanted him dead, they’d get him dead. So he held his ground. “Yeah.”

  “Did you help an old lady at Maker’s Grocery yesterday?” the kid asked.

  Jax wiped blood from his eyes. Death didn’t much scare him, but he couldn’t leave Marcus alone. The kid was only six years old, and Jax had vowed he’d protect his little brother until death. “Sí.”

  “English, puto,” the kid spat out. “Speak English.”

  “Why?” Jax asked. Damn it.

  The kid shrugged. “It’s what we speak. Usually.”

  Whatever. “Yeah, I helped a lady. Two guys tried to steal her purse. She was an old lady.” Mierda. Maybe those guys were brothers to this guy. Shit. He was dead now.

  “She’s my granny,” the kid said, sticking out his hand. “Cruz Martinez.”

  Jax took the hand and tried not to wince when they shook. Maybe his fingers were broken. “Jax Mercury. I’m glad she’s okay.”

  Cruz looked down at the fallen kid. “You need better friends, Jax.”

  Yeah. Yeah, he did.

  “In fact, you need brothers.” Cruz smiled. “Come with me.”

  “Jax?” a soft voice asked, yanking him from his memories and right back into the hell of the present.

  His eyelids slowly opened, and he focused on Lynne Harmony in the soft light. Her eyes were wide and her movements hesitant. How badly had he scared her? “I’m under control, Lynne.”

  “I know.” She moved closer to the table.

  He reached over for a chair and pulled it out like a guy at a fancy dinner. “Sit down. I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “So am I.” She slid onto the chair, a small woman with such a big brain. “I wasn’t fair to you and had no right to judge.”

  “Doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” He truly didn’t know if he was leading or not, but so long as there was somebody to fight, he’d keep stabbing. “I thought I locked you in for the night. You should get some sleep.”

  “Sami finished training with the kids and dropped by to check on me. Then she escorted me down here before going out on patrol. My brain is working on a problem, and I’m not ready to sleep. It’s not even midnight yet, anyway.” Lynne eyed the whiskey bottle. “I’m not a prisoner.”

  That was exactly what she was. He nudged his still-full whiskey glass toward her. “Cheers.”

  She accepted the glass and lifted it to her nose, sniffing. Her eyes closed, her pretty eyelashes fluttering against her blushing skin. “Yum.”

  Hell, she looked like that just before she came. His cock sprang up, and he shifted his weight to hide the evidence. “Drink.”

  She sipped and then downed the entire shot. Sputtering, she wiped her eyes. “Wow, that’s good.”

  Actually, it was shit whiskey. Bottom of the barrel. But a luxury nonetheless. “Want another?”

  “No.” She set down the glass and studied him. “Is Jax short for Jackson?”

  “No.” He eyed his new stitches. “My mama didn’t speak English very well, and she meant to name me Jack.”

  Lynne smiled. “I like Jax. It suits you.”

  Could he even have a normal conversation like this? He cleared his throat. The previous night, he’d fucked the woman until they’d both dropped from exhaustion. This nicety? Might be too much for him. “How did you, ah, get your name?”

  Her slender fingers played with the shot glass. “My mother’s sister was named Lynne.” She shrugged. “Pretty simple.”

  Right. “Your parents—they were nice people?”

  She smiled. “Yes. My mother was a veterinarian, and my father a professor at Harvard. Good people.” She lost the grin.

  Sounded like smart and successful people—definitely upper class and the opposite of his family. “Did Scorpius get them?” he asked.

  “Yes.” One word full of guilt and pain.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked. “Me too.”

  A rustle sounded by the doorway. Ernie Baysted, sixty-year-old retired marine, hitched his impressive bulk into the
room. “I’ve got something. On the ham. A message being sent all around.”

  Lynne’s breath audibly caught.

  Jax stood and reached for her hand with his good one. For months, Ernie had manned the ham radio, trying to send messages, trying to receive anything. Could there finally be news? Maybe some sort of consolidated effort? He launched into a jog behind Ernie, trying not to run over the guy. Lynne moved at his side, albeit more slowly, trying to tug away.

  He didn’t know what her problem was, but he needed to keep her close.

  She paled and fought him, and he turned on her. “What are you doing?”

  Her lips opened and then closed. Thoughts, so many of them, scattered across her face along with fear. “I, ah, need to go to the bathroom.” She eyed the outside door.

  Awareness tickled down his spine. “No, you don’t. Why are you afraid?”

  She lifted her chin. “I’m not.”

  Definitely a lie, but he didn’t have time to suss it out. “Good. Get a move on.” Keeping a firm grip, he launched back into motion.

  They hurried into the small room Ernie had set up, which used to be an office on the first floor. He slid down and turned dials. “The voice said a message would be forthcoming in a minute. It was a man.” Ernie’s faded blue eyes lit up. “A person. A real person.”

  Jax pulled Lynne in front of him. “Stay still,” he ordered.

  She shook her head. “I have a headache and should—”

  What the hell was wrong with her? Jax wrapped his good arm around her waist and pulled her back into his body, both of them facing Ernie. “Just hold on a minute. I’ll take you back after the message.” Jesus. She was stiff as could be.

  A loud squeak echoed, and Ernie adjusted a knob. A male voice became audible:

  “Hello. To anybody hearing this message, hello. This is Commander Greg Lake of the U.S. Elite Force and the current vice president of the United States. We are the force created specifically by the president of the United States, and we are strong and in control—the Brigade and other military arms now answer to us. If anybody hears this message, please contact us. We have this message on a loop, but we are monitoring responses, and we will respond as soon as possible. We have food and medical supplies as well as protection from the Rippers.”