Storm Gathering: Scorpius Syndrome Book 4

by Rebecca Zanetti

  She jerked and reached for a small pack. “Yes. I put it in here. Atticus gave it to me.”

  Grey studied her. She'd been off since she arrived, the kiss notwithstanding. Why was she so nervous? “Are you sure you're up to this? We can come back tomorrow.”

  “I'm fine.” Her chin firmed, and she shoved open her door. “Let's see if there's any hope here.”

  * * *

  The front door of the first greenhouse led to a series of offices with papers strewn all around. Enough light came through the myriad of windows that flashlights were unnecessary in this area. Desk drawers were open and dumped on the floor, and even the books had been ripped off shelves. Maureen glanced down at some papers, picking up a couple. “Graduate student experiments,” she mused, reading quickly.

  Greyson surveyed the office. “Early looters were just looking for food and medicine. We won't find anything else here.”

  His voice was a low timber, and it settled right into her belly. Her lips still tingled from his kiss, and her body felt electrified. Ready. Willing and able. Man. She had to get a grip on herself.

  Why was life so damn confusing?

  She nodded and then moved into the hallway, walking down it to a door that had been left ajar. Opening it, she peered around to see six tables set around the room. The smell of decay hit her, and she took several deep breaths. She couldn't throw up again, damn it. Dead plants and flowers lined the tables, now crumbling to dust. “This was a workroom.” Lifting her head, she moved across the room to the next one. “This should be a growth room.”

  More decay and dead plants. The smell was, well, sad. She surveyed the equipment and where the water should've been supplied. “We're not going to find anything here, Greyson.” Moving past the growth room, she made her way to the room that really mattered.

  The containment room.

  Chances were the university hadn't been working on anything too dangerous. But this would be an indication of what she'd find at the other labs. Probably.

  The door to the containment room was only partly closed. Wonderful. Just freaking great. She paused.

  “What?” Greyson said from right behind her. This close, she could feel his heat. Feel the strength that was at her back.

  “Not good,” she muttered. On any level. Professional or personal. She had to get a grip on herself. She started to step inside the room, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Wait a minute. Is this dangerous?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Doubtful. Very doubtful. They would've just been experimenting with crops, and possibly fungi. Harmful agents that infect plants.” He released her, and she moved inside to see the entire place ripped apart. “Scavengers got here.” If they'd taken any food, they might've spread a disease or three. “I was afraid of this.”

  Greyson looked around at the decay and disaster. “So, no food?

  “Not a chance.” She turned and looked at him. “We have three more greenhouses to check out on the university campus, but we're not going to find viable food options here. Water is a problem, as is good soil, as are seeds. If we can even find any.”

  He looked down from his twelve inches of height. “Is it possible, though?”

  She tilted her head. “To make these sustain food for about fifty people? Maybe.” She shook her head. “But that's limited at some point. You understand that, right? You need land and fresh water to sustain a bigger population. Think long-term.”

  He scratched his head. “I don't have the luxury of thinking long-term yet.”

  Ouch. Okay. She kind of knew that already, but she didn't have a choice. “All right.”

  “Let's check out the other greenhouses, and then you can give me a plan for how to get them up and running again. I just need enough food for the Mercs. Not worried about the rest of the world quite yet.”

  “That's fine, but you're not seeing the problem. The bigger problem,” she murmured, surveying the hole in the far wall.

  “What's that?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  Her entire shoulder. The man was so strong and big and capable. Everything in her—especially the pieces she didn't trust—wanted to turn and burrow right into him. To let him shield her—even just for the moment. But she stood taller. “Any bad agents, though there probably weren't many, were let out of here. If we find similar breaches in other labs, particularly one studying the deadlier strands, we're in trouble. Future trouble with all crops and food sources.”

  He blinked. “What are our options?”

  She winced. “We're going to have to view live crops. I'll come up with a plan, but we're sharing it with Vanguard. And we need to visit the Bunker.” She couldn't leave her brother out.

  Greyson sighed. “Why do you want to go to the Bunker?”

  “Resources,” she said simply, fully aware she was only telling him half the truth. “As far as I've heard, there are many Bunkers throughout the USA, and one of them, if not several of them, will have the information we need.” She wasn't ready to tell him everything—not until Vanguard could be included.

  He slid his hold down her arm and took her hand. “So there's nothing here right now?”

  “No.” She surveyed the equipment rusting in the corner. “If you get fresh water here, which I'm not sure is possible, you might be able to grow vegetables. Maybe.” Though it wasn't the best plan.

  Although, she didn't have a best plan quite yet. Nausea rolled within her stomach. Suddenly and without question. Must be those stupid pregnancy hormones. She needed to find some crackers. Those were supposed to help, right?

  He partially turned her to face him. “You've gone pale again.”

  Yeah. Morning sickness sucked. But at least that meant her body was still creating the pregnancy hormone, so she was still pregnant. The threat plaguing her wouldn't leave her alone, and she had to banish it. Just because Dr. Penelope didn't know of any live births since Scorpius, didn't mean there hadn't been any. Information was tough to obtain. The room started to spin.

  Greyson stepped in. “Moe? You okay?”

  She gulped in air and tried to keep the dry cereal she'd eaten earlier in her stomach. Did she owe him the truth? Just in case the baby didn't survive? What would he do? She had to think this through. “Yes. I'm fine. Just that bug. Guess I'm not over it.”

  He ran a gentle knuckle down the side of her face, swiping across her jawline. His eyes were more green than gray in the oddly lit room. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” She swept her hand out. “You know I'm not a gardener, right? Not even a farmer.”

  “I don't understand.”

  That's what she’d thought. Her stomach started to calm down a little. “I'm a genetic engineer. I work to splice and dice and protect plants and crops. I don't actually garden.”

  He groaned and looked around.

  More nausea rolled. Darn it. She cleared her throat.

  “You're even paler,” he said quietly.

  “I'm honestly fine. Just a bug.” She swallowed.

  He lifted his chin. “If you're sure, then we need to talk at some point. About what just happened in the car.”

  Heat bloomed into her face.

  “There you go.” His lips twitched into a smile. “You're quite the blusher.”

  That's why she'd never gotten away with anything in high school. “What's there to talk about?” Her voice squeaked.

  “I want to kiss you again, and if we're back at headquarters, I don't want to stop with a kiss. Just thought you should know.” With that, he took her hand and led her out of the useless greenhouse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There's another attack coming, I can feel it. The question is: from where and from whom?

  —Greyson Storm, Letters to Miss Julian

  The sun beat down and heated the sand all around them as if issuing punishment. After the day of surveying useless greenhouses with Maureen, Greyson finished pointing out weak points to Damon on the northern end of the beach as the still hot sun
set over the Pacific Ocean. “Get the patrol boats going more often.”

  Damon stood in the sand, his tennis shoes covered, his sunglasses reflecting the lingering rays. “You expecting a hit?”

  Grey shrugged. “Of course. The president will strike again. If he's still alive.” Grey had left Maureen an hour before after they inspected three more greenhouses. The last one, a private one close to the city, had concerned her the most. She'd gathered data and had promised to update him during a late dinner that night. “Or Vanguard will hit again. Or one of the gangs.”

  “We're vulnerable via the beach,” Damon agreed, dusting sand off his dark jeans. “Patrols on the ocean will help, but that's temporary. Gas is temporary.”

  Apparently everything was temporary, including food. “I know.”

  A radio crackled, and Damon drew it from his back pocket. “Status.”

  “Checking in. Have a report.” Bob Murphy's western twang was easily identifiable.

  Damon looked in the direction of the nearest mansion. “Meet us in the blue house on the northernmost corner.”

  “Copy that,” Bob said.

  Grey eyed the vibrant pinks and yellows across the sky. Was Maureen taking a moment to enjoy the splendor? Somehow, he doubted it. She'd been wrapped up in the paperwork and had barely noticed him leave. He turned and followed Damon into the blue house, which had been outfitted with machine guns to protect the border.

  He stopped short in the grand living room when he saw one of his men on a floral sofa with a box of crackers in his hands next to a thin, dark-haired woman in ripped shorts and a tank top.

  His guy jumped to his feet. “Hi, boss. Didn't know you'd be coming by.”

  It took Greyson a minute to remember the guy's name. Then it all clicked. Taylor Jameson. Ex-realtor, thirty-five years old from Alabama, and a hill-billy who was a decent shot and a master with a blade. The guy's blond hair was slicked back, and it looked like he was growing a goatee. “Aren't you on duty?” Grey asked quietly, his body tensing.

  “Just got off,” Jameson said easily. “Thought I'd sit here and admire the sunset with my lady.”

  The woman hadn't taken her eyes off the crackers. She had dark hair pulled back in a rubber band, light eyes, and skinny arms. A closer look made her out to be eighteen, tops.

  Grey's chest heated. “Did you get any news on Zach Barter?”

  Jameson shook his head. “Nope. Checked with two new encampments and used the old pictures. Nobody could even identify him.” Taylor winked at the woman, and she swallowed loudly.

  Fuck. Greyson stared at her. “Darlin’? What's your name?”

  She swung her wide gaze to him and seemed to shrink back into the cushions. “Leslie.”

  “You hungry, Leslie?” he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.

  She swallowed and slowly nodded.

  Ah, fuck. He so wasn't liking where this was going. “Did you just meet your buddy here? Maybe while he was on patrol?”

  She swallowed but didn't answer, looking like prey caught between hawks.

  He sighed. “Did he promise you food?”

  She slowly nodded. “After,” she whispered.

  Fury pounded through Greyson, and it took every ounce of control he had not to grab Jameson by the neck and snap it.

  Damon breathed out loudly, his face darkening.

  “Clarke?” Greyson bellowed.

  The woman cringed and shoved back into the sofa even more.

  “Yo, boss.” The front door opened, and the assigned guard loped inside. Jay Clarke was an ex-stock broker, a great shot, and a funny guy.

  Grey nodded at the woman. “You know anything about this?”

  Clarke's brown eyes narrowed. “No. I knew Jameson was off duty and had planned to double check the weapons near the windows facing north. Didn't know there was a kid here.”

  Good. Greyson nodded. “Take her to Atticus and have him feed her. More protein than anything else.” He dropped to his haunches so she'd meet his eyes. “Nobody is going to hurt you, and you can have all the food you want. Atticus is a good guy, and he'll set you up with a private but unfortunately cold shower outside and a nice place to sleep tonight. We'll talk about what you want to do next tomorrow.”

  She glanced at Jameson and then back. “Do next?”

  “There are safe places to go.” Greyson straightened and took a couple of steps back. “Stay to the beach on the way to headquarters,” he told Clarke. The walk by the ocean with the pretty sunset might reassure her a little. He paused. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

  She gulped and looked around before finally meeting his eyes. “Seventeen. I'm pretty sure.”

  Fuck. He nodded. “Go with Clarke. I promise you'll be safe.” For now, anyway. There wasn't a lot of safety if she decided to take off on her own tomorrow. Maybe he could talk her into going to Vanguard.

  She nodded and stood, edging toward the back door, her gaze darting from man to man. The poor thing was waiting for somebody to pounce.

  Clarke followed her at a safe distance, his face thunderous.

  Greyson waited. “How long you been pulling shit like this?”

  Jameson leaned against the fireplace. “Shit like what?” He set the box of crackers on the mantle.

  “Finding little girls while out scouting and promising them food for sex,” Damon snapped. “How long you been a pedophile?”

  Jameson swallowed. “I'm not. Hey. That bitch looked eighteen.”

  Damon snarled. “Things need to change around here, Grey.”

  Greyson started and looked at his friend. “I don't condone this. Not at all.”

  “I know, but the situation is ripe for it. It's time to fucking evolve,” Damon snapped.

  There was truth to that statement, but Greyson didn't want to deal with it right now. “Can we argue later, honey? Right now, I have a moron to kill.”

  Jameson held up his hands. “Wait a minute. I found her on the upper east side, scavenging through an old card store. I didn't jump on her or make her do anything. She made all the promises if I just brought her here.”

  Grey might actually throw up. “It didn't occur to you to just feed the kid and make sure she was safe?”

  “Dude.” Jameson waved his hands. “I haven't had a woman in two months. Come on.”

  Grey lost it. He punched out, nailing the asshole in the gut.

  Jameson doubled over with a pained ‘oof.’

  Greyson stepped back. “Who exactly did you have two months ago?” He'd made it clear. He'd made it very clear that rape was punishable by death.

  “A woman living in an old fast food restaurant outside of the city. She was willing, too,” Jameson said, his face red. He groaned as he straightened up.

  “We have a different definition of 'willing,'“ Greyson muttered.

  Jameson coughed several times. “Hey. There's no law these days. Prostitution is legal, as far as I'm concerned.”

  “Can I just kill him?” Damon asked grimly. “Put the body out front? It's our new thing.”

  The front door opened, and Bob walked in, removing body armor as he moved.

  “This shit is hot,” he said, shrugging out of the bulletproof vest. He nodded at Grey. “My partner headed down to the infirmary. We got caught by a couple of Rippers on the way, and he needs stitches. The other team is still up north recording the president's actions and will approach him per your directive.”

  Hopefully they wouldn’t get shot on sight. “We have a medic for your partner in the infirmary,” Grey said. He turned to Damon. “Make it known that Taylor Jameson was kicked out of the Mercs, and make it fucking clear why. Toss his ass outside the perimeter with nothing but the clothes he's wearing. Tell the guards that if they see him again, anywhere around Merc territory, to shoot on sight.”

  Bob paused in ditching his armor and setting his pack on the sofa table. “What's going on?”

  Damon ignored him and grabbed Jameson by the arm, shoving him around the sofa. “Tha
t's a plan.” He pushed the sputtering moron down the hallway and out the door.

  Grey eyed Bob. “When you're scouting or out on patrol, do you ever trade food for sex?”

  Bob was six-feet tall, and broad across the chest, and a former cowboy from Montana. A scar down the side of his neck did nothing to diminish what had to be considered good looks. “Gross. No.” He tossed his short-range radio on the back of the sofa. “Do I look like I need to bribe women?”

  Grey scrubbed a hand down his face. “It's happening though. Right?”

  Bob nodded. “I've heard stories, but Grey, there ain't a lot of women out there. If we find people who are scared and vulnerable, we send them to Vanguard. If they need food, we give it to them first.”

  Good. “Apparently Jameson had different ideas,” Grey said.

  Bob reached for his pack and walked around to drop onto the sofa. “Maybe it's time to integrate women into Merc territory.” He held up a hand. “I get why you went with male soldiers to secure the territory until things died down, and I agree that women are a distraction. But it's time, man.”

  “I've never said no to anybody having a relationship,” Grey protested.

  Damon strode in the front door, obviously catching the end of the sentence. “No, but single women and maybe even kids should be part of the Mercs. Not just chicks attached to soldiers.”

  Grey breathed out. He'd been mulling over the idea for a while, and it did make sense. How to implement the change, he hadn't yet figured out. “Then we need female soldiers also. If we're to start building a society, we need independent jobs for women. Otherwise it won't work.”

  “We could just align and combine with Vanguard,” Damon said quietly. “Of course, they'd need to move here. They have to get out of inner city LA at some point, anyway. But I'm not sure the infrastructure here would work for that.”

  Jesus. The last thing Grey wanted to figure out was infrastructure and Vanguard. He jerked his head at Bob. “What did you find out?”