Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(52)

“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.