Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(6)
“Yeah.” Jax inhaled the scent of woman. “If she’s a genius serial killer, I still don’t see why she’d walk into my territory.” He could break her neck with minimal effort if she tried to infect anybody with a new contagion. “She definitely has an agenda, and it has something to do with either me or our land. My guess is that it’s the territory, but I could be wrong.” The woman had asked for him by name, and the desperation in her initial plea had rung true.
“I think we should’ve left her on the side of the road.” Manny shuddered.
Thunder bellowed louder, obviously creeping closer.
Jax glanced down as very weak light slid over the delicate features of Lynne Harmony’s face. They had a distance to go before he needed to hood her again. Hopefully he hadn’t made a colossal mistake in letting her live.
He’d find out soon enough.
Chapter Three
Alliances ebb and flow with man, and sometimes, true friendships emerge.
—Dr. Franklin Xavier Harmony
What had she done? Lynne had actually fallen asleep on Jax Mercury. She awoke, blinking inside the stifling hood, just as he lifted her into the cool morning air and easily strode over uneven ground. A slight change of temperature hit her, and his steps leveled out.
Inside. They were inside somewhere. The smell of dust and burned tomato soup tickled her nose, but no sound provided a clue as to their whereabouts. All but blinded, she tried to tune in to her other senses. Jax’s boots clomped heavily across a hard surface, and his heart beat steadily against her shoulder.
His stride didn’t hitch as he climbed stairs, turned, walked in a too-quiet area, and opened a door. The world tilted, and he placed her, gently actually, on what felt like a fake leather sofa.
He yanked the hood off.
Light from halogen lamps assaulted her wide pupils, and she winced, her eyes tearing. “You’re an ass.”
Silver flashed, and he cut the zip ties. “So it has been said.”
Heat climbed into her face. The man had carried her easily and didn’t seem winded a bit. Even so, the legends whispered around campfires and refugee camps across the country had to be exaggerated. Nobody was that tough. “We need to talk,” she gritted out.
He yanked a kitchen chair toward her, turned it, and straddled it. Now, in the light, she was struck by how young he really was. Maybe midthirties, black hair, dark brown eyes, and rugged facial features. Handsome in a pissed-off kind of way. A scar cut under the left side of his jaw, white and deadly. “So, talk.”
She swallowed and tugged her backpack to her chest, glancing around what appeared to be a small apartment. A kitchenette took up one wall, an unmade bed the other, with dented furniture in between. Sofa, metal coffee table, wood-laminate kitchen table, paint peeling pink kids’ dresser, and mismatched kitchen chairs. Maps covered the table, spread out haphazardly. “Where am I?”
“You don’t get to know that.” He rested his arms on the top of the chair, muscles flexing.
She bit her lip. Men’s clothing littered the unmade bed, and the smell of musk and male filled the atmosphere. “Whose place am I in?”
“Mine.” He lifted a shoulder, his gaze unwavering. “And yours now, I guess.”
She pushed back into the torn leather. “I’m not, I mean, I—”
One dark eyebrow rose. “You’re here because I’m keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t infect anybody else.”
“I won’t infect anybody else,” she said slowly, her nails digging into the couch until the pads of her fingertips protested.
“We don’t really know the truth about that statement, now do we? You’re the ultimate carrier of the most dangerous plague to ever attack mankind.” He lowered his chin, the movement somehow menacing. “You’re also here so I can make sure you’re not ready to check out.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I’d wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t have traveled this far to do it.”
“Fair enough.”
She glanced at the unmade bed. Too many women had become victims as the world had disintegrated; the strong overcame the weak. She wasn’t weak, and she was no man’s plaything. “I’m not here for your amusement.”
“I’m not amused.” He leaned toward her, and her breath caught in her throat. “Let me be perfectly clear. I don’t force myself on women, and neither do any of my men. Any people here, and anyone we come across, remain safe from personal attack. Rape is a crime dealt with by death, so you have no need to fear.”
She’d heard that in the rumors and tales, but she hadn’t known it to be true. “Women don’t earn their keep, earn their protection, with sex here?” Wherever here was.
“No.”
“You were in an inner-city L.A. gang. Years ago.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Rape was against the rules?”
His face blanked. “No, but I’ve never forced a woman.” Those dark eyes narrowed. “My past is my own. You sure know a lot about me.”
Not really. He’d become a folk legend fighting in L.A. before the news had shut down. Since then she’d been trying to gather facts, but there were still blanks. “Why did you leave the gang? I’ve never heard why you entered the army.”