Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(66)
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.
She blinked. “I thought we were, I mean . . .”
His brows drew down, and his expression, although unreadable, made her feel like a complete dumbass.
She lowered her arms. “I’m confused.”
Amusement, for the first time that night and definitely at her expense, lit his eyes. “We’re heading to the war room where the maps are so you can show me the location of Myriad.”
“Oh.” She wiped damp hands down her pants.
His amusement disappeared. “You’re going to be honest and show me everything. Deviate from that order, even an inch, and I ain’t gonna be gentle, Lynne. Get me?”
She slowly nodded, reminding herself that she wasn’t scared of him. Nope. Not at all. “I get you.”
“Good.”
“I caught some sleep last night, but you didn’t. You should sleep.” She cleared her throat.
“I’m fine.” He turned to open the door and stilled. “Has Lena, the little blonde girl, given you anything?”
Lynne stared at his back, her curiosity blooming. “Yes. A rock with the number four scratched into both sides.”
His head lifted. “Two fours? Like my tattoo?”
“Yes. Why?”
He turned and pulled open a kitchen drawer to reveal a pile of rocks.
Lynne leaned closer to see the rocks all had hearts drawn or scratched into them. Blue hearts. “What in the world?” she breathed.
He shook his head and opened the door, walking into the hallway. “Mystery for later?”
She swallowed, more than happy to forget rocks for the moment. “What about Bret?”
“I’m returning that message. After that point, what happens depends on him.” Jax widened the door. “Let’s go. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The planet is much smaller than most people realize . . . a shot across a boundary sets a fire in one’s own backyard.
—Dr. Franklin Xavier Harmony
Jax led Lynne down the stairs to the main vestibule of the building. Morning light finally filtered through the glass doors, hopefully marking the end of the storm. After the shitty night with the headless corpse, his mind kept trying to return to Afghanistan and one of the worst days of his life, but he shoved the panic attack and pain away to be dealt with later. Now wasn’t the time.
They reached the door to the war room. Something caught his attention, and he turned toward the outside door. His breath caught. Instinct flared down his back, and he stilled.
The world exploded.
Glass blew out of the truck windows. He tackled Lynne to the ground, covering her, ducking from flying glass. Another explosion rocked the earth, and metal parts flew through the day.
A scream came from outside. “Stay here.” He turned and ran out into the smoke and kept going through the first line of vehicles to reach a downed guard—a woman named Heloise.
“Shit,” he muttered, feeling for and not finding a pulse.
“I’m sorry, Jax,” Lynne said, shoving hair from her face. The damn woman had followed him.
Another explosion pierced nearby metal, and he jumped over her, taking her down. He crouched onto his knees, got a good hold of her shirt, and lifted. Her hands and feet scrabbled against the mud. Staying low, he carried her around the closest barrier. “Report,” he bellowed to Raze, who was running through the barrier, gun in hand, Sami on his six.
Another explosion echoed, and an engine part flew through the air. Fucking grenades.
His soldiers, armed with guns and knives, flowed out between the two barriers. A Molotov cocktail landed next to his feet, and he leaped for Lynne, throwing her away. The blast knocked him off his feet, and he landed hard. “Damn it.” He shoved himself to stand in the mud. “Fucking Cruz.”
“You sure it’s him?” Tace asked, tossing Jax a semiautomatic weapon.
“Yes.” Fucker loved Molotov cocktails. “Take defensive positions,” he yelled, watching as the soldiers ranging from former teachers to golf instructors to marines fanned out as he’d taught them. He stalked over to Lynne and lifted her up.
She was wide eyed and trembling, with mud covering her entire right side. He pushed her toward Wyatt, who’d finished setting sentries into position. “Get her inside and secure before coming back out.”
Wyatt grabbed Lynne’s arm. “I’ve got you, Lynne.” He turned and pulled her toward the openings in the minivans. Automatic fire spattered through the day, pinging off metal. Jax ducked and crouched behind the semi already on its side, turning to aim between broken shards of glass. Purple, the color of Twenty, filled his view, and he started firing.
More shots pinged around him, and a cry of pain, low and dark, jerked up his head. He turned to see Wyatt fall, knocking Lynne over. Lynne scrambled and planted her hands over Wyatt’s neck. Blood welled between her fingers. She ripped off her shirt and held it against the wound, grabbing Wyatt’s hand to cover it. Without missing a beat, she grabbed his gun and positioned herself in front of him in a crouch, barrel pointed toward Twenty members.
“Somebody get him behind the vans,” she yelled, pulling off three shots.
Wyatt shrugged her off and dragged himself to sit, his back to the minivan on its side. Keeping one hand on his neck, he reached for another weapon in his boot, pointing beyond the trucks.