She sucked in a deep breath and tried to answer him, but only air came out. Man, she was pathetic. She tapped her head against the doorframe in a sad attempt to self-soothe.
“Um, are you okay?” he asked, hidden by the big door. “I can call for help.”
No. Oh, no. She swallowed several times. “I’m all right.” Finally, her voice worked. “Honest. It’s okay. Don’t call for anybody.” If she didn’t let them in, the authorities would probably break down the door, right? She couldn’t have that.
Silence came from the front porch, but no steps echoed. He remained in place.
Her heart continued to thunder against her ribs. She wiped her sweaty palms down her yoga pants. Why wasn’t he leaving? “Okay?” she whispered.
“You sure you don’t need help?” he called.
Her throat began to close. “I’m sure.” Go away. Please, he had to go away.
“Okay.” Heavy bootsteps clomped across her front porch, and then silence. He was gone.
* * *
Malcolm West knew the sound of terror, and he knew it well. The woman, whoever she was, had been beyond frightened at seeing him in the window. Damn it. What the hell had he been thinking to approach her house like that?
A fence enclosed their backyards together, and he’d wondered why. Had a family shared the two homes?
He grabbed another box of shit from the truck and hefted it toward the house. Maybe this had been a mistake. He’d purchased the little one story home sight unseen because of the white clapboard siding, the blue shutters, and the damn name of the town—Cottage Grove. It sounded peaceful.
He’d never truly see peace again, and he knew it.
All of the homes the real estate company had emailed him about had been sad and run down . . . until this one. It had been on the market only a few days, and the agent had insisted it wouldn’t be for long. After six months of searching desperately for a place to call home, he’d jumped on the sale.
It had been so convenient as to have been fate.
If he believed in fate, which he did not.
He walked through the simple one story home and dropped the box in the kitchen, looking out at the pine trees beyond the wooden fence. The area had been subdivided into twenty-acre lots, with tons and tons of trees, so he’d figured he wouldn’t see any other houses, which had suited him just fine.
Yet his house was next to another, and one fence enclosed their backyards together.
No other homes were even visible.
He sighed and started to turn for the living room when a sound caught his attention. His body automatically went on full alert, and he reached for the Sig nestled at his waist. Had they found him?
“Detective West? Don’t shoot. I’m a friendly,” came a deep male voice.
Malcolm pulled the gun free, the weight of it in his hand more familiar than his own voice. “Friendlies don’t show up uninvited,” he said calmly, eyeing the two main exits from the room in case he needed to run.
A guy strode toward him, hands loose at his sides. Probably in his thirties, he had bloodshot brown eyes, short brown hair, and graceful movements. His gaze showed he’d seen some shit, and there was a slight tremble in his right arm. Trying to kick a habit, was he?
Malcolm pointed the weapon at the guy’s head. “Two seconds.”
The man looked at the few boxes set around the room, not seeming to notice the gun. Even with the tremor, he moved like he could fight. “There’s nowhere to sit.”
“You’re not staying.” Malcolm could get to the vehicle hidden a mile away within minutes and then take off again. The pretty cottage was a useless dream, and he’d known it the second he’d signed the papers. “I’d hate to ruin the yellow wallpaper.” It had flowers on it, and he’d planned to change it anyway.
“Then don’t.” The guy leaned against the wall and shook out his arm.
“What are you kicking?” Malcolm asked, his voice going low.
The guy winced. “I’m losing some friends.”
“Jack, Jose, and Bud?” Mal guessed easily.
“Mainly Jack.” Now he eyed the weapon. “Mind putting that down?”
Mal didn’t flinch. “Who are you?”
Broad shoulders heaved in an exaggerated sigh. “My name is Angus Force, and I’m here to offer you an opportunity.”
“Is that a fact? I don’t need a new toaster.” Mal slid the gun back into place. “Go away.”
“Detective—”
“I’m not a detective any longer, asshole. Get out of my house.” Mal could use a good fight, and he was about to give himself what he needed.
“Whoa.” Force held up a hand. “Just hear me out. I’m part of a new unit with, ah, the federal government, and we need a guy with your skills.”
Heat rushed up Mal’s chest. His main skill these days was keeping himself from going ballistic on assholes, and he was about to fail in that. “I’m not interested, Force. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
Force shook his head. “I understand you’re struggling with the aftereffects of a difficult assignment, but you won. You got the bad guy.”
Yeah, but how many people had died? In front of him? Mal’s vision started to narrow. “You don’t want to be here any longer, Force.”
“You think you’re the only one with PTSD, dickhead?” Force spat, losing his casual façade.
“No, but I ain’t lookin’ to bond over it.” Sweat rolled down Mal’s back. “How’d you find me, anyway?”
Force visibly settled himself. “It’s not exactly a coincidence that you bought this house. The only one that came close to what you were looking for.” He looked around the old-lady cheerful kitchen. “Though it is sweet.”
Mal’s fingers closed into a fist. “You set me up.”
“Yeah, we did. We need you here.” Force gestured around.
Mal’s lungs compressed. “Why?”
“Because you’re the best undercover cop we’ve ever seen, and we need that right now. Bad.” Mal ran a shaking hand through his hair.
“Why?” Mal asked, already fearing the answer.
“The shut-in next door. She’s the key to one of the biggest homegrown threats to our entire country. And here you are.” Force’s eyes gleamed with the hit.
Well, fuck.
Turn the page for a preview of the first novel
in the groundbreaking new series by Rebecca Zanetti!
Mercury Striking
Available now in paperback and e-book
from Zebra Books.
“Nothing is easy or black or white in Zanetti’s grim new reality, but hope is key, and I hope she writes faster!”
—New York Times bestselling author Larissa Ione
With nothing but rumors to lead her, Lynn Harmony has trekked across a nightmare landscape to find one man—a mysterious, damaged legend who protects the weak and leads the strong. He’s more than muscle and firepower—and in post-plague L.A., he’s her only hope. As the one woman who could cure the disease, Lynn is the single most volatile—and vulnerable—creature in this new and ruthless world. But face to face with Jax Mercury . . .
Danger has never looked quite so delicious . . .
Life on Earth is at the ever-increasing risk of being wiped out by a disaster, such as sudden global nuclear war, a genetically engineered virus or other dangers we have not yet thought of.—Stephen Hawking
Despair hungered in the darkness, not lingering, not languishing . . . but waiting to bite. No longer the little brother of rage, despair had taken over the night, ever present, an actor instead of an afterthought.
Lynn picked her way along the deserted twelve-lane interstate, allowing the weak light from the moon to guide her. An unnatural silence hung heavy over the empty land. Rusted carcasses of cars lined the sides, otherwise, the once vibrant 405 was dead, yet she trod carefully.
Her months of hiding had taught her stealth. Prey needed stealth, as did the hunter.
She was both.
The tennis shoes she’d stolen from an abandoned thrift store protected her feet from the cracked asphalt. A click echoed in the darkness. About time. She’d made it closer to Los Angeles, well, what used to be Los Angeles, than she’d hoped.
A strobe light hit her full on, rendering sight useless. She closed her eyes. They’d either kill her or not. Either way, no need to go blind. “I want to see Mercury.”
Silence. Then several more clicks. Guns of some type.
She forced strength into her voice. “You don’t want to kill me without taking me to Mercury first.” Jax Mercury, to be exact. If he still existed. If not, she was screwed anyway.
“Why would we do that?” A voice from the darkness, angry and near.
She opened her eyes, allowing light to narrow her pupils. “I’m Lynn Harmony.”
Gasps, low and male, echoed around her. They’d closed in silently, just as well trained as she’d heard. As she’d hoped.
“Bullshit,” a voice hissed from her left.
She tilted her head toward the voice, then slowly, so slowly they wouldn’t be spooked, she unbuttoned her shirt. No catcalls, no suggestive responses followed. Shrugging her shoulders, she dropped the cotton to the ground, facing the light.
She hadn’t worn a bra, but she doubted the echoing exhales of shock were from her size B’s. More likely the shimmering blue outline of her heart caught their attention. Yeah, she was a freak. Typhoid Mary in the body of a woman who’d made a mistake. A big one. But she might be able to save the men surrounding her. “So. Jax Mercury. Now.”
One man stepped closer. Gang tattoos lined his face, inked tears showing his kills. He might have been thirty, he might have been sixty. Regardless, he was dangerous. Eyeing her chest, he quickly crossed himself. “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”
“Not even close.” Wearily, she reached down and grabbed her shirt, shrugging it back on. She figured the “take me to your leader” line would get her shot. “Do you want to live or not?”
He met her gaze, hope and fear twisting his scarred upper lip. “Yes.”
It was the most sincere sound she’d heard in months. “We’re running out of time.” Time had deserted them long ago, but she needed to get a move on. “Please.” The sound shocked her, the civility of it, a word she’d forgotten how to use. The slightest of hopes warmed that blue organ in her chest, reminding her of who she used to be. Who she’d lost.
Another figure stepped forward, this one big and silent. Deadly power vibrated in the shift of muscle as light illuminated him from behind, keeping his features shrouded. “I didn’t tell you to put your shirt back on.” No emotion, no hint of humanity echoed in the deep rumble.
The lack of emotion twittered anxiety through her abdomen. Without missing a beat, she secured each button, keeping the movements slow and sure. “I take it you’re Mercury.” Regardless of name, there was no doubt the guy was in charge.
“If I am?” Soft, his voice promised death.
A promise she’d make him keep. Someday. The breeze picked up, tumbling weeds across the deserted 405. She fought a shiver. Any weakness shown might get her killed. “You know who I am.”
“I know who you say you are.” His overwhelming form blocked out the light, reminding her of her smaller size. “Take off your shirt.”
Something about the way he said it gave her pause. Before, she hadn’t cared. But with him so close she could smell male; an awareness of her femininity brought fresh fear. Nevertheless, she unbuttoned her shirt.
This time, her hands trembled.
Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders and left the shirt on, the worn material gaping in the front.
He waited.
She lifted her chin, trying to meet his eyes, although she couldn’t see them. The men around them remained silent, yet alertness carried on the breeze. How many guns were trained on her? She wanted to tell them it would only take one. Though she’d been through hell, she’d never really learned to fight.
The wind whipped into action, lifting her long hair away from her face. Her arms tightened against her rib cage. Goose bumps rose along her skin.
Swearing softly, the man stepped in, long tapered fingers drawing her shirt apart. He shifted to the side, allowing light to blast her front. Neon blue glowed along her flesh.
“Jesus.” He pressed his palm against her breastbone—directly above her heart.
Shock tightened her muscles, her eyes widening, and that heart ripping into a gallop. Her nipples pebbled from the breeze. Warmth cascaded from his hand when he spread his fingers over the odd blue of her skin. When was the last time someone had touched her gently?
And gentle, he was.
The touch had her looking down at his damaged hand. Faded white scars slashed across his knuckles, above the veins, past his wrist. The bizarre glow from her heart filtered through his long fingers. Her entire chest was aqua from within, those veins closest to her heart, which glowed neon blue, shining strong enough to be seen through her ribs and sternum.
He exhaled loudly, removing his touch.
An odd sense of loss filtered down her spine. Then surprise came as he quickly buttoned her shirt to the top.
He clasped her by the elbow. “Cut the light.” His voice didn’t rise, but instantly, the light was extinguished. “I’m Mercury. What do you want?”
What a question. What she wanted, nobody could provide. Yet she struggled to find the right words. Night after night, traveling under darkness to reach him, she’d planned for this moment. But the words wouldn’t come. She wanted to breathe. To rest. To hide. “Help. I need your help.” The truth tumbled out too fast to stop.
He stiffened and then tightened his hold on her arm. “That, darlin’, you’re gonna have to earn.”
* * *
Jax eyed the brunette sitting in the backseat of the battered Subaru. He’d stolen the vehicle from a home in Beverly Hills after all hell had broken loose. The gardener who’d owned it no longer needed it, considering he was twelve feet under.
The luxury SUV sitting so close to the Subaru had tempted him, but the older car would last longer and use less gas, which was almost depleted, anyway. Hell, everything they had was almost depleted. From medical supplies to fuel to books to, well, hope. How the hell did he refill everybody with hope when he could barely remember the sensation?
The night raid had been a search for more gasoline from abandoned vehicles, not a search party for survivors. He’d never thought to find Lynn Harmony.
The woman had closed her eyes, her head resting against the plush leather. Soft moonlight wandered through the tinted windows to caress the sharp angles of her face. With deep green eyes and pale skin, she was much prettier than he’d expected . . . much softer. Too soft.
Though, searching him out, well now. The woman had guts.
Manny kept looking at her through the rearview mirror, and for some reason, that irritated Jax. “Watch the road.”
Manny cut a glance his way. At over fifty years old, beaten and weathered, he took orders easily. “There’s no one out here tonight but us.”
“We hope.” Jax’s gut had never lied to him. Somebody was coming. If the woman had brought danger to his little place in the world, she’d pay.
Her eyes flashed open, directly meeting his gaze. The pupils contracted while her chin lifted. Devoid of expression, she just stared.
He stared back.
A light pink wandered from her chest up her face to color her high cheekbones. Fascinated, he watched the blush deepen. When was the last time he’d seen a woman blush? He certainly hadn’t expected it from the woman who’d taken out most of the human race.
Around them, off-road vehicles kept pace. Some dirt bikes, a few four-wheelers, even a fancy Razor confiscated from another mansion. Tension rode the air, and some of it came from Manny.
“Say it,” Jax murmured, acutely, maybe too much so, aware of the woman in the backseat.
“This is a mistake,” Manny said, his hands
tightening on the steering wheel. “You know who she is. What she is.”
“I doubt that.” He turned to glance again at the woman, his sidearm sweeping against the door. She’d turned to stare out at the night again, her shoulders hunched, her shirt hiding that odd blue glow. “Are you going to hurt me or mine?” he asked.
Slowly, she turned to meet his gaze again. “I don’t know.” Frowning, she leaned forward just enough to make his muscles tense in response. “How many people are yours?”
He paused, his head lifting. “All of them.”
She smiled. “I’d heard that about you.” Turning back to the window, she fingered the glass as if wanting to touch what was out of reach.
“Heard what?” he asked.
“Your sense of responsibility. Leadership. Absolute willingness to kill.” Her tone lacked inflection, as if she just stated facts. “You are, right? Willing to kill?”
He stilled, his eyes cutting to Manny and back to the woman. “You want me to kill somebody?”
“Yes.”
He kept from outwardly reacting. Not much surprised him any longer, but he hadn’t been expecting a contract killing request from Lynn Harmony. “We’ve lost ninety-nine percent of the world’s population, darlin’. Half of the survivors are useless, and the other half is just trying to survive. You’d better have a good reason for wanting someone dead.”
“Useless isn’t an accurate description,” she said quietly.
“If they can’t help me, if they’re a hindrance, they’re fucking useless.” He’d turned off the switch deep down that discerned a gray area between the enemy and his people months ago, and there was no changing that. He’d become what was needed to survive and to live through desperate times. “You might want to remember that fact.”
Her shoulders went back, and she rested her head, staring up at the ceiling. “I’d love to be useless.”
He blinked and turned back around to the front. Her words had been soft, her tone sad, and her meaning heartbreaking. If he still had a heart. So the woman wanted to die, did she? No fucking way. The blood in her veins was more than a luxury, it might be a necessity. She didn’t get to die. “Please tell me you’re not the one I’m supposed to kill,” he said, his heart beating faster.