Wicked Edge

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Every nerve she owned short-circuited. Her gut clenched as if a fist had plowed into her solar plexus. Slowly, spraying water, she pivoted toward the opening. It couldn’t be. It really couldn’t be.

  The voice she knew so well. Male, low, slight Scottish brogue a decade in the States hadn’t quite banished. Her heart thundered, and fire skidded across her abdomen to flare deep. How was this even possible? She steeled her shoulders and approached the opening of the plane as if a bomb waited inside. So many thoughts rioted through her brain, she couldn’t grasp just one.

  Warmth hit her first when she stepped inside, followed by another shock wave. “Deacan Devlin McDougall,” she murmured.

  He stretched to his feet from one of the luxurious leather chairs, standing in the aisle—the only place high enough to accommodate his six-foot-four frame.

  All the thoughts zinging around her head stopped cold.

  Nothing. Her brain fuzzed. The years had been good to him, experience adding an intriguing look of danger to his masculine beauty.

  His green gaze, dark and piercing, scored her see-through shirt, light wrap, and bare legs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the extraction.”

  Her chin lifted. Heat seared through her lungs, lifting her chest, and she slowly tried to control her body. No way would she let him see how difficult he made it for her to breathe—even after all this time.

  He wore faded jeans over long legs and a dark T-shirt across a broad chest—no uniform. But the gun strapped to his leg was military issue, now wasn’t it? The weapon, so silent and deadly, appeared at home on his muscled thigh.

  His dark brown hair, glinting with red highlights, now almost reached his shoulders. Very different from the buzz cut he’d had years before. His eyes, the green of a Scottish moor, held secrets, unplumbed depths, and promise. Chiseled face, hard jaw, and definite warrior features proudly proclaimed his ancestry, and even now, she could see the Highlander in him.

  The door banged shut behind her, and she jumped.

  He gestured toward the seat across from the one he’d occupied. The engines roared to life.

  She faltered. “Where are we going?”

  He reached into an overhead compartment and drew out a plush blanket. “D.C.”

  The plane lurched forward, and she stumbled. He grasped her arm, shooting an electrical jolt up her bicep.

  His eyes darkened. “I’d wondered.”

  “Me too.” As kids, they’d been combustible. So she hadn’t imagined the spark from years ago. She blinked confusion from her vision and allowed him to settle her into the seat. The second he covered her legs with the warm blanket, she finally took a deep breath.

  He sat down, gaze somber. “You haven’t responded to my proposition.”

  Her head jerked back. “This isn’t, I mean, you—” She gestured around the luxurious plane.

  His lips twitched. “No. I did not execute a military extraction and secure three private jets to force you into making up your mind to meet me in person now that I’m settled in the States. Finally.”

  She plucked at a string on the blanket. They’d kept in touch through the years, and when he’d sent her an e-mail two months ago saying he wanted to meet up with her, she’d needed time to think about it. “I didn’t think so.”

  Turn the page for a preview of the first novel

  in the groundbreaking new series by Rebecca Zanetti!

  Mercury Striking

  will be available in paperback and e-book

  in February 2016 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 . . .

  Chapter 1

  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 Merc
ury.” 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.

  Silence ticked around the dented SUV for a moment. “Not yet, no.”

  Great. All he needed was a depressed biological weapon in the form of a sexy brunette to mess with his already fucking fantastic daily schedule. “Lady, if you wanna eat a bullet, you should’ve done it before coming into my territory.” Since she was there, he was making use of her, and if that meant suicide watch around the clock, he’d provide the guards to keep her breathing.

  “I know.” Fabric rustled, and she poked him in the neck. “When was your last injection?”

  His head jerked as surprise flared his neurons to life
. He grabbed her finger before turning and held tight. “Almost one month ago.”

  She tried to free herself and then frowned when she failed. “You’re about due, then. How many vials of B do you have left?”

  He tugged her closer until she was almost sitting in the front seat, his gaze near to hers. “Doesn’t matter. Now I have you, don’t I? If we find the cure, we won’t need vitamin B.” This close, under the dirt and fear, he could smell woman. Fresh and with a hint of—what was that—vanilla? No. Gardenias. Spicy and wild.

  She shook her head and again tried to free herself. “You can have all the blood you want. It won’t help.”

  “Stop the car,” he said to Manny.

  Manny nodded and pulled over. Jax released Lynn’s finger, stepped out of the vehicle, and pressed into the backseat next to her.

  Her eyes widened, and she huddled back against the other door.

  He drew a hood from his back pocket. “Come here, darlin’.”

  “No.” She scrambled away, her hands out.

  With a sigh, he reached for a zip tie in his vest and way too easily secured her hands together. A second later, he pulled the hood over her head. He didn’t like binding a woman, but he didn’t have a choice. “In the past year, as the world has gone to hell, hasn’t anybody taught you to fight?” he asked.

  She kicked out, her bound hands striking for his bulletproof vest.

  He lifted her onto his lap, wrapped an arm over hers and around her waist, manacling her legs with one of his. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you, but you can’t know where we’re going.”

  “Right.” She shoved back an elbow, her warm little body struggling hard.

  Desire flushed through him, pounding instantly into his cock. God, she was a handful.

  She paused. “Ah—”

  “You’re safe. Just stop wiggling.” His voice was hoarse. Jesus. When was the last time he’d gotten laid? He actually couldn’t remember. She was a tight little handful of energy and womanly curves, and his body reacted instantly. The more she gyrated against him, trying to fight, the more blood rushed south of his brain. He had to get her under control before he began panting like a teenager.