“Main training facility.”
Well, at least it was close by. If he went out the rear door of his headquarters, passed the outside showers, crossed a now-defunct street, he’d be at the training facility that used to hold six businesses, including a pawnshop and nail salon. When he’d taken over, he’d gutted the shell, torn down all the walls, and created a training and meeting area. For other people. “I don’t deal with civilians,” Jax muttered.
Wyatt breathed out, moving his massive chest. “They’re not civilians, they’re scavengers, and they provide a service. A good one. And a test and a question-and-answer session by our leader would go a long way. Consider it a favor.”
Fuck, fuck, and double fuck. “Fine.”
“Good. They’re waiting.” Wyatt grinned, his teeth unbelievably white against his midnight dark skin. He was Jax’s main liaison with their territory of about five hundred people, and he rarely asked for favors.
“Tace, get anybody who understands scientific research ready to work. Wake everyone up if you have to.” The damn clouds were keeping it abnormally dark; otherwise people would be out of bed and ready to work by now. Jax jerked his head toward Wyatt. “You talk to the new guy?”
Wyatt shook his head. “The guy won’t really talk, but he sure moves like you do.”
Jax frowned. “Moves like me? What do you mean?”
“You don’t make a sound. Serious training,” Wyatt returned.
Yeah, Jax had noticed the guy who’d calmly walked into camp the week before, saying he wanted to help fight outlying gangs and take out the main one, Twenty. He’d been armed with knives and guns, yet had kept his hands free. “What kind of a name is Raze, anyway?”
Tace whistled. “Not so different from Jax.”
Whatever. Jax needed to sit down and figure out if Raze was a threat or a godsend. For now, Jax gave Wyatt a look. “Let’s get this over with. Your scavengers had better be ready to do some work and find me fuel and food.”
Wyatt nodded. “There’s our happy leader.”
Whatever. Jax shoved out of the room, strode past three partitioned examination rooms and out the back door. Crisp air pummeled him right before droplets plopped onto his head. “We’re in L.A., damn it. Where’s the sun?”
“Rainy season,” Wyatt mumbled, following him onto the cracked concrete of what used to be a busy roadway and now just led to the main training facility. Barrels lined both sides of the street, already capturing crucial rain water, while a row of makeshift showers took up the far side of headquarters.
The world was too dangerous to worry about modesty.
Jax clomped across the road and empty parking lot and pushed open the main door to what used to be a pawnshop. “I’m glad they’re coming here,” he muttered, crossing into the main area, which was littered with metal tables from a former smokehouse.
“Of course—they’re on the way. God forbid you go inner territory and actually meet some of the people you’re willing to die for.” Wyatt pulled out a chair and dropped into it, winced, and tugged a knife from his back pocket.
Jax sat and leaned his elbows on the metal table. Dawn had finally arrived, and even with the storm, a barely there soft light flickered into the room, making lanterns unnecessary. He’d worked with Wyatt for six months, and he trusted the man with his life. For now, they could get back to business. “Any indication the woman was followed here last night?”
“No. The area surrounding us is secure.” Wyatt grabbed a pencil and twirled it on his dark fingers, one of which held a Super Bowl ring. “Where is the woman, anyway?”
“My quarters, under guard.” Jax leaned back. “She was barely standing up, she was so tired. Probably has been traveling hard, hiding out, trying to keep from being seen.” He’d get her entire story later, when he had time. Right now, he had fires to put out. “I’ve ordered the soldiers who saw her blue heart to stay quiet for now and not share with the rest of the group. Are you with me on this one or not?”
“I’m with you.” Wyatt focused intently, a six-and-a-half-foot ex-linebacker for the San Francisco 49ers who now shot a rifle as well as he used to hit quarterbacks. “If the Twenty gang finds out we have her, they’ll attack.”
Jax had been expecting an attack any day. “They want our medical supplies anyway. Keep the patrols up and keep everyone prepared. They’re gonna hit us soon.”
“I know, and I’m worried about the Mercenaries.” Wyatt grimaced, stood, and held his stomach. “Ah, I’ll be right back.”
Jax snorted. “Did you eat the burned soup?”
“Shut up.” Wyatt turned and ran for the door.
Poor guy. Human digestive tracts had gotten lazy with civilization. Jax leaned back his head and shut his eyes, allowing the quiet to center him. He’d created family in the military, as close to family as the gang of his youth and the survivors he now led. Wyatt had been his first trusted soldier in the new world.
Jax had caught the illness in Afghanistan and had watched the bacteria kill most of his unit in dust-filled tents with medical personnel who had died right along with them. The second he’d regained his health, he’d hopped on a transport home, where hell had already descended.
He’d learned his brother had been killed months before by a bullet, and since he had no family left after Scorpius, nobody had told him.
He drifted deeper into the past as he waited for Wyatt to return.
Buildings crumbled like they always had in the rough area of L.A., and shadows lingered, like before, waiting to harm. But these were different. Jax wandered down the street, looking for survivors, when the patter of gunfire stopped him cold.
The small distribution center. Shit.
Dodging into a run, he hurried around rusting cars to the warehouse, finding a group of Twenty gang members firing on a huge black guy wearing a bloody football jersey. The man looked familiar and seemed to be protecting the warehouse.
Keeping out of sight, Jax had angled around to the back, only to find a bunch of elderly people and kids hiding in the warehouse near a barrel of what looked like toasted oats.
The gang would kill them without a thought.
Jax hustled by them, gun out, and inched up behind the football player’s side. “I’m with you.”
The guy half turned, a wild glint in his dark eyes. “You sure?”
“Yep. Jax Mercury.” He angled farther and fired, clipping a Twenty member in the side, having given up his allegiance the second he’d taken his oath in the military. “You have any combat experience?”
“Wyatt Quaid. No.”
“From the Niners?” Jax took aim and fired again. A yelp of pain filled the afternoon.
Wyatt fired and hit the dirt. “I used to be.”
“Go left, and I’ll go right,” Jax said, shifting into command mode. For now, he had a mission, and he’d win it.
“Jax?” Wyatt asked, yanking him back into the present.
“Is your stomach okay?”
“No.” Wyatt grimaced. “You ready?”
“Yep.”
The back door to the cavernous space opened, and a group of fifteen people filed in. They wore torn clothing but had jackets and hand-stitched patches on their arms showing they’d completed the training for scavenging. Jax breathed out. “Fuck, they’re young.”
Wyatt winced. “No shit.”
“They’re supposed to at least be sixteen years old,” Jax muttered.
“They are.” Wyatt stood. “Line up.”
The kids, and there was no doubt they were kids, formed two lines of ten. Jax shoved to his feet, eyeing them. A couple kept his gaze, while several more dropped theirs to the floor. “How many sections are there inside our grid?” he asked.
“Seven,” a blond girl in the back said.
The girl should’ve been planning for college and going to dances, not memorizing the layout of their territory. “Good. How many sections outside to the west?”
“Fifty sections straight west,” a kid barely sporting a goatee said from the left.