Page 110 of Beneath the Surface

He pushed the truck to its limits on the mountain roads, taking curves too fast, tires squealing on asphalt. The engine roared in protest as he floored the accelerator on straightaways, the speedometer needle climbing past seventy, past eighty, past ninety on roads designed for forty-five.

He didn’t care.

Quinn was gone. Taken. In the hands of Wheeler’s people, and every second mattered.

Every second could be the difference between finding her alive and—

Dax’s hands clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

He couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let his mind go there. Had to stay focused, stay professional, stay in control.

But his chest felt like it was caving in. His breath came in short, sharp gasps that didn’t seem to bring enough oxygen. His vision kept blurring and he had to blink hard to clear it, realizing with distant surprise that he was crying.

When had he started crying?

Quinn. God, Quinn.

He should have listened to her. Should have treated her like a partner instead of evidence to be locked away. Should have trusted her judgment, her strength, her ability to make her own choices.

Should have loved her better.

And now she was gone, and it was his fault, and if Wheeler hurt her—if Wheeler killed her—

Dax pressed the accelerator harder, the truck’s engine screaming.

He hit Blackridge city limits still doing seventy, blowing through a red light at the empty intersection. No time to stop. No time for anything except getting to Quinn’s house, getting to the scene, getting some clue, any clue, about where they’d taken her.

Two blocks away, he saw the flashing lights.

Patrol cars. An ambulance. Crime scene tape already going up, reflecting red and blue in the darkness.

Dax skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, not bothering to pull over properly, and was out of the truck before the engine had fully died. His boots hit the pavement and he was running, his weapon drawn without conscious thought, every instinct screaming at him to find Quinn, protect Quinn, save Quinn.

“Detective!” A uniform tried to stop him at the tape line. “Sir, this is an active crime scene—”

“Where’s Nathan?” Dax’s voice was a growl. “Agent Nathan Cross—where is he?”

“Ambulance, sir, but—”

Dax shoved past him, ducking under the tape.

The yard was chaos—uniforms everywhere, flashlights cutting through the darkness, radios crackling. Dax’s trained eye catalogued it all in seconds even as he moved toward the ambulance.

Broken glass near the garage—probably what Nathan had investigated. Blood on the ground beside it, dark and wet in the flashlight beams. Drag marks in the grass leading away from the blood trail.

Nathan had been hurt. Badly enough to bleed. Badly enough to be dragged or to crawl.

The ambulance was parked in the driveway, back doors open. Dax reached it and his breath caught.

Nathan was sitting on the gurney, a paramedic shining a penlight in his eyes while another pressed an ice pack to the back of his head. Even in the dim light, Dax could see the blood matting Nathan’s hair, running down his neck, staining his collar.

“Concussion,” the paramedic was saying. “Possible skull fracture. Sir, you need to come with us to the hospital—”

“Not until I talk to Detective Mercer.” Nathan’s voice was firm despite the obvious pain. His gaze found Dax. “Dax.”

Dax climbed into the ambulance, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. “What happened?”

Nathan’s face twisted with guilt and anguish. “They were professionals. Two of them, I think, maybe more. Broke glass to draw me out. I went to investigate—told Quinn to stay inside—” His voice cracked. “They were waiting. Hit me from behind.Taser maybe, or just a blunt object. I went down hard, hit my head. By the time I came to...” He closed his eyes. “She was already gone.”