Page 114 of Beneath the Surface

Breathe. Focus. Move.

Dax drove past 847 Industrial Avenue once, slowly, his headlights off now, navigating by moonlight and the fewworking streetlamps. Taking in the layout with the tactical part of his brain that could still function despite the terror clawing at his throat.

The building was exactly as described—a former auto body shop, squat and industrial. Two stories of dirty brick and corrugated metal, with faded paint that might once have been red but had weathered to a rust-brown that looked like dried blood. The second-floor windows were broken, jagged glass teeth still clinging to the frames. The first-floor windows had been boarded up with plywood that was warped and water-stained.

A chain-link fence surrounded the property, eight feet tall, topped with three strands of barbed wire that gleamed dully in what little light reached it. The rolling gate with wheels was closed but not locked. The padlock hung open on its chain, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

An invitation. Or a trap.

And in the parking lot, visible through the fence, a black Chevy Suburban. Covered in road dust. No plates on the back bumper, just empty bolt holes.

Dax’s heart stopped.

Literally stopped for one long, terrible second before kicking back into a rhythm so hard and fast it made him dizzy.

That was the vehicle. The one that had taken Quinn.

She was here.

His hands trembled on the steering wheel. His vision blurred. He blinked hard, realizing he was crying again, hot tears tracking down his face to drip off his jaw.

Quinn was here. In that building. Maybe fifty yards away from him right now.

Alive or dead. Hurt or unharmed. Conscious or still drugged.

But here.

Dax drove past without slowing, his movements mechanical now, his training taking over. Turned the corner onto a side street lined with abandoned warehouses, their loading docks empty, their doors chained shut. Parked two blocks away in the shadows behind a particularly decrepit building, its walls covered in graffiti and its windows nothing but gaping holes.

He killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

Dax sat in the darkness, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fogged the windshield. His hands were shaking so badly he had to grip the steering wheel to keep them still.

This was it.

Quinn was in that building.

And Dax was going to get her out.

Or die trying.

The thought should have scared him. Should have made him hesitate, call for backup, wait for SWAT like a rational person.

But all Dax felt was a cold, crystalline certainty.

He would save Quinn. Or he would die in the attempt. There was no third option. No future where he walked away and left her in Wheeler’s hands. No universe where he survived and she didn’t.

So…save her, or die trying.

Simple.

Dax pulled his weapon—Glock 19, the grip worn smooth from years of use, perfectly weighted, perfectly balanced. He dropped the magazine with a practiced motion, his thumb checking by feel that it was fully loaded. Fifteen rounds. He slammed it back home with a satisfying click, then racked the slide. The metallic sound was loud in the quiet truck—chambering a round, ready to fire.

Sixteen bullets total.

He checked his backup piece—the smaller 9mm in an ankle holster that rubbed against his boot. Eight rounds. Also fully loaded, also ready.

Twenty-four bullets.