Page 115 of Beneath the Surface

Against how many of Wheeler’s people?

Dax didn’t know. Didn’t care. He’d make it work.

He reached behind his seat and grabbed the black Kevlar vest he kept there—heavy and reassuring. He shrugged into it, feeling the weight settle across his shoulders like armor. Like purpose. The velcro straps made harsh ripping sounds as he tightened them, securing the vest snug against his chest.

Not that Kevlar would help much if Wheeler’s people had rifles. But it was something. Some protection. Some advantage.

And he’d take every advantage he could get.

Dax opened the truck door—the interior light was disconnected, keeping him in darkness—and stepped out into the cold night air.

The temperature had dropped. His breath came out in visible puffs, white against the darkness. The air smelled of oil and rust and urban decay—scents that brought him back to Afghanistan, to other nights in other abandoned places, hunting other enemies.

But this was different.

This was personal.

Dax started walking, his boots silent on the cracked asphalt. Years of training made his movements automatic—staying in shadow, using cover, minimizing his silhouette. He moved like a ghost through the dark streets, weapon held low and ready, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.

The warehouse district was silent, except for the distant hum of traffic from the highway a mile away and the occasional rustle of wind through chain-link fencing. No other people. No cars. No witnesses.

Perfect for Wheeler.

Perfect for Dax.

He approached 847 Industrial from the rear, circling wide to stay out of sight lines from the building’s windows. His heart was a steady drumbeat now, fast but controlled. His breathing was even. The shaking in his hands had stopped, replaced by the cold steadiness of a soldier moving into combat.

This was what he’d been trained for. What he’d done dozens of times in Afghanistan. Clear a building. Extract a friendly. Neutralize hostiles.

The fence loomed ahead of him—eight feet of chain-link topped with barbed wire. Dax holstered his weapon, took three running steps, and launched himself at the fence.

His fingers found purchase in the diamond-shaped links. His boots found footholds. He climbed with the efficiency of long practice, muscles burning, breath coming harder now.

At the top, he paused, assessing the barbed wire. Three strands, angled outward. He pulled off his jacket, barely feeling the cold night air from the rush of adrenaline keeping him warm, and threw it over the wire, creating a barrier between the barbs and his body.

Then he went over.

For one moment, he was balanced at the top of the fence, suspended between earth and sky. Time seemed to slow. He could see the building ahead of him, dark and squat and malevolent. Could see the Suburban in the parking lot. Could imagine Quinn inside, tied up, hurt, terrified.

Waiting for him.

Then gravity pulled him down and time snapped back to normal speed.

Dax dropped to the other side, landing in a crouch on the cracked concrete, his knees absorbing the impact. His bootsmade almost no sound, just a soft scuff that was swallowed by the night.

He froze, listening.

No alarms. No shouts. No guards running to investigate.

Nothing but silence.

Too easy.

Every instinct Dax had screamed a warning. This felt wrong. Felt like a trap. The open padlock. The unguarded perimeter. The dark building with no visible security.

Wheeler was too smart for this. Too careful. Too paranoid to leave one of his properties this vulnerable.

Unless he wanted Dax to come.