Page 116 of Beneath the Surface

Unless this was exactly what Wheeler expected.

Dax pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. Trap or not, Quinn was inside. And he was going to get her out.

He drew his weapon again and moved toward the building, using the Suburban for cover. Up close, he could see more details—mud splattered on the wheel wells, a small dent in the rear bumper, tinted windows that were too dark to see through.

He pressed his hand against the hood as he passed.

Still warm.

They’d arrived recently. Within the last hour. Which meant Quinn had been here less than an hour.

Less than an hour to be hurt. To be questioned. To be—

Stop. Don’t think about it. Focus on the mission.

Dax circled to the back of the building, where industrial loading docks created deep shadows. And there, a basement access. Concrete steps leading down to a recessed entrance, the kind delivery trucks would have used to drop off parts and equipment.

The metal door at the bottom was closed, but he could see, even from here, that the lock was broken. The door sat slightly ajar, a thin line of deeper darkness visible at its edge.

Another invitation.

Dax descended the steps, his boots making the barest whisper of sound on the concrete. Each step down brought him deeper into shadow, deeper into danger.

His hand tightened on his weapon. The Glock’s grip was slick with his sweat now despite the cold.

At the bottom, Dax paused. Listened.

Nothing.

He reached out with his left hand—keeping his weapon hand free and ready—and pushed the door open.

It swung inward with a low groan of unoiled hinges that made Dax’s teeth clench. So much for stealth.

But no one came running. No shouts of alarm. No gunfire.

Just silence.

Dax slipped inside and let the door close behind him, plunging him into near-total darkness.

The basement was pitch black and smelled of mildew and old motor oil—thick, cloying scents that coated the back of his throat. Dax stood still, letting his eyes adjust, his other senses straining to compensate for the lack of vision.

Slowly, shapes emerged from the darkness. Old equipment—drill presses, welding stations, tool chests. Storage boxes stacked haphazardly against walls. A workbench covered in debris.

The detritus of a business long dead.

And voices.

Faint. Muffled. Coming from deeper inside the building, through walls and closed doors that swallowed most of the sound.

But definitely voices. Male. At least two of them.

Dax’s pulse spiked again. His hands steadied on his weapon as he moved toward the sound, each footstep carefully placed, avoiding the debris scattered across the concrete floor. A rustybolt. A piece of pipe. Anything that might clatter and give away his position.

The voices grew louder as he approached a doorway at the far end of the basement. Light spilled from underneath—harsh, fluorescent, the kind of too-bright white light that washed out colors and created sharp shadows.

Dax pressed himself against the wall beside the door, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingertips where they gripped his weapon.

He could hear words now. Distinct. Clear.