Page 117 of Beneath the Surface

“—should be awake soon. Boss wants her conscious when he gets here.”

Boss. Wheeler. Coming here.

How long? How much time did Dax have?

A second voice, rougher, bored-sounding. “Waste of time if you ask me. Should just dump her in the river now, save ourselves the trouble.”

Dax’s vision went red. His finger tightened on the trigger reflexively.

Dump her in the river. Talking about Quinn like she was trash. Like she was nothing.

“Wheeler wants to talk to her first,” the first voice said. “Find out what she knows, who she told.”

Dax’s blood ran cold, ice flooding his veins.

Wheeler wanted information. Which meant Quinn was still alive. Still conscious—or would be soon. Still useful to Wheeler.

Still saveable.

The rage that had been building in Dax’s chest crystallized into something colder. Harder. More focused.

He would kill these men. Both of them. Anyone who stood between him and Quinn.

And then he would kill Wheeler.

But first: reconnaissance. Know what you’re walking into before you breach.

Dax risked a quick look around the doorframe—just a fraction of a second, just enough for his brain to snapshot the scene.

The room beyond was an old mechanic’s bay. Concrete floor stained with decades of oil and grease. Exposed pipes running along the ceiling, some wrapped in crumbling insulation. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, their harsh white glow reflecting off metal surfaces.

And in the center of the room, tied to a chair—

Quinn.

Dax’s breath stopped.

She was slumped forward, her chin nearly touching her chest, her long dark hair falling across her face like a curtain. Her hands were zip-tied behind the chair, her wrists red and raw where the plastic had cut into her skin. Her feet were tied to the chair legs with rope. Blood on her arm where they’d injected her—a small trickle that had dried into a dark line. Bruises forming on her wrists where she’d fought. More bruises on her upper arms, purple-black finger marks where someone had grabbed her hard enough to hurt.

But her chest was moving. Rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.

Alive. She was alive.

Dax’s vision blurred with tears of relief so intense it physically hurt. His chest constricted. His throat closed up.

Quinn. His Quinn. Alive.

He wanted to charge in right now, right this second, wanted to cut her free and carry her out and never let her out of his sight again.

But he forced himself to stay still. To observe. To assess.

Two men in the room with her. Both big—over six feet, easily two hundred pounds each. Both armed—handguns visible in shoulder holsters. Both dressed in black, the kind of clothing that said professional security or professional criminal.

One sat on a workbench against the far wall, smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the fluorescent lights. He looked bored. Relaxed. Not expecting trouble.

The other paced near Quinn, checking his watch every few seconds, his phone clutched in his other hand. More alert. More nervous.

The nervous one spoke into his phone. “Yeah, she’s still out. You bringing the boss soon?”