Page 119 of Beneath the Surface

The bullet hit him center mass before the warning could leave his lips. Before his fingers could close around his holster. Before his partner even knew they were under attack.

The man jerked backward like he’d been punched, the unfinished shout dying in his throat as shock overtook him.

Red bloomed across his chest—a dark stain spreading fast across the black tactical shirt, soaking into the fabric. His hands came up automatically, scrabbling at the wound, fingers slippingin the blood that was pumping out with each beat of his failing heart.

He tried to speak. Nothing came out except a wet gurgling sound.

Then he toppled sideways off the workbench like a felled tree, arms windmilling, and hit the concrete floor with a heavy, final thud. His head bounced once. His body twitched, convulsed, then went still.

One down.

Dax’s brain processed all of this in the space between heartbeats—catalogued the kill, confirmed the threat was neutralized, was already moving on to the next target before the first man’s body had finished settling.

Time moved strangely in combat. Fast and slow simultaneously. Each moment stretched out like taffy while also compressing into split-second decisions that meant life or death.

Dax was already pivoting, his weight shifting, his weapon tracking smoothly to the second target—the nervous one who’d been pacing, checking his watch, talking to Wheeler on the phone.

The man was moving now, his casual demeanor shattered by the sound of gunfire and his partner’s death. His hand was reaching for his holster as he dove for cover behind a stack of old tires piled against the far wall.

Dax’s finger was already squeezing the trigger. Once. Twice. Quick double-tap, the way the Army had drilled into him until it was pure muscle memory. Center mass. Two shots. Confirm the kill.

But the man was faster than Dax had expected. Professional training showing through the panic.

The first shot went wide as the man dropped, the bullet sparking off a metal tool chest behind where his head had been asplit second before. The sharp scent of cordite filled the air, acrid and bitter.

The second shot hit one of the tires—Dax heard the dull thunk of the bullet punching through rubber—but the man was already behind three feet of stacked tires.

Damn.

Dax kept moving, circling left, trying to get an angle, his boots loud on the concrete floor now that stealth no longer mattered. His breath was coming hard and fast, adrenaline flooding his system, making everything sharp and clear and hyper-focused.

Behind the tires, he heard the man breathing—ragged gasps of fear and shock. Heard the rustle of clothing as the man shifted position. The metallic click of a safety being flicked off.

“Federal agent!” the man shouted, his voice cracking with adrenaline and false authority. “Drop your weapon! Drop it now!”

Dax almost laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that died in his throat.

Federal agent. Right. And Dax was supposed to believe Wheeler’s hired muscle had badges to go with their tactical gear.

“Bullshit,” Dax called back, his voice hard. He was still moving, still trying to flank, keeping his body positioned between the threat and Quinn—still slumped unconscious in that chair, still vulnerable, still the whole reason he was here. “You’re Wheeler’s muscle. And you just kidnapped a civilian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” The man’s voice was moving too, shifting position behind the tires. Smart. Not staying in one place. Making himself a harder target.

Dax fired twice more at the sound of the voice, adjusting his aim lower, trying to catch the man’s legs or feet beneath the tire stack.

The bullets punched through the rubber with dull thuds—Dax heard the air whooshing out, old stale air that smelled of rot and mildew—but again, the man had already moved. Had anticipated. Had training that matched Dax’s own.

This wasn’t some street thug. This was professional security. Maybe ex-military. Maybe ex-law enforcement.

Which made him dangerous.

Dax’s mind raced, calculating angles and options. The room wasn’t that big—maybe thirty feet square. The tire stack was against the far wall, giving the man cover but also pinning him in place. If Dax could get around to the side—

Movement. Just a flicker in his peripheral vision.

Dax’s combat instincts screamed a warning a split second before his conscious brain processed what he was seeing.

He spun back toward the tires just as the man popped up, his weapon raised, his face set with grim determination.