Page 120 of Beneath the Surface

For one frozen instant, they stared at each other down the barrels of their guns.

Then both of them fired at the same time.

The world exploded into sound and light and pain.

Dax felt something hit him—a massive impact to his left shoulder that felt like he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. The force of it spun him partially around, his feet tangling, his balance gone.

Hot. It was so hot. Like someone had pressed a branding iron to his shoulder and was holding it there, pushing it deeper, burning through skin and muscle and bone.

Dax’s weapon wavered, dipping down as his left arm went suddenly, completely numb. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Couldn’t feel his hand. His whole left side was just...gone. Replaced by a spreading numbness and that terrible burning heat.

But even as he stumbled, even as pain exploded through his upper body in waves that made his vision white out at the edges, Dax’s right hand kept his weapon steady. Kept it trained on target.

His shot had found its mark.

The man behind the tires grunted—a sharp, pained sound—and went down hard, both hands clutching his left thigh where Dax’s bullet had punched through. Blood welled up between his fingers, dark and fast. Arterial maybe. Or close to it.

The man’s weapon clattered from his grip, skittering across the concrete floor with a harsh metallic scraping sound before disappearing into the shadows.

Dax stumbled backward, trying to keep his feet, trying to stay upright and armed and dangerous. His left shoulder was screaming now, definitely not numb anymore. Pure white-hot agony radiating out in pulses that matched his racing heartbeat.

He looked down and saw blood. So much blood. Soaking into his shirt under the bulletproof vest. The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through the other side, but it still tore through his shoulder, shredding tissue, probably breaking bone.

His left arm hung useless at his side, dead weight, fingers twitching weakly as damaged nerves misfired. Blood was running down his arm in rivulets, dripping off his fingertips to spatter on the concrete floor.Drip. Drip. Drip.Each drop seemed too loud in the sudden quiet after the gunfire.

But he was still standing. Still armed. Still between the threat and Quinn.

Behind the tires, the man was groaning, writhing on the floor, both hands pressed desperately to his thigh. Dax could see the blood pumping out between his fingers—too much blood, too fast. Femoral artery. Had to be. The man’s face was already going pale and waxy with shock.

He had minutes. Maybe less.

Dax didn’t care.

He forced himself to move forward, each step sending fresh spikes of agony through his shoulder. His left arm swung uselessly at his side, completely unresponsive to any commands his brain tried to send. The fingers were still twitching, but he couldn’t make a fist, couldn’t feel anything except a distant tingling sensation like his whole arm had fallen asleep.

Nerve damage. Definitely nerve damage.

Deal with it later. Focus now.

Dax kept his weapon trained on the downed man as he approached, his right hand steady despite the tremor running through the rest of his body. Adrenaline could only do so much. Blood loss was starting to catch up.

The man on the floor looked up at him through pain-glazed eyes. His face was gray now, lips going blue at the edges. Shock progressing fast.

“I need—” the man gasped out, his voice thin and thready. “I need a hospital—please—”

“You need to tell me who else is here.” Dax’s voice came out rough, ground glass and fury. He kicked the man’s fallen weapon farther away then knelt beside him, pressing the barrel of his Glock against the man’s temple.

The cold steel made the man flinch.

“How many others?” Dax demanded. “Where’s Wheeler?”

“Fuck you—” The man tried for defiance, but it came out as a whimper.

Dax pressed harder with the gun, the barrel dimpling the man’s skin. “How many?”

The man’s breath was coming in short, desperate gasps now. His eyes rolled, showing white. He was fading fast.

“Two more—” The words tumbled out in a pained rush. “Upstairs—watching—watching the perimeter—”