Page 121 of Beneath the Surface

“Where’s Wheeler?”

“Coming—” The man’s teeth were chattering now, his whole body starting to shake with shock. “Twenty minutes—maybe less—I don’t—I don’t know—”

Two more guards. Upstairs. And Wheeler en route.

Dax’s mind raced even as dizziness washed over him, making the room tilt and spin. His own blood loss was catching up now. He could feel it—the weakness creeping into his limbs, the way his vision was starting to narrow and tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges.

He didn’t have much time. Had to get Quinn out before the other guards came down. Before Wheeler arrived. Before Dax passed out from blood loss and they were both sitting ducks.

Dax pushed himself to his feet—nearly fell, caught himself against the tire stack, his injured shoulder screaming. The world tilted violently, and for a horrible second he thought he was going to vomit.

He stumbled away from the dying man, toward Quinn, his boots slipping in blood. His blood or the dead man’s blood from the workbench, he couldn’t tell anymore. Both probably. The concrete floor was slick with it, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights in dark pools.

“Quinn.” His voice cracked, came out hoarse and desperate. He reached her, his good hand trembling as it touched her face, his fingers pushing her long dark hair back from her cheek. “Quinn, can you hear me?”

Her skin was warm. Alive. But she didn’t respond. Her head lolled against his palm, completely slack, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep.

Whatever they’d drugged her with was strong. Ketamine probably. Or midazolam. Something designed to keep a person under for hours.

They didn’t have hours.

Dax fumbled his pocketknife out with his right hand. His fingers were slick with blood, making the knife slippery and hard to grip. It took him three tries to get it open.

He sawed through the zip ties around her wrists, the serrated blade making short work of the thick plastic. They parted with sharp snaps and Quinn’s hands fell free, hanging limply at her sides. Her wrists were red and raw underneath, the skin torn where she’d fought against the restraints. Fresh blood welled up from the abrasions.

She’d fought them. Even drugged, even terrified, she’d fought.

Dax felt something crack in his chest. Pride and love and rage all mixed together until he couldn’t separate them.

Then the rope around her ankles. His fingers were clumsy now, coordination failing as shock and blood loss caught up with him. The rope was rough hemp, tied in professional knots that wouldn’t slip or give. He had to saw through each strand individually, the blade catching and sticking in the fibers.

Finally, the last strand parted. Quinn’s feet were free.

“Come on, sunshine,” Dax whispered, pulling her forward against his chest with his good arm. Her weight fell against him, warm and solid and real. Alive. She was alive. “Wake up. I need you to wake up.”

Nothing. Her head rested against his good shoulder, her breath warm and even against his neck. No sign of consciousness. No response to his voice or his touch.

Dax tried to lift her. Got one arm around her waist, tried to stand, tried to get her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry—

His injured shoulder exploded with fresh agony. White-hot pain that shot through his entire left side like electricity. His vision whited out completely. His legs buckled and he nearly went down, only catching himself at the last second by bracing against the chair.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t carry her one-armed. Not with this injury. Not with the blood loss.

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it—

Footsteps overhead. Heavy boots on metal stairs.

The other guards. The two from upstairs. Coming to investigate the gunshots.

How long had it been since the shooting started? Two minutes? Three? It felt like hours, but Dax knew better. Combat time was deceiving. Whole firefights happened in seconds.

Dax looked around wildly, his training trying to kick in through the pain and blood loss and desperation. Defensible position. Choke point. Cover. Something he could use to his advantage.

There—the doorway he’d come through. Narrow. Single entry point. Only one person could come through at a time. Classic fatal funnel. Dax could hold it with a good field of fire.

He half-dragged, half-carried Quinn toward the corner of the room, his boots squelching in blood, his vision swimming with every step. The room kept tilting, threatening to spin completely out from under him.

He propped Quinn against the wall behind a steel support beam—not great cover, but better than nothing. The beam would stop bullets. Would give her some protection if things went completely sideways.