Page 122 of Beneath the Surface

“Stay here,” he whispered to her unconscious form, his hand lingering on her face for just a second. “Stay safe. I’ll get us out. I promise.”

Then he forced himself to move back to the doorway, each step harder than the last. His legs felt like they were made of wet sand. His left arm hung useless, dripping blood steadily. The tactical vest felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

But Dax made it to the doorway, braced himself against the frame with his injured shoulder, ignoring the screaming pain, and raised his weapon with his good hand.

The Glock felt too heavy now. His arm trembled with the effort of keeping it level. The sights wavered, blurring in and out of focus.

How many rounds left? He’d fired what, six times? Maybe seven?

Nine or ten rounds left. Against two more armed men.

The footsteps were closer now. On the basement stairs. Two sets of boots, moving fast but cautious. Professional. Clearing as they came.

Dax braced himself, forcing his breathing to steady even though his heart was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. The way they’d taught him. The way he’d done it a hundred times in Afghanistan.

Stay calm. Control your breathing. Aim true. Fire when you have the shot.

Two more. Just two more.

Then he could get Quinn out. Could call for backup. Could—

The first man appeared in the doorway.

Dax saw him for just an instant—another big guy in tactical black, weapon raised, eyes scanning the room—and fired.

The shot took the man center mass. He jerked, his weapon firing reflexively—bullets going wild, sparking off the ceiling—and then he was falling backward, tumbling down the stairs behind him.

His body hit the second man coming up.

Both men crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and weapons and shouted curses. The sound of bodies hitting concrete echoed up through the doorway, followed by more cursing, the clatter of weapons on metal stairs.

Dax fired twice more down into the stairwell, aiming for where he thought the second man would be.

One shot sparked off metal. The other—Dax heard a grunt of pain.

Hit. But not a kill shot.

Return fire came immediately. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark stairwell, bullets whining past Dax’s head. One hit the doorframe inches from his face, spraying concrete chips that stung his cheek like angry hornets.

Dax jerked back reflexively, throwing him off-balance, and felt his legs give out completely.

He hit the floor hard, all his weight coming down on his injured shoulder. The pain was so intense it drove every thought from his mind. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except feel the white-hot agony radiating through his entire body.

His weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering away across the blood-slick concrete.

No. No no no—

Dax scrabbled for his backup piece—the 9mm in his ankle holster—but his fingers wouldn’t work right. Too slow. Too weak. He couldn’t get his hand to grip properly. Couldn’t get the snap undone. Couldn’t—

Footsteps in the doorway. The second man, getting up, coming through.

Dax looked up through pain-blurred vision and saw the man silhouetted in the doorway, his weapon coming around, tracking toward where Dax lay helpless on the floor.

This was it. This was how it ended. On his back. Bleeding out. Unable to protect Quinn.

I’m sorry,he thought.Sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Leesa. Sorry, Quinn.

I failed you all.