Page 123 of Beneath the Surface

The man’s finger was tightening on the trigger when Quinn moved.

She surged up from behind the support beam where Dax had left her, moving on pure instinct, her amber eyes open now and blazing with fury and fear. Her hands found the heavy pipe wrench on the workbench beside her—three feet of solid steel, old and rusted but still heavy as hell.

The man in the doorway turned toward the movement, his weapon tracking—

Quinn swung the wrench with all her strength.

The pipe wrench connected with the side of the man’s head with a sickening crunch—bone breaking, skull fracturing. The sound was wet and final, like a watermelon splitting open.

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His weapon clattered from his grip. His knees buckled and he dropped like someone had cut his strings, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud and then lying perfectly still.

Blood began pooling beneath his head, spreading fast.

Then Quinn was on her knees beside Dax, her hands on his face, her amber eyes wide and terrified and fully awake now. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime and blood spattered there.

“Dax—oh God—Dax—”

“I’m okay.” The lie came automatically, ingrained instinct to be strong, to not show weakness. Even as blood pooled beneath him, soaking into his clothes, spreading across the concrete. “Are you—did they hurt you—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Her hands were on his shoulder now, pressing down on the wound, and Dax nearly screamed from the pressure. Pain so intense it whited out his vision completely. He heard himself make a sound—something between a gasp and a sob.

“You’re shot.” Quinn’s voice was shaking, breaking. “Dax, you’re bleeding so much.”

“Just—just a graze—” Another lie. He could feel how bad it was. Could feel his life draining out with every beat of his heart. Drip drip drip onto the concrete.

Quinn was crying openly now, tears falling onto his face as she leaned over him, her hands pressing harder on his shoulder, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. Her palms were slick with his blood, bright red in the harsh fluorescent light.

“What were you thinking?” She was sobbing now, the words barely intelligible. “Coming here alone? You could have been killed—you’re going to be killed if we don’t—”

“Had to—” Dax forced the words out through gritted teeth, through pain that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. “Had to get you—couldn’t let Wheeler—”

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m safe.” Quinn’s free hand cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “But we need to go. We need to get you to a hospital—”

“Wheeler’s coming.” Dax’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. His lips were numb. “Twenty minutes—maybe less—we have to—”

A sound from outside cut him off.

A car engine. Close. The crunch of tires on gravel.

Both of them froze, Quinn’s hands still pressed to Dax’s shoulder, both of them staring at each other with matching expressions of horror.

“That’s not twenty minutes,” Quinn whispered.

No. It wasn’t.

Wheeler was here. Early.

And Dax was bleeding out on the floor, barely conscious, barely functional. Four men down, but how many more had Wheeler brought? And Dax had maybe three bullets left in his Glock, wherever it had fallen. His backup piece was still in itsholster, might as well be on the moon for all his ability to reach it right now.

They were trapped.

Quinn looked around wildly, her eyes scanning the room, looking for options, for escape, for anything. Her hands were still pressed to Dax’s shoulder, but he could see her mind working, could see the journalist’s brain cataloguing and analyzing.

“Can you walk?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Focused. “Can you move at all?”

“Don’t—don’t know—” Dax tried to sit up, made it about six inches before dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. The room spun violently. He fell back with a groan.

Car doors slamming outside. Multiple doors. Wheeler hadn’t come alone.