Page 124 of Beneath the Surface

Quinn’s face hardened with determination—that stubborn set to her jaw that Dax had seen when they first met, and again when she’d barged into his police station with wild theories and refused to back down. That same fire that had made him fall in love with her.

She grabbed his Glock from where it had fallen, checked the magazine with surprising competence—probably absorbed from watching cop shows, or just desperation making her capable—and tucked it into her waistband.

“We’re not dying here,” she said fiercely, looking down at him with blazing eyes. “Do you hear me, Dax? We’re not giving Wheeler the satisfaction.”

She got her arms under his good shoulder—careful, so careful not to jostle the injured one—and helped him to his feet. Most of his weight ended up leaning on her, his good arm slung over her shoulders. She was strong, Dax realized with distant surprise. Stronger than she looked. Or maybe just pure adrenaline givingher the strength to hold up a man who outweighed her by eighty pounds.

Every step sent fresh spikes of agony through Dax’s shoulder, but he forced himself to move. Had to. Quinn couldn’t carry him and defend them both. Had to stay on his feet. Had to help however he could.

They stumbled toward the far end of the room, where another doorway led deeper, down into the basement. Dax could see darkness back there, could make out the shapes of more rooms, storage areas, places to hide or defend from.

Behind them, footsteps at the top of the stairs.

Heavy boots. Multiple sets. Moving with military precision.

And then a voice. Cold. Calm. Utterly devoid of fear or concern.

Wheeler.

“Find them,” Wheeler’s voice echoed down into the basement, each word crisp and clear and terrifying in its casual certainty. “And bring me the girl alive. I want to talk to Ms. Barrett before we finish this.”

Quinn’s arm tightened around Dax’s waist. She pulled him through the doorway into darkness, into the narrow maze of basement rooms beyond.

And behind them, Wheeler’s people began their descent into hell.

CHAPTER 22

The darkness beyond the doorway was absolute.

Quinn pulled Dax through into what felt like a maze, the basement branching off into multiple rooms and corridors that had once been part of the auto body shop’s operations. Storage rooms. Parts departments. Old office spaces now stripped and abandoned.

Quinn’s heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in her fingertips where they gripped Dax’s waist. Most of his weight was on her now—he was barely keeping his feet under him, his legs dragging, his breathing coming in short, pained gasps against her ear.

“Stay with me,” she whispered urgently. “Dax, stay with me.”

“Trying—” His voice was weak, slurred. Blood loss. He was losing too much blood.

Quinn could feel it soaking into her shirt where his shoulder pressed against her, could feel the wet warmth of it on her hands. How much blood could a person lose before—

No. Don’t think about that. Focus.

Behind them, Wheeler’s voice echoed through the basement, that cold, calm tone that made Quinn’s skin crawl.

“Wade, take the left corridor. Webb, you’re with me. They can’t have gone far.”

Footsteps. Multiple sets. Spreading out. Hunting.

Quinn pulled Dax deeper into the darkness, moving as quietly as she could despite his weight, despite the way his boots scraped against the concrete with every dragging step. Her eyeswere adjusting slowly—shapes emerging from the blackness. Doorways. Corridors. Old equipment.

There—an office. Door hanging open on broken hinges.

Quinn steered them inside, easing Dax down against the wall as gently as she could. He slid down with a groan that he tried to muffle against his good hand, his injured shoulder leaving a dark smear of blood on the concrete wall.

“Sorry, sorry,” Quinn whispered, her hands hovering over him, not knowing where to touch, how to help. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not—not your fault—” Dax’s head lolled back against the wall. Even in the near-darkness, Quinn could see how pale he was. His lips had a bluish tinge that terrified her.

Quinn pressed her hands to his shoulder wound again, feeling the warm blood pulse against her palms. She needed bandages. Needed pressure. Needed to stop the bleeding or he was going to die right here in this abandoned office while Wheeler hunted them room by room.