Page 126 of Beneath the Surface

“Can you walk?” she asked Dax. “If I help you?”

“Can try.” But when he attempted to stand, his legs buckled immediately. Quinn caught him, staggering under his weight.

He was too weak. Had lost too much blood. Even with her help, he could barely stay upright, let alone walk any distance.

They were trapped.

“Okay,” Quinn said, forcing her voice to stay calm, to stay steady. “New plan. You stay here. I’ll create a distraction, lead them away—”

“Absolutely not.” Dax’s hand tightened on her arm with surprising strength. “Not leaving you. Not again.”

“Dax—”

“No.” His voice was firm despite the weakness. “We stay together. Find another way.”

Another way. Quinn looked around the small office, her eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. Broken furniture. Filing cabinets with the drawers hanging open. A desk pushed against one wall. A window—

A window.

Quinn moved to it, her heart leaping. It was small—maybe two feet square—and set high in the wall near the ceiling. Probably at ground level outside. She couldn’t see through it, years of grime obscuring the glass. But it was there. A way out.

If she could get it open. If Dax could fit through. If they could climb up and out before Wheeler found them.

A lot of ifs.

But it was something.

Quinn dragged the desk under the window, wincing at the scraping sound it made. Too loud. Way too loud. But she had no choice.

She climbed onto the desk, reaching for the window. The latch was rusted shut, painted over multiple times. She pulled. Nothing. Pulled harder. The latch didn’t budge.

“Here.” Dax was somehow on his feet, swaying, holding out his pocketknife with his good hand. “Scrape the paint. Break the seal.”

Quinn took the knife and worked the blade around the window’s edge, scraping away years of accumulated paint andgrime. Her fingers were numb with cold and fear, making her clumsy. The knife slipped twice, nearly falling from her grip.

Finally, she felt the seal break. Felt the window shift slightly in its frame.

She pulled.

The window swung open with a groan of protesting hinges, bringing a rush of cold night air that smelled of oil and exhaust and freedom.

“Yes,” Quinn breathed.

Behind them, in the corridor…voices. Closer now.

“They went this way—”

“Check every room—”

Out of time.

Quinn looked down at Dax. He was leaning heavily against the desk, his face gray, his injured shoulder still bleeding despite her makeshift bandage. The fabric was soaked through, dripping.

“You first,” she said.

“Can’t—can’t climb with one arm—”

“Then I’ll push.” Quinn got behind him, bracing her hands against his back. “On three. One, two—”