Page 127 of Beneath the Surface

She shoved. Dax grunted with pain but reached up with his good arm, his fingers finding the window frame. Quinn boosted him, pushing from below, and somehow—somehow—he managed to pull himself up.

It wasn’t graceful. He moved like a wounded animal, all desperate strength and zero finesse. His injured shoulder scraped against the window frame, and he bit off a scream. But he got his upper body through, then his legs, and then he was outside, collapsing onto the ground above with a heavy thud Quinn heard clearly through the open window.

Footsteps right outside the office door now.

Quinn jumped onto the desk, reached for the window frame—

The door burst open.

A man—the one Wheeler had called Wade, maybe—already had his weapon raised, his eyes finding her immediately.

“Found her!” he shouted.

Quinn pulled herself up, her arms screaming with effort, her feet scrambling for purchase on the wall below the window—

A hand closed around her ankle. Yanked hard.

Quinn fell, hit the desk hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and rolled off onto the floor.

The man was on her in an instant, his knee pressing into her back, his hand fisting in her hair.

“Got her,” he said into his radio. “North office. And boss? The detective’s still here somewhere. Can’t have gone far. There’s blood everywhere.”

Quinn struggled, tried to buck him off, but he was too heavy, too strong, pressing her down into the concrete that smelled of motor oil and old blood.

Through the window above, she heard Dax’s voice, weak and desperate.

“Quinn!”

“Don’t move, detective,” the man called up. “Or I put a bullet in her head.”

Everything went still.

Quinn could hear her own ragged breathing. Could hear footsteps approaching—more of Wheeler’s men. Could hear Dax outside, so close but unable to help.

And then Wheeler’s voice, smooth and cold and pleased. “Well, well. Ms. Barrett. We finally meet.”

James Wheeler stepped into the office doorway, and Quinn’s blood ran cold.

He was exactly as she’d seen him in photographs and courtroom sketches—late fifties, silver hair perfectly styled, expensive suit even at this hour. He looked like a businessman. A pillar of the community. Not a murderer. Not a monster.

But his eyes told a different story. Cold. Calculating. Devoid of anything resembling human warmth.

“You’ve caused me considerable trouble, Ms. Barrett.” Wheeler stepped closer, his shoes—expensive leather, polished to a shine—stopping inches from Quinn’s face where his goon held her pressed to the floor. “Did you really think you could expose me? Destroy everything I’ve built?”

Quinn tried to speak but the man’s grip on her hair tightened, making her gasp with pain.

“Your father thought the same thing,” Wheeler continued conversationally. “David Barrett. Such an idealistic man. Believed truth mattered more than power. More than money.” He crouched down, his face coming into Quinn’s line of sight. “He was wrong. And it got him killed.”

“You—” Quinn managed to gasp out. “You murdered him—”

“I gave an order. My people carried it out. There’s a difference, legally speaking.” Wheeler’s smile was cold. “Just as I gave an order tonight. Find Quinn Barrett. Bring her to me. Find out what evidence she has, who she’s told.”

He reached out and touched Quinn’s face—gentle, almost paternal—and she flinched away from his touch like it was poison.

“And then,” Wheeler said softly, “eliminate the problem. Permanently.”

Outside, Dax’s voice again, stronger now, filled with rage and fear. “You touch her and I’ll kill you. I swear to God, Wheeler—”