Page 39 of Beneath the Surface

Whether he liked it or not.

Quinn pressed her palm flat against the door, feeling the solid wood beneath her hand, grounding herself. On the other side, she heard movement—Dax returning to the couch, the springs creaking as he settled back down.

She pushed off the door and moved to the bed, her body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. The folder lay where she’d left it, Clara’s note still visible, that desperate feminine handwriting a reminder of what was at stake.

Quinn pulled the blankets up to her chin and stared at the ceiling one more time. But this time, her eyes grew heavy. Theadrenaline was gone, replaced by the bone-deep weariness of the day.

She’d tried. Dax had stopped her. And somehow, despite her frustration, she felt...safer for it.

Her eyes closed.

And finally, she slept.

Chapter 8

Dax watched the sun come up through the cabin window and wondered when he’d become such a light sleeper.

That was a lie. He knew exactly when. Afghanistan. When sleeping too deeply meant you didn’t hear the bullets coming. When every sound could be the last thing you heard.

He’d heard Quinn moving around in the bedroom at two in the morning. Heard her ease the door open twenty minutes later. Had known exactly what she was planning before she’d taken three steps toward the door.

Part of him had wanted to stop her immediately. Grab her, shake some sense into her, lock her in the bedroom if necessary.

But another part—the part that recognized himself in her stubbornness—had wanted to see if she’d actually go through with it. If she’d really risk her life because she couldn’t let go of the investigation.

She would have. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d stopped her. Quinn Barrett would have walked straight into danger, alone and unprotected, because sitting still was worse than dying.

Dax understood that. He’d made similar choices in combat. Stupid, reckless choices that should have gotten him killed but somehow hadn’t.

His friends hadn’t been so lucky.

He pushed that thought away and stood, his back protesting from another night on the couch. The bedroom door was still closed. Quinn was probably asleep—actually asleep this time, not planning her next escape attempt.

Dax moved quietly to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, the scoop of grounds releasing that bitter, earthy scent that always signaled morning. Strong and black, the way he’d learned to drink it during endless patrols and longer nights. The familiar ritual helped him think, his hands moving on autopilot while his mind worked through the case.

They needed more evidence. Clara Mendez’s disappearance was suspicious, but it wasn’t proof. The financial records showed money laundering, but they needed to connect it directly to Wheeler. The bomb under Quinn’s car was attempted murder, but they had to prove Wheeler ordered it.

Everything pointed to Wheeler. Nothing proved it conclusively.

That was the problem with careful criminals. They insulated themselves. Used middlemen. Made sure their hands stayed clean while others did the dirty work.

Dax had seen it overseas. Taliban commanders who never touched weapons themselves. Just gave orders and let their subordinates take the risks.

Wheeler operated the same way. Smart. Careful. Protected.

But everyone made mistakes eventually. Everyone had a weakness.

Dax just had to find Wheeler’s.

His phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the wood. Carson.Captain wants to see you. 9 AM. Don’t be late.

Perfect. Just what he needed—a lecture about going rogue and ignoring orders.

Dax typed back with one thumb.I’ll be there.

He had three hours. Enough time to make breakfast, brief Quinn on the plan, and drive into town. Not enough time to log more sleep, but he was used to that. His eyes burned with exhaustion, gritty and dry.

The bedroom door opened with a soft creak. Quinn emerged, looking rumpled and exhausted. Her hair was messy from sleep, falling in tangled waves around her face, and she’d changed back into pajamas at some point—soft flannel pants and an oversized T-shirt that hung off one shoulder. She looked young. Vulnerable. Beautiful.