Chapter 6 #3
“Simple but effective design,” the lead tech told Dax, pulling off his helmet. Sweat darkened his hair. “Would have killed the driver, maybe passengers too. Triggered by the ignition system—start the car, complete the circuit, boom.”
“How sophisticated?” Dax’s jaw tightened.
“Mid-range. Not amateur hour, but not military grade either. Someone with training could build this. Or someone following online instructions carefully.” The tech wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Can you trace components?”
“We’ll try. But most of this stuff is commercially available. Wire, explosives, magnets—you can buy it all at different stores and nobody would think twice.” He shrugged, apologetic.
Dax nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. He’d expected as much. Wheeler was careful.
“I need the device and all your documentation. It’s evidence in an attempted murder investigation.”
“You got it. We’ll send everything to your office.” The tech gestured to his team, already packing up their equipment.
After the bomb squad left, their van rumbling away down the street, Dax went back inside. Agent Torres met him at the door, her expression sharp and questioning.
“Was it what you thought?”
“Bomb. Would have killed her if she’d started the car.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, but Dax’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
Torres’s expression darkened, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “Jesus. Harper wasn’t exaggerating about the threat level.”
“No. She wasn’t.” Dax looked past her into the dim living room, toward the bedroom where the grandmother lay. Sleeping peacefully now, unaware of how close her granddaughter had come to dying. “Keep them both safe. Wheeler’s not playing around.”
“Neither are we.” Torres’s stance shifted, shoulders squaring. Ready.
Dax headed back to his truck, the evening air cool against his face. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Carson. Heard about the bomb. You okay?
He typed back one-handed. Fine. Quinn’s safe. That’s what matters.
Captain wants to see you first thing tomorrow. He knows.
Dax’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he responded. Let him know. I’ve got evidence now. Attempted murder. This case is active whether he likes it or not.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket and started the truck, the engine’s rumble familiar and grounding. Headed back to the cabin. Back to Quinn, who had no idea how close she’d come to dying today.
He should tell her. She deserved to know.
But first, he needed to make sure she really understood what they were dealing with. This wasn’t a story anymore. This wasn’t an investigation that would end with a Pulitzer and a promotion.
This was life and death. And Wheeler had just proven he was willing to kill.
The drive back felt longer than it should have.
Dax’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his mind churning with plans and contingencies.
They needed more evidence. Needed to connect Wheeler directly to the murders, not just the attempted murder.
Needed bank records, testimony, something that would hold up in court.
But more than that, they needed to keep Quinn alive long enough to see justice done.
When Dax pulled up to the cabin, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the trees casting long shadows across the clearing. Beautiful. Peaceful.
Deceptive.
He unlocked the door, the familiar click of each lock oddly comforting, and found Quinn curled up on the couch, her laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. She looked up when he entered, those amber eyes bright with focus.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
Dax closed the door and locked all three locks, each one clicking into place with deliberate finality. Then he turned to face her, his expression serious.
“Your car had a bomb under it. Attached to the ignition. You would have died the second you turned the key.”
Quinn’s face went white, the color draining like someone had pulled a plug. The laptop slid off her lap, forgotten, landing on the couch cushion with a muted thud.
“What?” The word came out barely above a whisper.
“Wheeler tried to kill you today. Would have succeeded if we hadn’t moved you when we did.
” Dax moved to the kitchen, his boots heavy on the floor, needing something to do with his hands.
He reached for the coffee pot. “This is what we’re dealing with, Barrett.
This is why I told you to back off. Why I said it was dangerous. ”
“I—” Her voice cracked, broke. “A bomb?”
“Yeah. Professional job. Simple but effective. Bomb squad disarmed it. It’s evidence now.” He measured coffee grounds with mechanical precision, the scoop scraping against the bag, not looking at her.
Quinn stood up, swaying slightly on her feet.
Dax’s head snapped toward her, his body already moving, the coffee scoop clattering into the sink as he closed the distance.
Ready to catch her if she fell. But she steadied herself against the couch arm, her knuckles white where she gripped it, her breathing shallow.
“He really tried to kill me,” she said, like she was just now understanding it. Her voice sounded distant, shocked, like it was coming from underwater. “Not just scare me. Actually kill me.”
“Yes.” Dax set down the coffee canister, turning to face her fully, giving her his complete attention.
“Like he killed my father.”
“Yes.” The word came out quiet, final.
Quinn sank back onto the couch, her legs giving out beneath her.
Her hands were shaking, trembling so hard she had to clasp them together in her lap.
Her breath coming too fast, shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick jerks.
Panic attack incoming—Dax recognized the signs from his own experience with PTSD, the way the world could suddenly tilt sideways and refuse to right itself.
He moved to sit beside her without thinking about it. Not touching, just close. Present. His shoulder a few inches from hers, his hands resting on his knees.
“Breathe,” he said quietly, his voice gentle in a way it rarely was. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady.”
Quinn tried to follow his instructions, her chest hitching on the inhale, stuttering. Her breathing evened out gradually, the rapid gasps slowing to something more controlled. The color returned to her face in splotchy patches, red blooming across her pale cheeks.
“I thought I understood,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on her trembling hands, watching them shake as if they belonged to someone else. “I thought I knew what I was getting into. But I didn’t. I really didn’t.”
“No,” Dax agreed, his voice low, rough. “You didn’t. Nobody does until it gets real.”
“My father...” Quinn’s eyes filled with tears, the amber going glassy. Her voice breaking. “He must have been so scared. At the end. When he realized what was happening. That Wheeler was going to kill him.”
Dax didn’t have words for that. Nothing he could say would make it better. Wouldn’t erase the image she was seeing in her head, wouldn’t bring her father back, wouldn’t undo the terror her father must have felt.
So he just sat there. Silent. Solid. Letting her process. His presence the only comfort he could offer.
After a long time—minutes that felt like hours—Quinn wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, leaving her cheeks damp and red. She looked at him, her gaze searching his face.
“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice steadier but still thin, fragile.
“Now? We build the case. Carefully. Methodically. And we make sure Wheeler doesn’t get another chance to hurt you.
” Dax met her eyes, holding her gaze. “But you need to understand something. This is real now. This is deadly serious. No more publishing articles, no more going off on your own, no more thinking you can handle it yourself.”
“I know.” She nodded, her hair falling forward.
“Do you?” Dax leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Because a few hours ago you were convinced you could investigate this yourself. Now you know better. Wheeler doesn’t make empty threats. He acts. And he’s good at it.”
Quinn nodded slowly, her throat working as she swallowed. “I’m scared.”
The admission hung in the air between them. Honest. Vulnerable.
“Good. Fear keeps you alive. Use it.” Dax stood up, his knees cracking slightly from the sudden movement. “I’m going to make dinner. You should rest.”
“I don’t think I can rest.” Her voice was small.
“Try anyway.” He moved toward the kitchen, putting distance between them because her fear was making something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.
But Dax knew she wouldn’t. Knew she’d sit there replaying everything, imagining what would have happened if she’d gotten in that car. Seeing herself turn the key. Hearing the click. The explosion. Her body torn apart like—
He’d done the same thing after Afghanistan. After surviving when his friends hadn’t. The guilt. The fear. The what-ifs that played on an endless loop every time he closed his eyes.
It never really went away. You just learned to live with it. Learned to function around the jagged edges.
Dax pulled ingredients from the fridge—eggs, cheese, vegetables.
The cool air from the refrigerator was a welcome shock against his face.
Nothing fancy, but it would do. As he cracked eggs into a bowl, the shells breaking with small, sharp sounds, he glanced back at Quinn.
She was staring at her laptop screen, but her eyes weren’t focused.
Just staring through it, seeing something else entirely.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence. “You like omelets?”
She blinked, coming back to the present, her eyes refocusing. “What?”
“Omelets. That’s what I’m making. You allergic to anything?”
“No. I...omelets are fine.” She sounded uncertain, like she wasn’t quite sure what an omelet was.
“Good.” He whisked the eggs harder than necessary, the fork scraping against the bowl. “Because that’s what you’re getting.”