Chapter 10 #2
“Yeah. It was.” Quinn turned back to the window, arms crossed again. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just get this done.”
The silence for the rest of the drive was even worse than before. Tense and angry and full of things neither of them would say.
Dax wanted to apologize. Wanted to explain that he was terrified of caring about her because the thought of losing her was unbearable. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up with years of guilt and self-preservation.
So he said nothing. Just drove and hated himself for hurting her.
***
They reached Seattle just before nine. The city was already awake—traffic building, sidewalks filling with morning commuters. Dax circled the block twice, his eyes scanning every face, every parked car, every window overlooking the bank.
“See anything?” Quinn asked. Her voice was back to cool professionalism.
“Nothing obvious. But that doesn’t mean we’re clear.” He pulled into a parking garage two blocks away. “We walk from here.”
The Bank of the Northwest was modern. All glass and steel, reflecting the morning sun. Security cameras covered every angle.
Dax held the door for Quinn, a habit he couldn’t shake. His hand moved toward her lower back—another habit—then he caught himself. Dropped his arm. Maintained that careful distance.
Quinn noticed. Of course she did. Something flickered across her face—hurt, quickly masked.
Inside, morning customers lined up at teller windows. The safe deposit box area was in the back, behind a security door with a card reader glowing red.
They approached the customer service desk. A woman in her fifties smiled at them. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“We need to access a safe deposit box,” Quinn said. Her voice was steady, professional. You wouldn’t know she was scared unless you noticed how tightly she gripped her documents. “Box 247. It was rented by my father, David Barrett.”
She pulled out the death certificate, her birth certificate. Her hands were only slightly shaky.
The woman examined the documents, then disappeared into a back office.
Dax scanned the bank. A businessman on his phone. An elderly couple at a teller window. A young mother with a stroller. All looked normal.
But normal didn’t mean safe.
He shifted his weight, his hand instinctively moving near his concealed weapon. Quinn stood beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Close enough to smell that floral shampoo.
She tucked that loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her leg bounced slightly.
“You okay?” Dax asked quietly.
“Fine.” The word was clipped.
She wasn’t fine. But she also wasn’t going to let him comfort her. Not after this morning.
The woman returned. “Everything checks out. I’ll need to see identification.”
Quinn handed over her driver’s license. The woman led them through the security door to a room lined with safe deposit boxes.
“Box 247 is right here.” She used her key first, then Quinn used hers. The lock clicked, loud in the quiet room. “I’ll give you privacy. Just let me know when you’re finished.”
The door closed with a soft click.
Dax locked it behind her. Quinn stared at the box.
“My father touched this,” she said quietly. “He was the last person to open it.”
Dax moved to stand beside her—not touching, but close. “Whatever’s in here, we’ll deal with it. Together.”
Quinn glanced at him, something vulnerable in her eyes. “Will we? Deal with it together?”
The question had layers. She wasn’t just asking about the evidence.
Dax wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise her partnership and support and something more. But the words wouldn’t come.
Quinn’s expression hardened. “Right. Professional distance.” She reached for the box lid. “Let’s just get this over with.”
She lifted it. Inside were folders. Bank statements. Property deeds. Photographs. And a small envelope with a brass key.
Quinn pulled out the first folder, papers rustling. Her breath caught.
“What is it?” Dax moved closer—too close. His arm brushed hers, sending electricity through him. He stepped back quickly.
Quinn noticed. Her jaw tightened. “Bank statements. Look at the transactions.”
Dax leaned in—keeping careful distance this time—and examined the documents. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Monthly transfers.”
They went through everything methodically. Each folder revealing another layer of Wheeler’s crimes. Quinn’s father had been thorough. Meticulous.
“Your father was building a RICO case,” Dax said, impressed. “This isn’t just fraud. This is organized crime.”
Quinn pulled out the small envelope. Inside was a brass key with a tag. “Storage Unit 127, SecureSpace Seattle.”
“There’s more,” Dax said. “He didn’t put everything in the safe deposit box.”
At the bottom was a handwritten note. Quinn unfolded it with trembling hands.
Quinn— If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it. I’m sorry. The storage unit has what really matters. Be careful. Wheeler’s dangerous. Trust no one except people you know are clean. Stay safe. —Dad
Quinn’s tears fell onto the paper. Her whole body shook.
Dax’s hand moved toward her shoulder—stopped himself. “Quinn...”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t touch me and then pull away. Don’t look at me like you care and then remind me we need to stay professional. Just...don’t.”
She wiped her eyes roughly, tucking the note into her bag. Started packing up the evidence with shaking hands.
“We need to get this back to Blackridge,” she said, her voice brittle. “Analyze what we have. Make sure it’s secure.”
“Quinn—”
“Can we just go? Please?”
Dax wanted to argue. Wanted to pull her into his arms and apologize for being an idiot. But Quinn was already at the door, knocking to signal they were done.
The customer service woman processed their exit. Within ten minutes, they were back outside, walking toward the parking garage.
Dax kept scanning for threats. The businessman from earlier was gone. Everything looked normal.
But the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.
“Stay close,” he murmured.
“I thought you wanted distance,” Quinn shot back.
Before Dax could respond, he saw him. A man in a suit. Mid-forties, unremarkable. Standing by a newspaper stand, pretending to read. He looked up as they passed, his eyes lingering too long on Quinn.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“Move. Now.” Dax grabbed Quinn’s arm, ignoring the way she tensed up at his touch, and pulled her into a coffee shop.
“What—”
“Someone’s watching. Don’t look back.” His hand was firm on her back, guiding her. “We’re being followed.”
Quinn went pale but didn’t argue. Just followed his lead through the shop.
“Excuse me, you can’t—” a barista started to protest.
“Police emergency. We need your back exit.”
The barista pointed to a door marked “Employees Only.” Dax pushed through it, Quinn right behind him.
Behind them, the bell jangled. Someone had followed them inside.
“Go,” Dax urged, his hand on her back—this time the touch was protective, necessary. “Fire exit at the end.”
Quinn ran. Dax pulled out his phone, sending a speech text to Harper. “Compromised in Seattle. Bank of the Northwest. Need extraction.”
They burst through the fire exit into an alley. Dax grabbed Quinn’s hand and pulled her left.
“Where are we going?” Quinn gasped, panic in her voice.
“Somewhere public.” His phone buzzed. Harper. On it. FBI agents 15 minutes out. Pike Place Market. Crowds.
“This way.” Dax steered them toward the market, his hand still holding hers. Quinn’s fingers were ice cold.
They ducked into the crowded market. Tourists and locals, vendors calling out prices. Dax pulled Quinn close and they wove through the crowd.
“Do you see him?” Quinn whispered, her body pressed against his side.
Dax scanned over her head. Caught a glimpse of the suit in the crowd. “Yeah. But he won’t make a move here. Too many witnesses.”
They kept moving. Fifteen minutes felt like an hour. Dax kept Quinn close, his arm around her shoulders now—strictly professional, he told himself. Just keeping her safe.
Quinn didn’t pull away. She was shaking, adrenaline crashing.
Finally, two FBI agents approached. Harper had sent her Seattle team.
“Detective Mercer? We’re Agent Rodriguez and Agent Kim. Agent Sinclair sent us.”
The relief was immediate. They were extracted to a safe location, given time to catch their breath.
Later, in the FBI vehicle heading back to Blackridge, Quinn sat as far from Dax as the seat would allow. Arms crossed. Staring out the window.
She didn’t speak to him the entire drive home.
Dax didn’t blame her.
He’d pushed her away all day, then grabbed her when convenient. Had maintained professional distance until danger forced proximity.
He was sending every mixed signal possible.
And Quinn Barrett deserved better than his emotional whiplash.
But knowing that didn’t change the fact that holding her hand in that alley, having her pressed against him in the crowd, had felt right in a way nothing had felt right since before Afghanistan.
Which terrified him more than any threat from Wheeler ever could.