CHAPTER 20
He’d been staring at it for the past three hours, ever since Quinn had hung up on him after their last call—the one where she’d said she needed space, needed time, needed to breathe without him suffocating her.
He’d been sitting in the cabin’s dark living room with a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline, wanting to call her back.
Wanting to apologize. Wanting to take back every controlling word, every “watch me,” every decision he’d made for both of them without asking what she needed.
Wanting to fix this before it was too late.
When the phone finally rang, his heart lurched with hope. Quinn. She was calling him back. They could talk, could work through this, could—
But the number on the screen wasn’t Quinn’s.
It was Nathan’s.
Dax’s stomach dropped even before he answered. “Nathan?”
“Dax—” Nathan’s voice was wrong. Slurred. Pained. “Quinn—they took her—I couldn’t—”
The words hit Dax like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs.
“What?” He was already moving, already grabbing his keys, his weapon, his jacket. “Nathan, what happened? Where are you?”
“Quinn’s house. I was—there was glass breaking—I went to check—” Nathan’s breath hitched. “They hit me from behind. When I came to, she was—Dax, she’s gone. They took her.”
Dax’s vision went white around the edges. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped his keys.
No. No no no no—
This was his worst nightmare. The thing he’d been trying to prevent, the reason he’d kept her at the cabin, the reason he’d tried so hard to keep her safe.
And he’d failed.
She’d left because of him. Left the safety of the cabin because he’d driven her away. And now Wheeler had her.
“I’m on my way.” Dax’s voice didn’t sound like his own—it was flat, hard, the voice of a man barely holding onto control. “Call 911. Call Carson. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Dax, I’m sorry—I should have—”
“Just stay conscious, Nathan. I’m coming.”
Dax hung up and ran for his truck.
The drive from the cabin to Quinn’s house usually took forty minutes, following the speed limit and taking the curves with caution.
Dax made it in seventeen.
He pushed the truck to its limits on the mountain roads, taking curves too fast, tires squealing on asphalt. The engine roared in protest as he floored the accelerator on straightaways, the speedometer needle climbing past seventy, past eighty, past ninety on roads designed for forty-five.
He didn’t care.
Quinn was gone. Taken. In the hands of Wheeler’s people, and every second mattered.
Every second could be the difference between finding her alive and—
Dax’s hands clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.
He couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let his mind go there. Had to stay focused, stay professional, stay in control.
But his chest felt like it was caving in. His breath came in short, sharp gasps that didn’t seem to bring enough oxygen. His vision kept blurring and he had to blink hard to clear it, realizing with distant surprise that he was crying.
When had he started crying?
Quinn. God, Quinn.
He should have listened to her. Should have treated her like a partner instead of evidence to be locked away. Should have trusted her judgment, her strength, her ability to make her own choices.
Should have loved her better.
And now she was gone, and it was his fault, and if Wheeler hurt her—if Wheeler killed her—
Dax pressed the accelerator harder, the truck’s engine screaming.
He hit Blackridge city limits still doing seventy, blowing through a red light at the empty intersection. No time to stop. No time for anything except getting to Quinn’s house, getting to the scene, getting some clue, any clue, about where they’d taken her.
Two blocks away, he saw the flashing lights.
Patrol cars. An ambulance. Crime scene tape already going up, reflecting red and blue in the darkness.
Dax skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, not bothering to pull over properly, and was out of the truck before the engine had fully died.
His boots hit the pavement and he was running, his weapon drawn without conscious thought, every instinct screaming at him to find Quinn, protect Quinn, save Quinn.
“Detective!” A uniform tried to stop him at the tape line. “Sir, this is an active crime scene—”
“Where’s Nathan?” Dax’s voice was a growl. “Agent Nathan Cross—where is he?”
“Ambulance, sir, but—”
Dax shoved past him, ducking under the tape.
The yard was chaos—uniforms everywhere, flashlights cutting through the darkness, radios crackling. Dax’s trained eye catalogued it all in seconds even as he moved toward the ambulance.
Broken glass near the garage—probably what Nathan had investigated. Blood on the ground beside it, dark and wet in the flashlight beams. Drag marks in the grass leading away from the blood trail.
Nathan had been hurt. Badly enough to bleed. Badly enough to be dragged or to crawl.
The ambulance was parked in the driveway, back doors open. Dax reached it and his breath caught.
Nathan was sitting on the gurney, a paramedic shining a penlight in his eyes while another pressed an ice pack to the back of his head. Even in the dim light, Dax could see the blood matting Nathan’s hair, running down his neck, staining his collar.
“Concussion,” the paramedic was saying. “Possible skull fracture. Sir, you need to come with us to the hospital—”
“Not until I talk to Detective Mercer.” Nathan’s voice was firm despite the obvious pain. His gaze found Dax. “Dax.”
Dax climbed into the ambulance, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. “What happened?”
Nathan’s face twisted with guilt and anguish.
“They were professionals. Two of them, I think, maybe more. Broke glass to draw me out. I went to investigate—told Quinn to stay inside—” His voice cracked.
“They were waiting. Hit me from behind. Taser maybe, or just a blunt object. I went down hard, hit my head. By the time I came to...” He closed his eyes. “She was already gone.”
“How long were you unconscious?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Fifteen? When I woke up, I heard a car engine. Taillights disappearing down the street. I tried to follow but—” He gestured to his head. “Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t even get my weapon out. I just...I failed her, Dax.”
“No.” Dax’s voice was rough. “I failed her. This is on me.”
“Sir, we need to get him to the hospital,” the paramedic interjected. “He needs a CT scan—”
“Five more minutes.” Nathan’s tone left no room for argument. “Dax needs to know what I saw.”
The paramedic looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Nathan’s expression made him back off.
“Did you get a look at them?” Dax asked, forcing himself to think like a detective, to push down the panic and terror and focus on the facts, the evidence, the investigation.
“One of them. Briefly. White male, maybe six-two, two hundred pounds. Tactical gear, ski mask. Moved like military or law enforcement—professional training.” Nathan’s jaw clenched. “They had a vehicle waiting. Dark SUV, couldn’t get the plates. Headed east on Riverside.”
East on Riverside. Toward the industrial district. Toward—
Dax’s mind raced. Wheeler’s properties. His businesses. The warehouse district where his auto dealership was located.
“Carson’s already on scene,” Nathan continued. “Processing the house. They’ll find something—prints, fibers, something we can use.”
Dax wanted to believe that. Wanted to trust in evidence and procedure and all the things that made him a good detective.
But every second Quinn was in Wheeler’s hands was a second she could be hurt. Tortured. Killed.
“I have to go.” Dax was already moving toward the ambulance doors. “I have to find her.”
“Dax—” Nathan tried to stand, swayed dangerously. “Wait for backup. For a plan. If you go in alone—”
“Then I go in alone.” Dax jumped down from the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud. “You get to the hospital. Get checked out. I’ll call you when I find her.”
When. Not if. He couldn’t let himself think if.
Nathan opened his mouth to argue, but the paramedics were already closing the doors. The ambulance pulled away, lights flashing but no siren—no need to rush for a conscious patient with a head injury.
Dax turned and ran toward the house.
Carson was in the front yard, directing the crime scene techs with his usual methodical precision. He looked up as Dax approached, his expression grim.
“Mercer. I’m sorry—”
“What do we have?” Dax cut him off. No time for sympathy. No time for anything except finding Quinn.
Carson gestured toward the house. “Entry point was the back door. Lock was already broken. Quinn and Nathan knew about it but hadn’t fixed it yet.
Two sets of boot prints, size eleven and twelve.
Commercial tactical boots, probably Bates or 5.
11. They came in through the back, went straight to Quinn’s bedroom. ”
Dax’s stomach turned. They’d known exactly where she was. Had gone directly to her room without searching, without hesitation.
“We found Quinn’s phone.” Carson held up an evidence bag. Inside was a shattered smartphone, screen cracked, battery compartment exposed. “Likely thrown at one of the intruders, missed, hit the wall. We’re pulling prints now, but I’m betting they wore gloves.”
“What else?” Dax was barely holding it together. His hands were shaking. His chest felt too tight.
“Signs of struggle in the bedroom. Quilt disturbed, pillow on the floor. We found this—” Carson held up another evidence bag.
Inside was a syringe, the needle bent, a small amount of clear liquid still visible in the chamber.
“Tossed in the corner. Used. We’re running the liquid for analysis, but I’m guessing sedative. Maybe ketamine or midazolam.”
They’d drugged her. Knocked her out so she couldn’t fight, couldn’t scream, couldn’t escape.
Dax’s vision went red around the edges. His hands clenched into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.