CHAPTER 20 #3
The thought should have scared him. Should have made him hesitate, call for backup, wait for SWAT like a rational person.
But all Dax felt was a cold, crystalline certainty.
He would save Quinn. Or he would die in the attempt. There was no third option. No future where he walked away and left her in Wheeler’s hands. No universe where he survived and she didn’t.
So…save her, or die trying.
Simple.
Dax pulled his weapon—Glock 19, the grip worn smooth from years of use, perfectly weighted, perfectly balanced.
He dropped the magazine with a practiced motion, his thumb checking by feel that it was fully loaded.
Fifteen rounds. He slammed it back home with a satisfying click, then racked the slide.
The metallic sound was loud in the quiet truck—chambering a round, ready to fire.
Sixteen bullets total.
He checked his backup piece—the smaller 9mm in an ankle holster that rubbed against his boot. Eight rounds. Also fully loaded, also ready.
Twenty-four bullets.
Against how many of Wheeler’s people?
Dax didn’t know. Didn’t care. He’d make it work.
He reached behind his seat and grabbed the black Kevlar vest he kept there—heavy and reassuring. He shrugged into it, feeling the weight settle across his shoulders like armor. Like purpose. The velcro straps made harsh ripping sounds as he tightened them, securing the vest snug against his chest.
Not that Kevlar would help much if Wheeler’s people had rifles. But it was something. Some protection. Some advantage.
And he’d take every advantage he could get.
Dax opened the truck door—the interior light was disconnected, keeping him in darkness—and stepped out into the cold night air.
The temperature had dropped. His breath came out in visible puffs, white against the darkness. The air smelled of oil and rust and urban decay—scents that brought him back to Afghanistan, to other nights in other abandoned places, hunting other enemies.
But this was different.
This was personal.
Dax started walking, his boots silent on the cracked asphalt. Years of training made his movements automatic—staying in shadow, using cover, minimizing his silhouette. He moved like a ghost through the dark streets, weapon held low and ready, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.
The warehouse district was silent, except for the distant hum of traffic from the highway a mile away and the occasional rustle of wind through chain-link fencing. No other people. No cars. No witnesses.
Perfect for Wheeler.
Perfect for Dax.
He approached 847 Industrial from the rear, circling wide to stay out of sight lines from the building’s windows. His heart was a steady drumbeat now, fast but controlled. His breathing was even. The shaking in his hands had stopped, replaced by the cold steadiness of a soldier moving into combat.
This was what he’d been trained for. What he’d done dozens of times in Afghanistan. Clear a building. Extract a friendly. Neutralize hostiles.
The fence loomed ahead of him—eight feet of chain-link topped with barbed wire. Dax holstered his weapon, took three running steps, and launched himself at the fence.
His fingers found purchase in the diamond-shaped links. His boots found footholds. He climbed with the efficiency of long practice, muscles burning, breath coming harder now.
At the top, he paused, assessing the barbed wire. Three strands, angled outward. He pulled off his jacket, barely feeling the cold night air from the rush of adrenaline keeping him warm, and threw it over the wire, creating a barrier between the barbs and his body.
Then he went over.
For one moment, he was balanced at the top of the fence, suspended between earth and sky. Time seemed to slow. He could see the building ahead of him, dark and squat and malevolent. Could see the Suburban in the parking lot. Could imagine Quinn inside, tied up, hurt, terrified.
Waiting for him.
Then gravity pulled him down and time snapped back to normal speed.
Dax dropped to the other side, landing in a crouch on the cracked concrete, his knees absorbing the impact. His boots made almost no sound, just a soft scuff that was swallowed by the night.
He froze, listening.
No alarms. No shouts. No guards running to investigate.
Nothing but silence.
Too easy.
Every instinct Dax had screamed a warning. This felt wrong. Felt like a trap. The open padlock. The unguarded perimeter. The dark building with no visible security.
Wheeler was too smart for this. Too careful. Too paranoid to leave one of his properties this vulnerable.
Unless he wanted Dax to come.
Unless this was exactly what Wheeler expected.
Dax pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. Trap or not, Quinn was inside. And he was going to get her out.
He drew his weapon again and moved toward the building, using the Suburban for cover. Up close, he could see more details—mud splattered on the wheel wells, a small dent in the rear bumper, tinted windows that were too dark to see through.
He pressed his hand against the hood as he passed.
Still warm.
They’d arrived recently. Within the last hour. Which meant Quinn had been here less than an hour.
Less than an hour to be hurt. To be questioned. To be—
Stop. Don’t think about it. Focus on the mission.
Dax circled to the back of the building, where industrial loading docks created deep shadows. And there, a basement access. Concrete steps leading down to a recessed entrance, the kind delivery trucks would have used to drop off parts and equipment.
The metal door at the bottom was closed, but he could see, even from here, that the lock was broken. The door sat slightly ajar, a thin line of deeper darkness visible at its edge.
Another invitation.
Dax descended the steps, his boots making the barest whisper of sound on the concrete. Each step down brought him deeper into shadow, deeper into danger.
His hand tightened on his weapon. The Glock’s grip was slick with his sweat now despite the cold.
At the bottom, Dax paused. Listened.
Nothing.
He reached out with his left hand—keeping his weapon hand free and ready—and pushed the door open.
It swung inward with a low groan of unoiled hinges that made Dax’s teeth clench. So much for stealth.
But no one came running. No shouts of alarm. No gunfire.
Just silence.
Dax slipped inside and let the door close behind him, plunging him into near-total darkness.
The basement was pitch black and smelled of mildew and old motor oil—thick, cloying scents that coated the back of his throat. Dax stood still, letting his eyes adjust, his other senses straining to compensate for the lack of vision.
Slowly, shapes emerged from the darkness. Old equipment—drill presses, welding stations, tool chests. Storage boxes stacked haphazardly against walls. A workbench covered in debris.
The detritus of a business long dead.
And voices.
Faint. Muffled. Coming from deeper inside the building, through walls and closed doors that swallowed most of the sound.
But definitely voices. Male. At least two of them.
Dax’s pulse spiked again. His hands steadied on his weapon as he moved toward the sound, each footstep carefully placed, avoiding the debris scattered across the concrete floor. A rusty bolt. A piece of pipe. Anything that might clatter and give away his position.
The voices grew louder as he approached a doorway at the far end of the basement. Light spilled from underneath—harsh, fluorescent, the kind of too-bright white light that washed out colors and created sharp shadows.
Dax pressed himself against the wall beside the door, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingertips where they gripped his weapon.
He could hear words now. Distinct. Clear.
“—should be awake soon. Boss wants her conscious when he gets here.”
Boss. Wheeler. Coming here.
How long? How much time did Dax have?
A second voice, rougher, bored-sounding. “Waste of time if you ask me. Should just dump her in the river now, save ourselves the trouble.”
Dax’s vision went red. His finger tightened on the trigger reflexively.
Dump her in the river. Talking about Quinn like she was trash. Like she was nothing.
“Wheeler wants to talk to her first,” the first voice said. “Find out what she knows, who she told.”