CHAPTER 21
The gunshot was deafening in the confined space.
The Glock’s report cracked through the air like a thunderclap, the sound waves bouncing off concrete walls and metal surfaces, amplifying and echoing until Dax’s ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.
The muzzle flash lit up the room for a split second—bright white, stark as lightning—casting harsh shadows that danced and flickered.
Dax’s whole body absorbed the recoil—the familiar kick against his palms, the way his shoulders tensed automatically to compensate, the slight upward jerk of the barrel that years of training had taught him to control instantly.
The man with the cigarette—the one who’d been sitting so casually on the workbench—saw Dax coming. His mouth was opening to shout a warning, his eyes widening in shock and recognition, his hand dropping the cigarette as he reached for his weapon—
But Dax was faster.
The bullet hit him center mass before the warning could leave his lips. Before his fingers could close around his holster. Before his partner even knew they were under attack.
The man jerked backward like he’d been punched, the unfinished shout dying in his throat as shock overtook him.
Red bloomed across his chest—a dark stain spreading fast across the black tactical shirt, soaking into the fabric. His hands came up automatically, scrabbling at the wound, fingers slipping in the blood that was pumping out with each beat of his failing heart.
He tried to speak. Nothing came out except a wet gurgling sound.
Then he toppled sideways off the workbench like a felled tree, arms windmilling, and hit the concrete floor with a heavy, final thud. His head bounced once. His body twitched, convulsed, then went still.
One down.
Dax’s brain processed all of this in the space between heartbeats—catalogued the kill, confirmed the threat was neutralized, was already moving on to the next target before the first man’s body had finished settling.
Time moved strangely in combat. Fast and slow simultaneously. Each moment stretched out like taffy while also compressing into split-second decisions that meant life or death.
Dax was already pivoting, his weight shifting, his weapon tracking smoothly to the second target—the nervous one who’d been pacing, checking his watch, talking to Wheeler on the phone.
The man was moving now, his casual demeanor shattered by the sound of gunfire and his partner’s death. His hand was reaching for his holster as he dove for cover behind a stack of old tires piled against the far wall.
Dax’s finger was already squeezing the trigger. Once. Twice. Quick double-tap, the way the Army had drilled into him until it was pure muscle memory. Center mass. Two shots. Confirm the kill.
But the man was faster than Dax had expected. Professional training showing through the panic.
The first shot went wide as the man dropped, the bullet sparking off a metal tool chest behind where his head had been a split second before. The sharp scent of cordite filled the air, acrid and bitter.
The second shot hit one of the tires—Dax heard the dull thunk of the bullet punching through rubber—but the man was already behind three feet of stacked tires.
Damn.
Dax kept moving, circling left, trying to get an angle, his boots loud on the concrete floor now that stealth no longer mattered. His breath was coming hard and fast, adrenaline flooding his system, making everything sharp and clear and hyper-focused.
Behind the tires, he heard the man breathing—ragged gasps of fear and shock. Heard the rustle of clothing as the man shifted position. The metallic click of a safety being flicked off.
“Federal agent!” the man shouted, his voice cracking with adrenaline and false authority. “Drop your weapon! Drop it now!”
Dax almost laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that died in his throat.
Federal agent. Right. And Dax was supposed to believe Wheeler’s hired muscle had badges to go with their tactical gear.
“Bullshit,” Dax called back, his voice hard.
He was still moving, still trying to flank, keeping his body positioned between the threat and Quinn—still slumped unconscious in that chair, still vulnerable, still the whole reason he was here.
“You’re Wheeler’s muscle. And you just kidnapped a civilian. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” The man’s voice was moving too, shifting position behind the tires. Smart. Not staying in one place. Making himself a harder target.
Dax fired twice more at the sound of the voice, adjusting his aim lower, trying to catch the man’s legs or feet beneath the tire stack.
The bullets punched through the rubber with dull thuds—Dax heard the air whooshing out, old stale air that smelled of rot and mildew—but again, the man had already moved. Had anticipated. Had training that matched Dax’s own.
This wasn’t some street thug. This was professional security. Maybe ex-military. Maybe ex-law enforcement.
Which made him dangerous.
Dax’s mind raced, calculating angles and options. The room wasn’t that big—maybe thirty feet square. The tire stack was against the far wall, giving the man cover but also pinning him in place. If Dax could get around to the side—
Movement. Just a flicker in his peripheral vision.
Dax’s combat instincts screamed a warning a split second before his conscious brain processed what he was seeing.
He spun back toward the tires just as the man popped up, his weapon raised, his face set with grim determination.
For one frozen instant, they stared at each other down the barrels of their guns.
Then both of them fired at the same time.
The world exploded into sound and light and pain.
Dax felt something hit him—a massive impact to his left shoulder that felt like he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. The force of it spun him partially around, his feet tangling, his balance gone.
Hot. It was so hot. Like someone had pressed a branding iron to his shoulder and was holding it there, pushing it deeper, burning through skin and muscle and bone.
Dax’s weapon wavered, dipping down as his left arm went suddenly, completely numb. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Couldn’t feel his hand. His whole left side was just...gone. Replaced by a spreading numbness and that terrible burning heat.
But even as he stumbled, even as pain exploded through his upper body in waves that made his vision white out at the edges, Dax’s right hand kept his weapon steady. Kept it trained on target.
His shot had found its mark.
The man behind the tires grunted—a sharp, pained sound—and went down hard, both hands clutching his left thigh where Dax’s bullet had punched through. Blood welled up between his fingers, dark and fast. Arterial maybe. Or close to it.
The man’s weapon clattered from his grip, skittering across the concrete floor with a harsh metallic scraping sound before disappearing into the shadows.
Dax stumbled backward, trying to keep his feet, trying to stay upright and armed and dangerous. His left shoulder was screaming now, definitely not numb anymore. Pure white-hot agony radiating out in pulses that matched his racing heartbeat.
He looked down and saw blood. So much blood. Soaking into his shirt under the bulletproof vest. The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through the other side, but it still tore through his shoulder, shredding tissue, probably breaking bone.
His left arm hung useless at his side, dead weight, fingers twitching weakly as damaged nerves misfired. Blood was running down his arm in rivulets, dripping off his fingertips to spatter on the concrete floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. Each drop seemed too loud in the sudden quiet after the gunfire.
But he was still standing. Still armed. Still between the threat and Quinn.
Behind the tires, the man was groaning, writhing on the floor, both hands pressed desperately to his thigh. Dax could see the blood pumping out between his fingers—too much blood, too fast. Femoral artery. Had to be. The man’s face was already going pale and waxy with shock.
He had minutes. Maybe less.
Dax didn’t care.
He forced himself to move forward, each step sending fresh spikes of agony through his shoulder.
His left arm swung uselessly at his side, completely unresponsive to any commands his brain tried to send.
The fingers were still twitching, but he couldn’t make a fist, couldn’t feel anything except a distant tingling sensation like his whole arm had fallen asleep.
Nerve damage. Definitely nerve damage.
Deal with it later. Focus now.
Dax kept his weapon trained on the downed man as he approached, his right hand steady despite the tremor running through the rest of his body. Adrenaline could only do so much. Blood loss was starting to catch up.
The man on the floor looked up at him through pain-glazed eyes. His face was gray now, lips going blue at the edges. Shock progressing fast.
“I need—” the man gasped out, his voice thin and thready. “I need a hospital—please—”
“You need to tell me who else is here.” Dax’s voice came out rough, ground glass and fury. He kicked the man’s fallen weapon farther away then knelt beside him, pressing the barrel of his Glock against the man’s temple.
The cold steel made the man flinch.
“How many others?” Dax demanded. “Where’s Wheeler?”
“Fuck you—” The man tried for defiance, but it came out as a whimper.
Dax pressed harder with the gun, the barrel dimpling the man’s skin. “How many?”
The man’s breath was coming in short, desperate gasps now. His eyes rolled, showing white. He was fading fast.
“Two more—” The words tumbled out in a pained rush. “Upstairs—watching—watching the perimeter—”
“Where’s Wheeler?”
“Coming—” The man’s teeth were chattering now, his whole body starting to shake with shock. “Twenty minutes—maybe less—I don’t—I don’t know—”
Two more guards. Upstairs. And Wheeler en route.