CHAPTER 21 #2
Dax’s mind raced even as dizziness washed over him, making the room tilt and spin. His own blood loss was catching up now. He could feel it—the weakness creeping into his limbs, the way his vision was starting to narrow and tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges.
He didn’t have much time. Had to get Quinn out before the other guards came down. Before Wheeler arrived. Before Dax passed out from blood loss and they were both sitting ducks.
Dax pushed himself to his feet—nearly fell, caught himself against the tire stack, his injured shoulder screaming. The world tilted violently, and for a horrible second he thought he was going to vomit.
He stumbled away from the dying man, toward Quinn, his boots slipping in blood. His blood or the dead man’s blood from the workbench, he couldn’t tell anymore. Both probably. The concrete floor was slick with it, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights in dark pools.
“Quinn.” His voice cracked, came out hoarse and desperate. He reached her, his good hand trembling as it touched her face, his fingers pushing her long dark hair back from her cheek. “Quinn, can you hear me?”
Her skin was warm. Alive. But she didn’t respond. Her head lolled against his palm, completely slack, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep.
Whatever they’d drugged her with was strong. Ketamine probably. Or midazolam. Something designed to keep a person under for hours.
They didn’t have hours.
Dax fumbled his pocketknife out with his right hand. His fingers were slick with blood, making the knife slippery and hard to grip. It took him three tries to get it open.
He sawed through the zip ties around her wrists, the serrated blade making short work of the thick plastic.
They parted with sharp snaps and Quinn’s hands fell free, hanging limply at her sides.
Her wrists were red and raw underneath, the skin torn where she’d fought against the restraints.
Fresh blood welled up from the abrasions.
She’d fought them. Even drugged, even terrified, she’d fought.
Dax felt something crack in his chest. Pride and love and rage all mixed together until he couldn’t separate them.
Then the rope around her ankles. His fingers were clumsy now, coordination failing as shock and blood loss caught up with him.
The rope was rough hemp, tied in professional knots that wouldn’t slip or give.
He had to saw through each strand individually, the blade catching and sticking in the fibers.
Finally, the last strand parted. Quinn’s feet were free.
“Come on, sunshine,” Dax whispered, pulling her forward against his chest with his good arm. Her weight fell against him, warm and solid and real. Alive. She was alive. “Wake up. I need you to wake up.”
Nothing. Her head rested against his good shoulder, her breath warm and even against his neck. No sign of consciousness. No response to his voice or his touch.
Dax tried to lift her. Got one arm around her waist, tried to stand, tried to get her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry—
His injured shoulder exploded with fresh agony. White-hot pain that shot through his entire left side like electricity. His vision whited out completely. His legs buckled and he nearly went down, only catching himself at the last second by bracing against the chair.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t carry her one-armed. Not with this injury. Not with the blood loss.
Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it—
Footsteps overhead. Heavy boots on metal stairs.
The other guards. The two from upstairs. Coming to investigate the gunshots.
How long had it been since the shooting started? Two minutes? Three? It felt like hours, but Dax knew better. Combat time was deceiving. Whole firefights happened in seconds.
Dax looked around wildly, his training trying to kick in through the pain and blood loss and desperation. Defensible position. Choke point. Cover. Something he could use to his advantage.
There—the doorway he’d come through. Narrow. Single entry point. Only one person could come through at a time. Classic fatal funnel. Dax could hold it with a good field of fire.
He half-dragged, half-carried Quinn toward the corner of the room, his boots squelching in blood, his vision swimming with every step. The room kept tilting, threatening to spin completely out from under him.
He propped Quinn against the wall behind a steel support beam—not great cover, but better than nothing. The beam would stop bullets. Would give her some protection if things went completely sideways.
“Stay here,” he whispered to her unconscious form, his hand lingering on her face for just a second. “Stay safe. I’ll get us out. I promise.”
Then he forced himself to move back to the doorway, each step harder than the last. His legs felt like they were made of wet sand. His left arm hung useless, dripping blood steadily. The tactical vest felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
But Dax made it to the doorway, braced himself against the frame with his injured shoulder, ignoring the screaming pain, and raised his weapon with his good hand.
The Glock felt too heavy now. His arm trembled with the effort of keeping it level. The sights wavered, blurring in and out of focus.
How many rounds left? He’d fired what, six times? Maybe seven?
Nine or ten rounds left. Against two more armed men.
The footsteps were closer now. On the basement stairs. Two sets of boots, moving fast but cautious. Professional. Clearing as they came.
Dax braced himself, forcing his breathing to steady even though his heart was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. The way they’d taught him. The way he’d done it a hundred times in Afghanistan.
Stay calm. Control your breathing. Aim true. Fire when you have the shot.
Two more. Just two more.
Then he could get Quinn out. Could call for backup. Could—
The first man appeared in the doorway.
Dax saw him for just an instant—another big guy in tactical black, weapon raised, eyes scanning the room—and fired.
The shot took the man center mass. He jerked, his weapon firing reflexively—bullets going wild, sparking off the ceiling—and then he was falling backward, tumbling down the stairs behind him.
His body hit the second man coming up.
Both men crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and weapons and shouted curses. The sound of bodies hitting concrete echoed up through the doorway, followed by more cursing, the clatter of weapons on metal stairs.
Dax fired twice more down into the stairwell, aiming for where he thought the second man would be.
One shot sparked off metal. The other—Dax heard a grunt of pain.
Hit. But not a kill shot.
Return fire came immediately. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark stairwell, bullets whining past Dax’s head. One hit the doorframe inches from his face, spraying concrete chips that stung his cheek like angry hornets.
Dax jerked back reflexively, throwing him off-balance, and felt his legs give out completely.
He hit the floor hard, all his weight coming down on his injured shoulder. The pain was so intense it drove every thought from his mind. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except feel the white-hot agony radiating through his entire body.
His weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering away across the blood-slick concrete.
No. No no no—
Dax scrabbled for his backup piece—the 9mm in his ankle holster—but his fingers wouldn’t work right. Too slow. Too weak. He couldn’t get his hand to grip properly. Couldn’t get the snap undone. Couldn’t—
Footsteps in the doorway. The second man, getting up, coming through.
Dax looked up through pain-blurred vision and saw the man silhouetted in the doorway, his weapon coming around, tracking toward where Dax lay helpless on the floor.
This was it. This was how it ended. On his back. Bleeding out. Unable to protect Quinn.
I’m sorry, he thought. Sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Leesa. Sorry, Quinn.
I failed you all.
The man’s finger was tightening on the trigger when Quinn moved.
She surged up from behind the support beam where Dax had left her, moving on pure instinct, her amber eyes open now and blazing with fury and fear. Her hands found the heavy pipe wrench on the workbench beside her—three feet of solid steel, old and rusted but still heavy as hell.
The man in the doorway turned toward the movement, his weapon tracking—
Quinn swung the wrench with all her strength.
The pipe wrench connected with the side of the man’s head with a sickening crunch—bone breaking, skull fracturing. The sound was wet and final, like a watermelon splitting open.
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His weapon clattered from his grip. His knees buckled and he dropped like someone had cut his strings, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud and then lying perfectly still.
Blood began pooling beneath his head, spreading fast.