CHAPTER 21 #3
Then Quinn was on her knees beside Dax, her hands on his face, her amber eyes wide and terrified and fully awake now. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime and blood spattered there.
“Dax—oh God—Dax—”
“I’m okay.” The lie came automatically, ingrained instinct to be strong, to not show weakness. Even as blood pooled beneath him, soaking into his clothes, spreading across the concrete. “Are you—did they hurt you—”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Her hands were on his shoulder now, pressing down on the wound, and Dax nearly screamed from the pressure. Pain so intense it whited out his vision completely. He heard himself make a sound—something between a gasp and a sob.
“You’re shot.” Quinn’s voice was shaking, breaking. “Dax, you’re bleeding so much.”
“Just—just a graze—” Another lie. He could feel how bad it was. Could feel his life draining out with every beat of his heart. Drip drip drip onto the concrete.
Quinn was crying openly now, tears falling onto his face as she leaned over him, her hands pressing harder on his shoulder, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. Her palms were slick with his blood, bright red in the harsh fluorescent light.
“What were you thinking?” She was sobbing now, the words barely intelligible. “Coming here alone? You could have been killed—you’re going to be killed if we don’t—”
“Had to—” Dax forced the words out through gritted teeth, through pain that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. “Had to get you—couldn’t let Wheeler—”
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m safe.” Quinn’s free hand cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “But we need to go. We need to get you to a hospital—”
“Wheeler’s coming.” Dax’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. His lips were numb. “Twenty minutes—maybe less—we have to—”
A sound from outside cut him off.
A car engine. Close. The crunch of tires on gravel.
Both of them froze, Quinn’s hands still pressed to Dax’s shoulder, both of them staring at each other with matching expressions of horror.
“That’s not twenty minutes,” Quinn whispered.
No. It wasn’t.
Wheeler was here. Early.
And Dax was bleeding out on the floor, barely conscious, barely functional.
Four men down, but how many more had Wheeler brought?
And Dax had maybe three bullets left in his Glock, wherever it had fallen.
His backup piece was still in its holster, might as well be on the moon for all his ability to reach it right now.
They were trapped.
Quinn looked around wildly, her eyes scanning the room, looking for options, for escape, for anything. Her hands were still pressed to Dax’s shoulder, but he could see her mind working, could see the journalist’s brain cataloguing and analyzing.
“Can you walk?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Focused. “Can you move at all?”
“Don’t—don’t know—” Dax tried to sit up, made it about six inches before dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. The room spun violently. He fell back with a groan.
Car doors slamming outside. Multiple doors. Wheeler hadn’t come alone.
Quinn’s face hardened with determination—that stubborn set to her jaw that Dax had seen when they first met, and again when she’d barged into his police station with wild theories and refused to back down. That same fire that had made him fall in love with her.
She grabbed his Glock from where it had fallen, checked the magazine with surprising competence—probably absorbed from watching cop shows, or just desperation making her capable—and tucked it into her waistband.
“We’re not dying here,” she said fiercely, looking down at him with blazing eyes. “Do you hear me, Dax? We’re not giving Wheeler the satisfaction.”
She got her arms under his good shoulder—careful, so careful not to jostle the injured one—and helped him to his feet.
Most of his weight ended up leaning on her, his good arm slung over her shoulders.
She was strong, Dax realized with distant surprise.
Stronger than she looked. Or maybe just pure adrenaline giving her the strength to hold up a man who outweighed her by eighty pounds.
Every step sent fresh spikes of agony through Dax’s shoulder, but he forced himself to move. Had to. Quinn couldn’t carry him and defend them both. Had to stay on his feet. Had to help however he could.
They stumbled toward the far end of the room, where another doorway led deeper, down into the basement. Dax could see darkness back there, could make out the shapes of more rooms, storage areas, places to hide or defend from.
Behind them, footsteps at the top of the stairs.
Heavy boots. Multiple sets. Moving with military precision.
And then a voice. Cold. Calm. Utterly devoid of fear or concern.
Wheeler.
“Find them,” Wheeler’s voice echoed down into the basement, each word crisp and clear and terrifying in its casual certainty. “And bring me the girl alive. I want to talk to Ms. Barrett before we finish this.”
Quinn’s arm tightened around Dax’s waist. She pulled him through the doorway into darkness, into the narrow maze of basement rooms beyond.
And behind them, Wheeler’s people began their descent into hell.