Chapter 6
Dax’s cabin was exactly what you’d expect from a former Army bomb specialist who preferred solitude: isolated, secure, and designed for survival.
He pulled up the long gravel driveway, rocks crunching under the tires, and killed the engine. Beside him, Quinn stared at the structure with what looked like a mix of apprehension and curiosity.
“This is it,” Dax said needlessly.
The cabin sat in a clearing surrounded by dense pine forest. Single story, logs weathered to a silvery gray, metal roof that could withstand heavy snow. No neighbors within two miles. Cell service was spotty at best. Internet came from a satellite dish mounted on the roof.
Perfect.
“It’s very...” Quinn searched for a word. “Isolated.”
“That’s the point.” Dax got out and grabbed her bag from the back. “Come on. I’ll show you around before I head back to check on your grandmother.”
He led her up the wooden steps to the front door. Three locks—deadbolt, chain, and a reinforced strike plate he’d installed himself. The door was solid core, not the hollow crap most people had. Someone would need a battering ram to get through it.
Inside, the cabin was sparse but functional. Open floor plan with kitchen, living area, and dining space all in one room. Wood stove in the corner for heat. Couch that had seen better days. Table with two chairs. Everything clean but well-worn.
“Bedroom’s through there.” Dax pointed to a door on the right, his hand dropping back to his side. “Bathroom’s next to it. You’ll take the bedroom. I’ll sleep out here on the couch.”
Quinn looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.
Besides, I sleep better out here anyway.
” That was true. The couch let him see the front door and windows, gave him clear sight lines to every entry point.
Old habits from deployment—never sleep where you can’t see the exits.
His body wouldn’t let him relax any other way.
“Where’s your bedroom then?”
“That is my bedroom. I just won’t be using it while you’re here.”
Quinn set her bag down with a soft thud and looked around, those amber eyes taking in the sparse furniture, the security monitors on the side table, the lack of personal touches. Her expression was hard to read. Not quite scared, not quite comfortable. Something in between.
Dax understood. Being in a strange man’s home, miles from anywhere, completely dependent on him for safety—it would make anyone nervous. Even stubborn journalists who thought they could handle anything.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly uncertain what to do with them. “But it’s safe. That’s what matters.”
“I know. I’m just...processing.” Quinn wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching slightly. “This morning I was at my grandmother’s house, working on an article. Now I’m in hiding because someone wants to kill me. It’s a lot.”
“Yeah. It is.” Dax moved to the kitchen, his boots heavy on the wood floor, and started making coffee. He needed something to do with his hands, needed the familiar ritual to settle his thoughts. “But you’re alive. That’s what counts.”
“For how long?”
The question hung in the air. Dax measured coffee grounds into the filter, the rich scent filling his nose as he focused on the precise movements. Taking his time before answering.
“As long as it takes to build a case against Wheeler and put him away. Could be days. Could be weeks.” He started the coffeemaker, the machine hissing to life. “But you’ll be safe here. I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yes, I can.” Dax turned to face her, his shoulders squaring. “I’ve kept people alive in war zones. I’ve defused bombs while under fire. I’ve survived things that should have killed me. Keeping one journalist safe in a secure location is something I can do.”
Quinn studied him for a long moment, her head tilting slightly. “You’re very confident.”
“I’m very good at my job.”
“And humble too.”
Despite everything, Dax felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Almost a smile. The muscles felt rusty, unused to the expression. “Humility’s overrated. Results matter.”
The coffeemaker gurgled and sputtered. Dax pulled down two mugs from the cabinet—mismatched, chipped, but clean. Poured coffee into both, the dark liquid steaming, and handed one to Quinn. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Thank you. For this. For protecting me. For taking me seriously when no one else would.”
Dax shrugged, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with gratitude. “Your theory was solid. Your father did good work. Someone needed to follow up on it.”
“But you’re the only one who did.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve never been good at following orders when the orders are wrong.” He took a sip of coffee—strong and bitter, the way he liked it, scalding his tongue. “Captain wanted the Crane case closed. I disagreed. Simple as that.”
“Will you get in trouble? For investigating anyway?”
“Probably.” Dax didn’t particularly care. He’d been in trouble before. Would be again. It was part of who he was—the guy who couldn’t let things go, even when he should. He rolled his shoulders, releasing tension.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, thumb swiping across the screen. A text from Harper Sinclair.
Agents are at the grandmother’s house. She’s secure. Nurse says she’s comfortable and stable.
Dax turned the phone so Quinn could see the message. Relief flooded her face, the tension in her jaw releasing.
“Thank God. I was so worried about leaving her.”
“She’s in good hands. Harper wouldn’t send anyone but the best.” Dax drained his coffee in two long swallows, the heat burning down his throat, and set the mug in the sink. “I need to head back into town. Check on a few things. You’ll stay here.”
“What things?”
“Your car, for one. Want to make sure Wheeler didn’t tamper with it before we moved you.”
Quinn paled, the color draining from her cheeks. “You think he might have?”
“I think Wheeler’s killed twice using methods that looked like accidents. Your father’s brakes failed. Crane was staged as a suicide. Wheeler’s careful. Professional. Which means he plans ahead.” Dax grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, the metal jangling. “So yeah, I’m checking your car.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice came out harder than intended.
“It’s my car—”
He met her glare head-on. “And you’re a target.
You stay here where it’s safe. I’ll go back, check the car, talk to the agents watching your grandmother, and gather some more evidence.
” Dax moved toward the door, his hand already on the knob.
“You’ve got food in the fridge, firewood if you get cold, and my landline if you need to make calls. Number’s on the wall.”
Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “A landline? What is this, 1995?”
“It’s secure. Can’t be traced or hacked like cell phones.” Dax opened the door, cold air rushing in from outside. “Don’t leave the cabin. Don’t answer the door for anyone but me. And if you see or hear anything suspicious, there’s a shotgun in the closet by the bathroom. Loaded. Safety’s on.”
Quinn’s eyes widened. “You’re just casually mentioning you have a loaded shotgun?”
“Would you prefer I leave you unarmed?”
“I—no, I guess not. I just...” She shook her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. “This is surreal.”
“Welcome to investigative work on a dangerous case. It’s not all Pulitzer prizes and bylines.” Dax paused in the doorway, his hand still on the frame. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to get some rest. You look exhausted.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s not an insult. It’s an observation. You’ve been running on adrenaline and fear for days. Eventually, you’ll crash.” He softened his tone slightly, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “This is a safe place to do that. So rest. I’ll handle things.”
He closed the door before she could argue. Heard the locks click as she engaged them—all three, one after another. Good. She was learning.
Dax climbed into his truck and headed back toward Blackridge. The drive gave him time to think. To plan. To process what had happened in the last few hours. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary.
Quinn Barrett had published an article exposing Wheeler. Wheeler had responded with immediate threats and violence. That brick through the window wasn’t just intimidation—it was a message. I know where you are. I can get to you. Stop or die.
Classic escalation pattern. Start with anonymous threats to scare the target. When that doesn’t work, get physical. If that doesn’t work, get lethal.
Wheeler was moving fast. Too fast. Which meant he was worried. Really worried.
Good. Worried people made mistakes.
Dax’s phone rang, the sound cutting through the truck’s quiet cab. Carson.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear. “Tell me you didn’t just take a witness into protective custody without clearing it with the captain,” Carson said without preamble.
“I took a civilian who was receiving death threats to a secure location. That’s within my authority as an investigating officer.” Dax’s jaw tightened.
“Is it though? Because Captain Holloway just asked me where you are and why there are FBI agents at a civilian’s residence in Blackridge.”
Dax grimaced, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’d hoped to keep this quiet a bit longer. “Harper sent them. As a favor.”
“Does Silas know you’ve got his wife running interference for you?” Carson’s tone was more concerned than accusatory.
“He knows. They both want Wheeler stopped as much as we do.”
“Mercer.” Carson’s voice was strained, stretched thin. “You’re going rogue on this. You know that, right? The captain closed the Crane case. He’s going to be furious when he finds out you’re still investigating.”
“Then don’t tell him.”