CHAPTER 20 #4
Dax’s blood ran cold, ice flooding his veins.
Wheeler wanted information. Which meant Quinn was still alive. Still conscious—or would be soon. Still useful to Wheeler.
Still saveable.
The rage that had been building in Dax’s chest crystallized into something colder. Harder. More focused.
He would kill these men. Both of them. Anyone who stood between him and Quinn.
And then he would kill Wheeler.
But first: reconnaissance. Know what you’re walking into before you breach.
Dax risked a quick look around the doorframe—just a fraction of a second, just enough for his brain to snapshot the scene.
The room beyond was an old mechanic’s bay. Concrete floor stained with decades of oil and grease. Exposed pipes running along the ceiling, some wrapped in crumbling insulation. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, their harsh white glow reflecting off metal surfaces.
And in the center of the room, tied to a chair—
Quinn.
Dax’s breath stopped.
She was slumped forward, her chin nearly touching her chest, her long dark hair falling across her face like a curtain.
Her hands were zip-tied behind the chair, her wrists red and raw where the plastic had cut into her skin.
Her feet were tied to the chair legs with rope.
Blood on her arm where they’d injected her—a small trickle that had dried into a dark line.
Bruises forming on her wrists where she’d fought.
More bruises on her upper arms, purple-black finger marks where someone had grabbed her hard enough to hurt.
But her chest was moving. Rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.
Alive. She was alive.
Dax’s vision blurred with tears of relief so intense it physically hurt. His chest constricted. His throat closed up.
Quinn. His Quinn. Alive.
He wanted to charge in right now, right this second, wanted to cut her free and carry her out and never let her out of his sight again.
But he forced himself to stay still. To observe. To assess.
Two men in the room with her. Both big—over six feet, easily two hundred pounds each. Both armed—handguns visible in shoulder holsters. Both dressed in black, the kind of clothing that said professional security or professional criminal.
One sat on a workbench against the far wall, smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the fluorescent lights. He looked bored. Relaxed. Not expecting trouble.
The other paced near Quinn, checking his watch every few seconds, his phone clutched in his other hand. More alert. More nervous.
The nervous one spoke into his phone. “Yeah, she’s still out. You bringing the boss soon?”
Dax strained to hear the response, but the phone wasn’t on speaker. Just a tinny voice too distorted to make out.
A pause. Then, “Got it. We’ll be here.”
He hung up and looked at his partner, who took another drag on his cigarette and tapped ash onto the floor.
“Wheeler’s on his way,” the nervous one said. “ETA twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes.
Dax’s mind raced, calculating. Running scenarios.
He could wait for SWAT. They’d be here in...what? Thirty minutes? Forty? Captain Holloway would have mobilized them by now, had them staging somewhere nearby.
But Wheeler would be here in twenty minutes. Would arrive before backup. Would question Quinn, hurt Quinn, maybe kill Quinn before SWAT could breach.
Or Dax could go in now. Take out these two. Get Quinn out before Wheeler arrived.
Two armed men. Two on one. Not great odds, but not impossible either.
And Dax had surprise on his side. They weren’t expecting him. Didn’t know he was here. Were relaxed, unprepared, talking and smoking instead of watching the door.
No contest.
Dax pulled back from the doorway and took a moment to center himself. To become the soldier he’d been in Afghanistan. To shut down the emotional part of his brain that was screaming Quinn’s name and let the tactical part take over.
Breathe. Focus. Move.
He checked his weapon one more time. Sixteen shots. More than enough for two targets.
He said a silent prayer—to God, to the universe, to Charlie and all the others he’d lost. To Quinn’s father and grandmother.
Please. Let me save her. Let me be fast enough, good enough. Let me not fail her the way I’ve failed everyone else.
Then Dax took a breath, gripped his weapon with both hands, and exploded through the door.
It flew open with a bang as Dax’s shoulder hit it, the metal crashing against the concrete wall.
Dax was through in an instant, his weapon up, his body already moving into the room with the fluid grace of years of training and muscle memory.
The two men looked up—eyes widening in shock, hands reaching for weapons they hadn’t expected to need—and found themselves staring straight down the barrel of Dax’s Glock.
Time slowed as Dax’s finger found the trigger.
The smoking man was still holding his cigarette, his mouth opening to shout a warning.
The nervous one’s hand was halfway to his holster.
Too slow. Both of them too slow.
Dax aimed center mass on the closest target and pulled the trigger.