CHAPTER 22
The darkness beyond the doorway was absolute.
Quinn pulled Dax through into what felt like a maze, the basement branching off into multiple rooms and corridors that had once been part of the auto body shop’s operations. Storage rooms. Parts departments. Old office spaces now stripped and abandoned.
Quinn’s heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in her fingertips where they gripped Dax’s waist. Most of his weight was on her now—he was barely keeping his feet under him, his legs dragging, his breathing coming in short, pained gasps against her ear.
“Stay with me,” she whispered urgently. “Dax, stay with me.”
“Trying—” His voice was weak, slurred. Blood loss. He was losing too much blood.
Quinn could feel it soaking into her shirt where his shoulder pressed against her, could feel the wet warmth of it on her hands. How much blood could a person lose before—
No. Don’t think about that. Focus.
Behind them, Wheeler’s voice echoed through the basement, that cold, calm tone that made Quinn’s skin crawl.
“Wade, take the left corridor. Webb, you’re with me. They can’t have gone far.”
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Spreading out. Hunting.
Quinn pulled Dax deeper into the darkness, moving as quietly as she could despite his weight, despite the way his boots scraped against the concrete with every dragging step. Her eyes were adjusting slowly—shapes emerging from the blackness. Doorways. Corridors. Old equipment.
There—an office. Door hanging open on broken hinges.
Quinn steered them inside, easing Dax down against the wall as gently as she could. He slid down with a groan that he tried to muffle against his good hand, his injured shoulder leaving a dark smear of blood on the concrete wall.
“Sorry, sorry,” Quinn whispered, her hands hovering over him, not knowing where to touch, how to help. “I’m so sorry.”
“Not—not your fault—” Dax’s head lolled back against the wall. Even in the near-darkness, Quinn could see how pale he was. His lips had a bluish tinge that terrified her.
Quinn pressed her hands to his shoulder wound again, feeling the warm blood pulse against her palms. She needed bandages. Needed pressure. Needed to stop the bleeding or he was going to die right here in this abandoned office while Wheeler hunted them room by room.
Her shirt. She could use her shirt.
Quinn pulled off her jacket—realized she was still wearing her pajamas from when they’d grabbed her, just thin cotton pants and a tank top—and yanked the jacket’s inner lining free. The fabric tore with a sound that seemed too loud, but it gave her a long strip of material.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned, then pressed the fabric hard against the entry wound on Dax’s shoulder.
He made a sound—something between a gasp and a scream that he bit off by pressing his fist against his mouth. His whole body went rigid, every muscle locked tight with agony.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Quinn kept the pressure steady, wrapped the fabric around his shoulder as best she could with shaking hands, tied it off. It wasn’t much. Wasn’t nearly enough. But it might slow the bleeding. Might buy them time.
Might keep him alive.
“Quinn—” Dax’s good hand found hers, his fingers cold and weak. “If they—if Wheeler—”
“Don’t.” Quinn’s voice was fierce. “Don’t you dare say goodbye. We’re getting out of this.”
“Be realistic—” He coughed, winced. “I’m shot. You’re still drugged—”
“I’m not drugged anymore.” And it was true. The adrenaline had burned through whatever they’d injected her with, leaving her wired and sharp and terrifyingly clear-headed. “And you’re not dying. I won’t let you.”
Despite everything, Dax’s mouth quirked in something almost like a smile. “Stubborn.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” His eyes found hers in the darkness. “I love you. Should have—should have said it better. Should have shown you better. Instead of—”
“Locking me in a cabin?” Quinn’s laugh was shaky. “Yeah. That could have gone better.”
“I was afraid.” Dax’s voice was getting quieter, weaker. His eyes drifting closed in a way that terrified her. “So afraid of losing you. Like everyone else. And I drove you right into danger by—by trying to—”
“Shh.” Quinn pressed her fingers to his lips. “We’ll talk about it later. When we’re not being hunted by a murderer. Deal?”
He opened his eyes again, and there was a spark of defiance that gave her hope. “Deal.”
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Getting closer.
Quinn’s hand went to the Glock tucked in her waistband—Dax’s gun, still warm from firing, still holding however many bullets he had left. Three? Four? She had no idea. Had never fired a gun in her life except at a range once for a story about gun violence.
But she’d pull the trigger if she had to. Would kill to protect Dax. Would do whatever it took.
The footsteps paused outside their doorway.
Quinn held her breath, her hand tight on the gun, her body positioned between Dax and the door. If someone came through, she’d have maybe one second to react. One chance to shoot first.
Her finger found the trigger. The metal was cold against her skin.
The footsteps moved on. Continued down the corridor. Fading.
Quinn let out a shaky breath, her whole body trembling with released tension.
“That was close,” she whispered.
“Too close.” Dax tried to sit up straighter, grimaced. “We can’t—can’t stay here. They’ll search every room. Find us eventually.”
He was right. This was just a temporary hiding spot. Wheeler had multiple men. They’d clear the basement methodically, room by room, until—
Quinn’s mind raced. Think. Think like an investigative journalist. What would she do if she were researching this place? Where would the exits be? The vulnerabilities?
Old auto body shop. Which meant there had to be other ways out besides the delivery entrance Dax had used. Loading docks. Emergency exits. Service entrances.
“Can you walk?” she asked Dax. “If I help you?”
“Can try.” But when he attempted to stand, his legs buckled immediately. Quinn caught him, staggering under his weight.
He was too weak. Had lost too much blood. Even with her help, he could barely stay upright, let alone walk any distance.
They were trapped.
“Okay,” Quinn said, forcing her voice to stay calm, to stay steady. “New plan. You stay here. I’ll create a distraction, lead them away—”
“Absolutely not.” Dax’s hand tightened on her arm with surprising strength. “Not leaving you. Not again.”
“Dax—”
“No.” His voice was firm despite the weakness. “We stay together. Find another way.”
Another way. Quinn looked around the small office, her eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. Broken furniture. Filing cabinets with the drawers hanging open. A desk pushed against one wall. A window—
A window.
Quinn moved to it, her heart leaping. It was small—maybe two feet square—and set high in the wall near the ceiling. Probably at ground level outside. She couldn’t see through it, years of grime obscuring the glass. But it was there. A way out.
If she could get it open. If Dax could fit through. If they could climb up and out before Wheeler found them.
A lot of ifs.
But it was something.
Quinn dragged the desk under the window, wincing at the scraping sound it made. Too loud. Way too loud. But she had no choice.
She climbed onto the desk, reaching for the window. The latch was rusted shut, painted over multiple times. She pulled. Nothing. Pulled harder. The latch didn’t budge.
“Here.” Dax was somehow on his feet, swaying, holding out his pocketknife with his good hand. “Scrape the paint. Break the seal.”
Quinn took the knife and worked the blade around the window’s edge, scraping away years of accumulated paint and grime. Her fingers were numb with cold and fear, making her clumsy. The knife slipped twice, nearly falling from her grip.
Finally, she felt the seal break. Felt the window shift slightly in its frame.
She pulled.
The window swung open with a groan of protesting hinges, bringing a rush of cold night air that smelled of oil and exhaust and freedom.
“Yes,” Quinn breathed.
Behind them, in the corridor…voices. Closer now.
“They went this way—”
“Check every room—”
Out of time.
Quinn looked down at Dax. He was leaning heavily against the desk, his face gray, his injured shoulder still bleeding despite her makeshift bandage. The fabric was soaked through, dripping.
“You first,” she said.
“Can’t—can’t climb with one arm—”
“Then I’ll push.” Quinn got behind him, bracing her hands against his back. “On three. One, two—”
She shoved. Dax grunted with pain but reached up with his good arm, his fingers finding the window frame. Quinn boosted him, pushing from below, and somehow—somehow—he managed to pull himself up.
It wasn’t graceful. He moved like a wounded animal, all desperate strength and zero finesse.
His injured shoulder scraped against the window frame, and he bit off a scream.
But he got his upper body through, then his legs, and then he was outside, collapsing onto the ground above with a heavy thud Quinn heard clearly through the open window.
Footsteps right outside the office door now.
Quinn jumped onto the desk, reached for the window frame—
The door burst open.
A man—the one Wheeler had called Wade, maybe—already had his weapon raised, his eyes finding her immediately.
“Found her!” he shouted.
Quinn pulled herself up, her arms screaming with effort, her feet scrambling for purchase on the wall below the window—
A hand closed around her ankle. Yanked hard.
Quinn fell, hit the desk hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and rolled off onto the floor.
The man was on her in an instant, his knee pressing into her back, his hand fisting in her hair.
“Got her,” he said into his radio. “North office. And boss? The detective’s still here somewhere. Can’t have gone far. There’s blood everywhere.”
Quinn struggled, tried to buck him off, but he was too heavy, too strong, pressing her down into the concrete that smelled of motor oil and old blood.
Through the window above, she heard Dax’s voice, weak and desperate.
“Quinn!”