CHAPTER 22 #2
“Don’t move, detective,” the man called up. “Or I put a bullet in her head.”
Everything went still.
Quinn could hear her own ragged breathing. Could hear footsteps approaching—more of Wheeler’s men. Could hear Dax outside, so close but unable to help.
And then Wheeler’s voice, smooth and cold and pleased. “Well, well. Ms. Barrett. We finally meet.”
James Wheeler stepped into the office doorway, and Quinn’s blood ran cold.
He was exactly as she’d seen him in photographs and courtroom sketches—late fifties, silver hair perfectly styled, expensive suit even at this hour. He looked like a businessman. A pillar of the community. Not a murderer. Not a monster.
But his eyes told a different story. Cold. Calculating. Devoid of anything resembling human warmth.
“You’ve caused me considerable trouble, Ms. Barrett.” Wheeler stepped closer, his shoes—expensive leather, polished to a shine—stopping inches from Quinn’s face where his goon held her pressed to the floor. “Did you really think you could expose me? Destroy everything I’ve built?”
Quinn tried to speak but the man’s grip on her hair tightened, making her gasp with pain.
“Your father thought the same thing,” Wheeler continued conversationally. “David Barrett. Such an idealistic man. Believed truth mattered more than power. More than money.” He crouched down, his face coming into Quinn’s line of sight. “He was wrong. And it got him killed.”
“You—” Quinn managed to gasp out. “You murdered him—”
“I gave an order. My people carried it out. There’s a difference, legally speaking.” Wheeler’s smile was cold. “Just as I gave an order tonight. Find Quinn Barrett. Bring her to me. Find out what evidence she has, who she’s told.”
He reached out and touched Quinn’s face—gentle, almost paternal—and she flinched away from his touch like it was poison.
“And then,” Wheeler said softly, “eliminate the problem. Permanently.”
Outside, Dax’s voice again, stronger now, filled with rage and fear. “You touch her and I’ll kill you. I swear to God, Wheeler—”
“The detective.” Wheeler stood, looking toward the window. “Still alive. Impressive. My men said he was shot. Bleeding badly.” He glanced at the one holding her. “How much longer before he passes out from blood loss?”
“Minutes, probably.”
“Good.” Wheeler moved to the window, looking up. “Detective Mercer. I assume that’s you up there. Bleeding out on my property. Trespassing, I might add.”
Silence from above.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Wheeler continued. “You’re going to leave. Walk away. Go find a hospital before you bleed to death. And in return, I’ll make Ms. Barrett’s death quick. Painless. She won’t suffer.”
“Go to hell.” Dax’s voice was weak but defiant.
“Or,” Wheeler said, his voice hardening, “you can stay and watch while my men take their time with her. Your choice, detective.”
Quinn’s stomach turned. She struggled again, harder, but the man pressed her down mercilessly.
“Dax, go!” she shouted. “Get out of here—get help—”
“Not leaving you.” Dax’s voice cracked. “Never leaving you again.”
Wheeler sighed. “How tedious. Very well. Wade, bring her upstairs. Webb, check the perimeter and bring back the detective.”
Wade hauled Quinn to her feet, his grip bruising on her arm. She fought—kicking, biting, clawing—but he just twisted her arm behind her back until she cried out with pain and went still.
“Move,” he growled, pushing her toward the door.
Quinn’s mind raced desperately. Dax was outside, wounded, maybe dying. She was caught. Wheeler was going to kill them both.
Unless—
The gun. Dax’s Glock. Still tucked in her waistband, pressed against the small of her back where Wade hadn’t checked her.
If she could get to it. If she could get her hands free for just one second—
Wade shoved her through the doorway into the corridor. Other men waited there—three of them, all armed, all watching her with flat, cold eyes.
Too many. Even if she got the gun, she couldn’t take them all.
They moved as a group down the corridor, Wade’s grip still iron-tight on her arm, Wheeler walking ahead of them with casual confidence.
Back toward the main room. Toward the stairs. Toward whatever Wheeler had planned.
Quinn tried to think. Tried to find a way out. But her mind kept stuttering, kept circling back to Dax outside, wounded, alone.
Please, she thought. Please let him get away. Let him survive. Let him—
A sound from above. From outside.
A voice, amplified, carrying through the night.
“THIS IS THE BLACKRIDGE POLICE DEPARTMENT. THE BUILDING IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
Wheeler stopped dead. His expression flickered—surprise, then fury, then calculation.
“How—” He spun to Wade. “You said no one followed the detective—”
“They didn’t—”
Another voice, also amplified, but Quinn recognized this one immediately.
Captain Holloway.
“JAMES WHEELER, WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST. CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT MURDER. KIDNAPPING. WITNESS INTIMIDATION. COME OUT NOW OR WE’RE COMING IN.”
Wheeler’s face went cold and hard. “They have nothing. No evidence. No witnesses who’ll testify—”
“They have me,” Quinn said, finding her voice. “My father’s files. Clara Mendez. The video testimony. All of it.”
Wheeler’s eyes snapped to her, something dangerous flickering there.
“Then you’re of no use to me.”
He pulled a weapon from inside his suit jacket—a small pistol, expensive and deadly—and pointed it directly at Quinn’s head.
Time seemed to slow.
Quinn saw Wheeler’s finger tighten on the trigger. Saw the cold certainty in his eyes. Knew she was about to die.
And then the window behind him exploded inward.
Dax came through in a shower of glass and splintered wood, his good arm wrapped in his jacket to protect from the shards, his body slamming into Wheeler with the full force of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Both men went down hard, the gun skittering away across the floor.
“Run!” Dax shouted at Quinn. “Go!”
But Wade still had her arm. Was raising his weapon, pointing it at Dax’s back—
Quinn grabbed the Glock from her waistband, twisted in Wade’s grip, and fired.