Page 3 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Her eyes lifted, dark and haunted. “I think we both were targets.”

Think not certain. Which only gave him more questions.

Deacon thought of the surveillance equipment that’d been found and considered it might be linked to Jessa. And maybe this attack was just an escalation of that? Maybe Jessa was… what? Drawn here by that informant to rub old salt in his old wounds?

He gave that some thought.

Then, he dismissed it.

There were a hell of a lot easier ways to bring Jessa and him together rather than on a farm road ten miles from any town. And the truth was that merely seeing her was salt enough. The old wounds were right there, always at the surface, and like the lust, those wounds weren’t going away either.

Since the sniper could still be nearby, Deacon did more of those glances around. If the asshole was moving in for another attack, there were no signs of it. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Hard to fight a damn ghost.

“Why do you think you and I are both targets?” he came out and asked. Then, he added, “Playing Captain Obvious here, but does it have something to do with Creed Response?”

No way could she say outright that it absolutely didn’t, but she didn’t offer up anything else either. Not exactly a surprise. In the world of elite private security, Crossfire Ops, where Deacon had just left, was generally considered the good guys, the wounded warriors who now served up justice while still coloring within the lines.

Creed Response didn’t have lines.

Or if they did, Deacon knew they colored outside them often enough to have garnered the reputation of civilian black ops. You got a problem, we’ll fix it, no matter the cost.

Jessa was part of that.

Hell, she was the center of it since her adopted brother ran the company, and she was one of his top operatives.

“Well?” he pressed. “Is someone after you because of Creed Response, because of your brother?”

Before she even had a chance to respond to that, far off in the trees, a single metallic click echoed, the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt sliding home.

Jessa stiffened.

“He’s still here,” she whispered.

Chapter Two

The click of the rifle bolt still echoed through Jessa, all the way to her bones.

She didn’t think, she moved. Instinct, training, pure survival all hit at once.

“Come on,” she whispered, taking hold of Deacon’s arm. “We have to move now.”

The sound he tried to muffle was pure pain, grit, and agony wrapped together. Damn it. He was hurt. How bad she didn’t know. Still, he was able to move on his own, and that was a good sign.

She hoped.

They moved together, deeper into the trees. The cold slammed into her face, slicing through her jacket. The winter air bit at her lungs, each breath a sharp reminder of how exposed they still were.

Behind them, the ravine stayed too quiet. Too still. But she figured the sniper wasn’t retreating.

He was adjusting.

“Get behind cover,” Deacon ground out, his voice rough. “I can take care of myself.”

She rolled her eyes. “Save the alpha male crap for when you’re not bleeding all over me.”

His breath hitched, and she didn’t know if it was pain or a laugh. Didn’t matter. His steps were dragging, slower every second. She tightened her grip on his arm, forcing him forward, deeper into the cover of the mesquites ahead.

Branches whipped against her arms, cold leaves brushing her cheeks like warnings. The darkness thickened, swallowing their breath, their footfalls, the tremor in her chest.