Page 4 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

“This is my fault,” she muttered, words that only she could hear. Guilt churned hot in her chest, snapping tight across her ribs.

Not now. Not the time. Focus.

“We’re almost there,” she said instead, even though she wasn’t sure where there was yet. Just deeper cover, thicker trees, more places for a bullet to miss.

Another shift of air. A metallic whisper carried on the wind.

The sniper was moving.

Her pulse spiked. She scanned the darkness, her every nerve stretched thin. Not tonight. Not him. She wasn’t losing Deacon. Not because of a bullet. Not because of her.

When they reached an oak that was at least three feet wide, both of them crouched in the dark. Her muscles burned from the race to get to Deacon in time, but she ignored the ache and kept watch, her gun firm in her grip.

Branches rustled somewhere deeper in the trees. Soft. Measured. Not close, but not far enough.

Deacon lifted his gun, steady despite the blood on his sleeve. Determined. Stupid. Brave. All of it wrapped in one man who had no business trying to take a shot in his condition.

She laid a hand over his wrist. “Don’t,” she whispered. “I need him alive.”

He turned his head slightly. “Him?”

The single word scraped at something deep inside her. “According to the hacker, it’s Marty Wynn,” she admitted.

No clarification needed as to who that was. They both knew Wynn all too well.

“You really think Marty Wynn did this?” he asked.

It wasn’t exactly skepticism in his voice. Probably because he’d heard about Wynn’s recent shift in personality. It was possible that Deacon had even been on the direct receiving end of whatever the heck it was that Wynn was trying to do.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

Wynn was a former operative for Strike Force—Crossfire Ops’ parent company—and later one of Creed Response’s most reliable assets. Deacon had met him back when Jessa and he were together. Back when Wynn was her mother’s long-time companion and practically part of their extended family.

But six months ago, when Jessa’s mother, Lauren, had lost her battle with cancer, something in Wynn had snapped. The grief curdled into something sharp and vicious, twisting into a hatred he’d never shown before. He blamed Crossfire Ops for things they hadn’t done. Blamed the Crossfire Ops’ leader, Noah Riggs, for choices he never made.

Lately… he’d turned that bitterness toward Deacon too.

Mostly because Wynn seemed convinced Deacon catered to Crossfire Ops and looked the other way because he and Noah were friends. The accusations had come out of nowhere, and they’d gotten worse every week.

Jessa drew a tight breath. “He’s been spiraling since my mother died. Saying things… believing things… and now this.”

Wynn wasn’t some unstable criminal. He was a skilled operator. A man trained to move unseen, hit hard, and vanish. A man who used to protect others, not stalk them from the shadows.

And if Wynn had chosen tonight to escalate?

Well, he most certainly could have planned something like this.

More noise, another branch shifting, but the sound drifted sideways this time. Not toward them. Wynn wasn’t closing in. Not yet. Maybe circling. Maybe looking for a better vantage point.

Or maybe trying to decide which one of them he wanted dead first.

The cold dug deeper. She edged closer to Deacon, angling herself so her body shielded him.

Deacon shifted beside her, wincing as he adjusted his grip on his gun. “Why the hell would Wynn attack me just to get to you?”

Jessa let out a quiet, tired sigh, the kind that carried way more weight than she wanted him hearing right now. “It’s a long story.”

He angled his head enough to look at her, even in the dim light. “I’m not going anywhere.”