Page 63 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

“Names are Trent Haskins and Miguel Roura,” Deacon read. “Both freelancers. Ex-military. Both tied to contract work across three states. Violence for hire.”

He scrolled through the rest of the text. “They weren’t locals. No personal connection to this place or to any of us. Whoever hired them wanted distance.”

“So someone paid to have us killed,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” he answered.

That truth settled heavy in his chest. This wasn’t impulse. This wasn’t grief gone wild. This was planned. And whoever was behind it was still out there.

Jessa stayed close, her arms still around him. “Wynn said he didn’t hire them,” she reminded him.

“He could’ve been lying,” Deacon admitted.

She studied his face. “Why would he, though? He didn’t exactly hide the fact that he thinks we killed Lauren. He was pretty vocal about wanting payback.”

Deacon frowned. That was the part that didn’t sit right.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “He hasn’t been subtle. If he’d paid for it, you’d think he’d want us to know.”

He let that thought turn over in his mind, uncomfortable and persistent.

“What if Wynn’s just the patsy,” he said. “What if Corbin or Shade’s been stirring him up? Feeding him half-truths? Keeping him angry enough to distract us while they move in the shadows?”

He didn’t like how well that fit.

“I don’t know,” he added, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “But now we’ve got names on the gunmen. That helps.”

She nodded.

“We’ll find who hired them,” Deacon said. “There’s always a trail. Payments. Contacts. Someone made a mistake.”

And when they did, he intended to be there to catch it.

Jessa shifted back just enough to look at him. “Maybe we should keep working. Your home office is still set up.”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

What he wanted was her. Flat out. No point pretending otherwise. But he also knew they were wrung out, running on fumes and adrenaline.

“I want a break,” he said. “Correction—we need a break.”

She searched his face, then nodded, understanding more than he’d said out loud.

He didn’t give himself time to overthink it. Deacon cupped her face and kissed her. At first it was gentle. Familiar. Comforting. A quiet promise that she wasn’t alone in this mess.

Then Jessa sighed against his mouth, her hands sliding up his chest, and the kiss deepened. Heat flared fast and sharp. The soft turned hungry. The slow turned urgent.

Deacon pulled her closer, pouring everything he hadn’t said into the kiss. Fear. Relief. Anger. Need.

Long. Hot. Deep.

For a few precious seconds, the case faded. The danger blurred at the edges.

There was just her.

Jessa’s lips parted as she said his name. He felt her smile, even as she leaned into him, her fingers weaving around the back of his neck. It was like they’d been waiting for this moment so long they’d gotten used to the ache of it, and now—just now—the ache dulled, replaced by something thumping, alive, reckless. She tasted like black coffee and mint, like the dinner they’d both barely touched because the kitchen was crawling with uniforms and statements and urgency.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, out of habit but for what, he wasn’t sure. For the months of distance? For bringing her into a nightmare she couldn’t wake from?