Page 70 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Something else was out there.

And it was waiting.

Deacon had just shut the cruiser door when headlights swept across the gravel drive. Another vehicle rolled in fast but controlled, braking short of the taped perimeter. He recognized it before the engine even cut. Roman.

Figures.

Roman climbed out as Deacon and Jessa stepped away from the cruiser. He moved like a jungle cat on the prowl, black jacket zipped high, eyes already scanning the tree line as if he expected trouble to step out at any second.

“I’m plugged into Noah’s drone feed too,” Roman let them know. “I’ve got alerts set if anything moves among the headstones. Heat, motion, anything that doesn’t belong.”

Good. Despite their difference, Roman was good at what he did. Damn good. And Deacon wanted every drop of that damn good to keep Jessa safe.

The drone feed on Deacon’s phone flickered as the sweep widened. Rows of headstones glowed pale under weak cemetery lights. Shadows pooled between them. Too many places to hide. Too many blind spots for his liking.

Deacon fell in beside Jessa and Roman as they crossed the gravel toward the sheriff and his deputies. The night smelled like damp earth and old stone, the cemetery lights doing little more than carving long shadows between the trees.

Sheriff Martelli stepped forward when he saw them coming. He knew all three of them well enough that there was no small talk, no wasted motion.

“Deacon. Jessa. Roman. Glad you made it.” He tipped his head toward the two deputies flanking him. “This is Deputy Carla Ruiz and Deputy Evan Keller. Both know the layout out here.”

Ruiz gave a short nod, hand resting near her sidearm. Keller’s eyes never stopped moving, sweeping the rows of headstones and the tree line beyond.

Martelli lowered his voice. “Bomb squad’s still about thirty minutes out. They were clear on the other side of the county checking a call that turned out to be nothing.”

Deacon’s jaw tightened. “False alarm?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Martelli admitted. “The timing doesn’t sit right with me.”

“It doesn’t with me either,” Deacon said.

He glanced back toward the darker edge of the cemetery, where shadows thickened and the drone feed on his phone showed slow, methodical sweeps. A false call could be coincidence. Or it could be a setup.

A decoy.

If Wynn or whoever was pulling the strings wanted the bomb squad delayed, that was one hell of a way to do it.

Deacon adjusted his grip on his phone. “Feels like someone wanted us thin on resources.”

Martelli met his gaze. “That’s my read, too.”

Deacon looked past them, toward what remained of Lauren’s grave, and felt the familiar spike of anger and resolve settle in his chest. Someone had planned this. Every minute that ticked by felt intentional.

And he didn’t intend to let them get away with it.

Deacon stepped away from the cluster of other law enforcement and raised his voice, keeping it steady even though every nerve in his body was wired tight.

“Wynn,” Deacon called out. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

He half expected fury in return. Ranting. Accusations. The same venom Wynn had been spewing for days.

Instead, Wynn’s head jerked up too quickly, like a man pulled out of a fog. His eyes were unfocused, darting from Deacon to the shadows beyond the grave markers. He swayed slightly on his feet.

Confused.

Disoriented.

Or playing it well.