Page 71 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Wynn lifted a trembling hand and glanced down at his chest. The bulky vest strapped to him looked crude but deadly, wires visible beneath torn layers of clothing. His breath hitched when he saw it, as if he had forgotten it was there.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Wynn said. His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry either. It carried a raw, broken edge that made the hair on Deacon’s arms rise. “The same way you killed Lauren.”

Deacon felt something cold twist in his gut.

Wynn’s gaze flicked wildly toward the tree line, then back to Deacon, pupils blown wide. “You think I did this?” he demanded hoarsely. “You think I strapped this to myself?”

Deacon didn’t move closer. Not yet. He kept his tone calm, grounded, the way he’d learned to speak to men standing on the edge.

“Then slow down, Wynn,” Deacon insisted. “Take a breath. Tell me who you think did this to you.”

Wynn swallowed hard. His gaze slid past Deacon again, scanning the dark like something was hunting him.

“You… they… they’re finishing it,” Wynn growled. “Lauren was first. I’m next.”

And for the first time since this nightmare began, Deacon couldn’t tell if Wynn was the villain standing in front of him.

Or just another victim.

Wynn lifted a shaking hand and pressed his fingers to his ear. Deacon caught it instantly. An earpiece.

His pulse kicked up hard. Wynn wasn’t alone in this. Someone was feeding him information, or orders, or both. Another hired thug hiding in the dark maybe. Or someone smarter. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.

“Wynn, who’re you talking to?” Deacon called out, keeping his voice even.

Wynn’s eyes flicked side to side again. He didn’t answer. His breathing went shallow, ragged, like every sound around him was too loud.

Roman stepped closer to Deacon, his phone angled so only Deacon could see the screen. The drone feed was tight now, zoomed in on Wynn’s torso. Wires. A blocky device strapped high on his chest. A smaller unit near his waist.

“The explosives look real,” Roman said in a whisper. “There’s a detonator wired in.”

Deacon clenched his jaw. “Does Wynn control it?”

Roman shook his head. “I can’t tell. He might. Or someone else might have remote access.”

That option sat heavy in Deacon’s gut. Someone watching them. Waiting.

Wynn swallowed and pressed harder at the earpiece. “I didn’t do this,” he said again, almost pleading now. “You have to believe me.”

Before Deacon could respond, a sharp crack split the night.

Then another.

Gunshots tore through the cemetery, dirt kicking up near the headstones as everyone dropped for cover.

Chapter Eighteen

Jessa hit the ground hard, her knees slamming into the cold, damp earth as gunfire ripped through the cemetery.

Deacon dove beside her behind his vehicle, while Roman, Sheriff Martelli, and the two deputies scrambled for cover behind the Lawless Canyon cruisers. Bark chipped off a nearby oak headstone, spraying her arm as another round cracked through the air.

“Stay down,” Deacon shouted, but like her, he was lifting his head enough to try to spot the shooter.

The rapid shots rattled across the dark cemetery, echoing off stone and iron. It sounded like another AK, the same nonstop spray they’d taken at the ranch. Another hired gun.

Another attempt to kill them all.

Across the way, Wynn crouched behind a tall weathered tombstone, both hands over his head. He wasn’t shooting. He wasn’t even armed.