Page 20 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

It was pushing ten p.m., and every step sent a hot, searing reminder through Deacon’s side that he’d just been stitched up. Pain he could handle though. Missing a meeting that might put Wynn in cuffs?

Not a chance in hell.

Jessa didn’t look thrilled about this meeting. Her expression was a tight blend of worry and frustration, as if she wanted to argue but knew it would be a waste of breath. Deacon grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, wincing only slightly as he shrugged it on.

“You sure you can do this?” she asked.

“No,” he said, zipping up the coat anyway. “But I’m doing it.”

Her mouth twitched, half exasperation, half something softer he didn’t want to name. She didn’t push further. Instead, she turned toward the sliding hospital doors, her shoulders coiled tight with tension.

They stepped out into the cold night air, the wind biting enough to make Deacon’s ribs seize. The hospital parking lot was nearly empty, just a few scattered cars under the harsh glow of the security lights. He swept his gaze across the shadows, scanning for movement, for the glint of a rifle scope, for Wynn’s silhouette lurking where it shouldn’t be.

Nothing.

Just silence and the low hum of the lights overhead.

“Clear,” Jessa murmured, though her hand hovered near her concealed pistol.

Deacon nodded, but he definitely didn’t relax. He’d be damned if he got ambushed twice in one night.

They hurried to Jessa’s SUV that sat alone in that section of the parking lot. Jessa unlocked it with a quiet chirp, and they both climbed in. The moment she was behind the wheel, the engine rumbled to life. Deacon eased back in the seat, breathing through the tug of pain, trying not to let it show.

Jessa shot him a sideways look. “If you pass out, I’m shoving you into a booth and pretending you’re drunk.”

He huffed. “If I pass out, you better at least order me a burger first.”

A flicker of reluctant amusement crossed her face, and she put the SUV in gear. They rolled out of the lot, tires crunching over frost.

The road to Crossfire Creek stretched ahead, dark, quiet, winding between fields and distant tree lines. Too empty. Too exposed. Deacon rested a hand near the grip of his service weapon, scanning the mirrors every few seconds.

Wynn had already proven he knew these roads. He knew the shadows. He knew how to make Deacon bleed. Tonight, though, the bastard wasn’t getting the drop on them.

Jessa drove fast, the glow of Crossfire Creek already faint on the horizon. Shade, AKA Brett Calder, waited at that diner. With answers. With lies. With traps. With something.

Whatever it was, Deacon intended to get it.

The drive out through the Texas Hill Country slipped by in a blur of headlights and cold night air. The road wound through low, rolling hills and stretches of scrub oak, the moon throwing silver across the fields. It was quiet, too damn quiet, and every shadow looked like it could hide a rifle barrel.

Jessa kept one hand steady on the wheel, eyes sharp, jaw tight. She wasn’t relaxed, not even close, but she drove like someone trained to handle danger head-on. Which she most certainly was.

They’d been on the road maybe two minutes when Deacon finally said what had been clawing at him since they left the parking lot. “This could be a trap.”

Jessa didn’t take her eyes off the road. “I know.”

“Jess—”

“I know,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Shade knows how to disappear. If he wanted to vanish, he could. Meeting in public—here, of all places—is… odd.”

“Odd’s one word for it,” Deacon muttered. “Damn right risky is another.”

Deacon shifted in his seat, ignoring the jolt of pain. “Roman going to show up for this?”

“Of course he is,” Jessa said. “But he’s coming from San Antonio. He’s probably about thirty minutes out.”

Deacon nodded, not surprised that her brother would be there. Roman Creed would never let her walk into danger alone, even if it meant breaking speed limits all the way there.

“Does Shade have any motive for wanting you or Roman dead?” Deacon asked her.