Page 40 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

He turned to Jessa. “You hurt?”

She shook her head, but her hands were trembling on the wheel.

“Good,” he murmured, eyes already cutting back to the world outside. “Because I figure they’re not done yet.”

And he was right.

Another shot slammed into the SUV before Deacon could even reach for the door handle.

The impact rattled through the frame, hard enough to knock his breath sideways. Shards of already-cracked glass dusted the dash. Jessa flinched beside him, ducking instinctively as another round punched into the passenger-side door with a low, metallic thunk.

“Stay down,” Deacon ordered, dragging her lower in her seat as he pressed his own back against the center console.

The shooter kept firing, methodical, steady, every shot placed with the kind of control that came from training and time behind a high-powered scope. Deacon couldn’t see him, but the son of a bitch saw them clear as day.

A long-range rifle. Had to be. Maybe a suppressed one since he could barely hear the crack over the impacts.

Another hit.

This one near the engine block. The whole SUV shivered. Bullet-resistant didn’t mean impervious.

Deacon peered through the spiderwebbed windshield, trying to catch even the hint of movement on the distant ridgeline. Nothing. No glint, no shift, no mistake he could capitalize on.

Corbin was somewhere out here. Wynn too. Both dangerous in their own ways, and either one could’ve set up a shot like this. But Shade… Shade could be the one behind this.

But right now? Deacon wasn’t seeing a damn thing.

Another round drilled into the hood. “We can’t sit here waiting for him to punch through,” he muttered, mostly to himself but loud enough that Jessa heard.

“So we drive?” she whispered, hands tight on the wheel even though the blown tire pinned them.

“We move eventually,” he said. “But not until he commits to a reload or changes angle.”

And so far, that wasn’t happening. Maybe because the asshole had multiple weapons.

Or an accomplice.

A shot pierced the side mirror, sending fragments whipping across the glass. Jessa gasped and covered her head. “Is it Corbin?” Jessa’s voice was thin, barely more than breath.

“I don’t know.” And that was the truth that crawled cold down his spine. “Could be Wynn. Could be Shade. Hell, could be someone we don’t even know who’s in the game.”

Another round struck—closer, harder, the angle shifting.

Whoever this was, they were moving. Closing in. Adjusting for a kill shot.

The dread settled in Deacon’s gut like ice. He raised his weapon, knowing it was nearly useless against a distant shooter he couldn’t see, but the grip steadied his breathing anyway.

“We’re gonna get out of this,” he told her, even as the next bullet hit so close it rang through the SUV like a bell.

Deacon glanced at Jessa, needing eyes on her, needing confirmation she was more than just breathing. Her face was pale but steady, jaw locked tight. No panic. Just fury simmering beneath the surface.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, clipped. “I’m fine. Just pissed.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Join the club.”

Another shot hit the rear quarter panel, rattling through the metal. Bolts vibrated in the door.