Page 42 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Deacon’s jaw locked.

He couldn’t see the face. Couldn’t read the body. Couldn’t tell if it was Corbin. Wynn. Shade. Or someone entirely different.

But whoever it was had the calm, steady movements of a professional.

And they were zeroing in for another shot.

“See him?” Jessa whispered.

“Oh yeah,” Deacon said, lowering the binoculars as adrenaline surged hot and sharp through his veins. “I see him.”

He grabbed his phone again with his free hand, already typing out coordinates to his deputies. Because now he had a location. And the bastard out there was done being invisible.

The shooter shifted aim. Deacon barely had time to register the movement before the next barrage hit.

Bullets slammed into the rear side window with brutal force. The first two webbed the glass. The third punched a clean hole straight through, sending shards spraying across the backseat like sleet.

“Down!” Deacon yanked Jessa flat just as another round tore through the new opening, embedding itself in the opposite door panel with a dull, deadly thud.

They hit the floorboard hard. The cramped angle twisted Deacon’s torso, and white-hot pain shot through his injury. His vision blurred for a heartbeat. He clenched his teeth, forcing the sound down, refusing to give the pain oxygen.

Not now. Not with Jessa beside him. Not with bullets carving up the SUV.

But she saw anyway.

“Deacon—” Her eyes flicked over him, sharp and worried even as gunfire rattled the frame around them.

“I’m fine,” he ground out, breath clipped. “Stay low.”

Another shot hit the metal just inches from her hip.

Her expression changed, less fear, more fury. Controlled, focused. Jessa shifted, bracing herself awkwardly against the seat frame. She raised her weapon, angled toward the fractured hole in the rear window.

“Jessa—”

Too late.

She took aim through the jagged opening and fired.

The blast of her return shot echoed inside the cab, loud enough to rattle Deacon’s skull. She fired again. And again. Short, disciplined bursts. Textbook counterfire.

Deacon lifted himself enough to watch her, pain stabbing deep with each movement. Dammit, she shouldn’t be doing this, not with a long-range shooter out there. But her stance was solid, her aim steady. She was fighting back.

Another round from the ridge struck the SUV, this one lower, angling for a different line.

Jessa shifted her aim and fired again through the hole, jaw set, eyes blazing with stubborn resolve.

Deacon pressed a hand against the seat to steady himself, ignoring the pulse of agony in his ribs.

“Easy,” he murmured, though his voice was rough with pride and adrenaline. “Don’t waste the rounds.”

“I won’t,” she snapped, eyes still locked on the ridgeline. “But he’s not getting a clean shot at us again.”

Gunfire rattled outside. The shooter adjusted. The SUV rocked under the hits.

But Jessa kept returning fire, each shot buying them seconds, forcing the shooter to reconsider his angle. Forcing the bastard to realize they weren’t the ones pinned down.

Deacon maneuvered himself upright enough to wedge his shoulder against the seat frame, ignoring the white-hot stab that ripped through his injury. His hand found his weapon, grip firm despite the tremor of pain running down his side.