Page 69 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

And they were driving straight into it.

He kept his speed steady, not too fast, not slow enough to look cautious. The road stretched ahead of them in a narrow ribbon of asphalt, headlights cutting through the dark. Between Crossfire Creek and Lawless Canyon there was nothing but land. Open ranches. Fences. Draws and low hills. Long stretches where someone could lie in wait and never be seen.

Too many places to stage an ambush.

Deacon’s shoulders stayed tight as he drove, every instinct tuned outward. Jessa was quiet beside him, watchful, just as keyed up as he was.

They were still nearly ten minutes out when his phone chimed.

Noah.

“Drone feed incoming,” the text read.

A second later the screen on the dash split, the live feed lighting up clearer than Deacon had expected. The image was sharp, steady despite the darkness.

Wynn stood in the center of it.

He was pacing in front of what remained of Lauren’s grave, boots trudging through scorched earth and torn sod. His movements were erratic, shoulders hunched, hands gesturing as if he were arguing with someone who wasn’t there.

Strapped across his chest was a dark vest. Thick wiring ran along it, looping toward his back.

Explosives.

Deacon’s stomach tightened.

“There he is,” Jessa said softly.

“Yeah,” Deacon replied.

From the footage, the situation looked real enough. The posture. The bulk under his jacket. The way he moved like a man who knew he was carrying something volatile. But there was no way to tell from a drone whether the explosives were live. Whether this was a bluff or a bomb waiting for a trigger.

Either way, it was dangerous.

They turned off the highway and onto the narrow access road that led to the cemetery. The place sat about a mile outside Lawless Canyon, tucked back in a stand of old trees that pressed in close on both sides. It wasn’t fenced in the way newer cemeteries were. Just iron gates at the entrance and gravel paths winding through the grounds.

Lights dotted the area, but they were weak and yellowed, more suggestion than illumination. Shadows pooled thick between the headstones and trees, stretching long and deep. Too many blind spots. Too many places for someone to hide and wait.

Deacon eased the cruiser to a stop and scanned the perimeter.

This was bad terrain.

He spotted Sheriff Martelli near the center drive, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture rigid as he spoke into his radio. Two deputies were positioned nearby, both alert, weapons visible, eyes constantly moving. One was lean and sharp-faced, younger but focused. The other older, solid, with the stance of someone who had seen enough chaos to know how fast things could go sideways.

They all looked tense.

And who the hell could blame them? They were standing in a graveyard, at night, with a volatile suspect wearing what looked very much like explosives.

Deacon lifted his phone and checked the drone feed again. The image showed Wynn pacing near the damaged headstone, his movements sharp and erratic. There was no sign of anyone else. No one slipping between the trees. Didn’t mean that no one else was there.

He fired off a text to Noah. Do a full perimeter sweep. Trees, tree line, access road. Anything that moves.

Noah replied almost immediately. On it. Expanding range now.

Deacon adjusted the screen brightness on his phone, making sure he could see the feed without broadcasting too much light. He’d need to keep the device low, angled so only he could see it. One eye stayed on Wynn. One eye stayed on the glowing screen for the drone feed.

He didn’t like splitting his focus, but he didn’t have a choice. If there was another shooter out there, he needed to know before they made a move. And if Wynn decided to do something desperate, he needed to be ready for that, too.

Every instinct he had told him this wasn’t simple. Not a lone man grieving. Not anymore.