Page 8 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

He stepped closer. Too close. Instinctively, she shifted, blocking his path to Deacon. Corbin noticed, and his smirk returned, a flicker of something knowing in his eyes.

“What’s going on, Jess?” he asked quietly. “Why is Marty Wynn trying to kill the county sheriff? And what does he want with you?”

The way he phrased that—What does he want with you—made her stomach knot.

Deacon stiffened beside her, listening.

She held Corbin’s stare, searching for a lie, a crack, a tell. He held her gaze right back. Calm. Confident. And just a little too smooth. Either he truly didn’t know anything more… Or he knew a hell of a lot and was playing close to the vest.

“Corbin, you need to tell me everything you know,” she insisted.

He slid his hands into his jacket pockets, posture relaxed in a way that made every hair on her neck stand up. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll tell you everything.” A beat of silence. Then he added that dangerous, charming half-smile tugging at his mouth. “If you tell me why a washed-up Strike Force sniper wants you dead badly enough to shoot at a sheriff to lure you out.”

Jessa’s pulse pounded, but she didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t sure which danger concerned her more—Wynn in the trees or Corbin Knox standing ten feet away.

“We’re leaving,” she said, her voice low and edged with steel. “Deacon needs medical attention. We don’t have time for this.”

Corbin’s eyes narrowed, but he stepped back, giving them room to move, though the tension in his shoulders said he wasn’t thrilled about it.

She hooked her arm under Deacon’s again and guided him toward the SUV. Every step felt like pushing through ice, the cold biting harder now that adrenaline was wearing thin. Deacon’s weight dragged more heavily. He was running out of strength. Out of time.

The SUV was twenty yards away. Fifteen.

Almost there.

Then, a single gunshot split the night open.

“Down!” Jessa shoved Deacon toward the ground as a bullet tore past them, splintering bark off the tree behind her.

Deacon hit the dirt with a grunt, and she dropped beside him, rolling to shield his body with hers.

Another shot. Then another.

A hail of bullets rained through the clearing, ricocheting off rocks, punching into tree trunks, spraying shards of bark.

“Son of a—” Deacon’s words were swallowed by the thunder of another volley. He pulled his gun up, breath ragged. “If this is Wynn,” he growled, “we might not be able to keep the bastard alive.”

Jessa’s heart slammed into her ribs. “Don’t you dare give up on that,” she hissed. “Not now.”

He tried to rise, to brace himself enough to return fire, but the moment he lifted his head, a bullet snapped through the branches above them, showering them with leaves.

“Jess, let me shoot—”

“No,” she snapped, shoving his shoulder down. “We’re pinned. You lift your head again, you’re dead.”

Another barrage of gunfire ripped through the clearing, chewing into the ground inches from their feet. Jessa pressed closer to Deacon, feeling the hot slick of blood seeping from his arm and into her sleeve.

Corbin dove behind a boulder a few yards away, returning a couple of sharp, controlled shots, but the hail kept coming. Whoever was firing wasn’t alone or was using multiple angles.

Deacon grit his teeth, frustration radiating off him in waves. “We can’t stay here.”

“I know,” Jessa snapped.

“We can’t move either.”

“I know that too.”

“So what’s the plan?” he growled.