Crossfire Creek Hideout (Hard Justice, Crossfire Creek #7)

Chapter One

Jackson Ward’s gut burned like a warning flare. Something was off. He couldn’t name it at first. The wrong rhythm in the cicadas. The horses were restless at the fence line of his ranch.

But he finally got it.

His instincts kicked in, and he knew someone was watching him.

The late afternoon sun stretched across the pasture, lighting the horizon in streaks of copper and red. From his porch, Jackson scanned the tree line, his fingers tightening around the edge of the railing. The stillness had weight.

The kind that pressed in on a man who knew the difference between quiet and danger.

He’d been back here at his ranch in Crossfire Creek for two months now, where he was supposed to be resting. Healing. That’s what his boss, Noah Riggs, had called it when he’d sent Jackson home from the last Crossfire Ops mission.

Take the time. Get your head straight.

As if a few acres of land and silence could fix what was broken.

His knee still ached where the blast had torn through him, and his ribs hadn’t stopped reminding him he was lucky to be breathing. But he hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his gut.

And right now, it was twisting tight.

He moved slowly, every step measured, and the limp was way more pronounced than he liked. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots, loud in the hush. A hawk called somewhere in the distance, and the sound made the hair on the back of his neck lift.

Jackson reached for the rifle propped by the door. Habit. Muscle memory. First, in the military and then in the elite security agency, Crossfire Ops, had drilled it into him to read the threat before the threat read him.

And right now, there was a threat.

He swept his gaze across the field again, scanning the fence and the woods beyond. Nothing moved. Then, he saw it. A flicker of pale fabric at the far edge of the pasture.

Someone was definitely out there.

The sun caught on the metal of the back gate as it shifted. A flash, then gone. Whoever it was moved fast, slipping into the trees beyond the trail.

Jackson’s pulse steadied, focus sharpening like a blade. He had too many damn enemies to count. Old operations, bad blood, and the kind of men who never forgot being taken down. He had always figured one of them would come looking eventually.

Maybe this was eventually.

Of course, it could be just someone out for a walk, but the chance of that was pretty damn slim. The ranch that once belonged to his grandparents wasn’t anywhere on the beaten path. A mile from the main road and with no other neighbors anywhere in sight.

He stepped off the porch, rifle balanced in his grip, boots crunching through the dry November grass.

Pain lanced through his leg, but he pushed past it, tracking the faint sound of movement toward the creek.

The air smelled of cedar and dust and something else.

Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The trail narrowed under the trees, shadows stretching, and he caught one last flash of motion, just a hint between the oaks, before it vanished, disappearing into the trees.

The wind picked up, a sharp bite pushing through his leather jacket. Cool enough to make him curse under his breath. He kept moving, slow and steady, eyes checking the trail ahead.

The figure wasn’t moving anymore. Whoever it was had stopped near the pond, just beyond the trees.

Waiting.

Jackson didn’t call out. He’d learned long ago that silence could keep you alive. Sound gave away position, and he didn’t plan on being an easy target on his own damn land.

The air pressed tight around him, thick with tension. Even the cicadas had gone quiet again. He shifted his weight, wincing when his knee protested, and he scanned the open stretch between him and the water. If someone was aiming a rifle from the tree line, he was standing in perfect sight.

In case his visitor was about to be shot—or planning to shoot—he slipped off the path and ducked behind a cedar. Bark scraped his shoulder as he crouched low, breathing shallow. The surface of the pond rippled faintly in the breeze, catching bits of fading sunlight like shards of glass.

Behind him, his horses whickered from the corral, restless and uneasy. They always knew before he did when something was off.

He took that as confirmation.

Jackson eased forward, staying low, using the trees for cover as he made his way toward the back fence where he’d last seen the movement. Dry leaves crackled under his boots, every sound too loud in the heavy quiet.

He stopped behind another tree, pulse steady but hard. The shape was still there, crouched low near the fence line, half-hidden in the brush.

Whoever it was hadn’t run. That alone made his gut tighten. He adjusted his grip on the rifle, then waited. The wind shifted again, carrying a faint sound he almost didn’t catch. A soft, broken breath.

He moved closer, careful not to make a sound. The figure shifted, and the fading light caught her face.

Jackson froze.

Because it was Avery Hastings.

For a second, his brain refused to believe it. She was crouched low, half-hidden by brush, her blonde hair pulled back but tangled, dirt streaked across one cheek. Her clothes were torn, a jacket zipped wrong, as if she’d thrown it on in a hurry. She looked exhausted. Frightened.

But it was her all right. No question about it.

His pulse thudded in his ears. Avery Hastings wasn’t supposed to exist here, not anymore. The U.S. Marshals had buried her identity deep after the trial, after she’d stood in court and pointed a trembling finger at the man who’d killed her husband.

Evan Hastings. Jackson’s partner. His friend.

The memory hit fast and sharp. Blood on the concrete. A radio call gone silent. Avery’s voice, shaking with grief when she’d demanded answers he didn’t have. Three years hadn’t dulled any of it. He could still hear the echo of the gunfire that ended a good man’s life.

And now she was here, on his land, looking as if she’d clawed her way out of hell to reach him.

He tightened his grip on the rifle, mind racing. If she’d come out of witness protection, there had to be a reason. A bad one.

Jackson took a slow step forward, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees the only thing between them. “Avery,” he murmured.

She said his name on a rise of breath. “Jackson.”

It wasn’t loud, but it hit him like a punch. Three years since he’d heard that voice, and it still slid through his guard like a knife.

He took another step closer, keeping his eyes on her. “What are you doing here, Avery?”

She opened her mouth, but before the words could form, the sound of an engine cut through the quiet.

Jackson stiffened.

It was faint at first, then clearer, the grind of tires over road. He turned his head toward the old ranch trail that wound through the back pasture. It hadn’t been used in months. No one should’ve been out there.

The engine slowed, then stopped.

Avery’s eyes went wide. She dropped the small bag she’d been clutching and grabbed his sleeve. “Get down.”

Before he could ask why, she yanked him down beside her into the brush. The ground was cold and damp beneath his palms. He shifted just enough to see through the tall grass toward the road.

The sound of a car door opening broke the air, followed by another. Two doors. Maybe three.

Avery’s breath came fast, shallow, her fingers tightening on his arm. Her pulse thudded against his sleeve, quick and frantic.

Jackson kept still, watching the tree line where the trail curved toward the creek. The faint click of a weapon being readied carried across the wind.

Whoever was out there wasn’t lost.

They were hunting.

He could feel her fear. It rolled off her in sharp waves, thick enough to taste. Every breath she took trembled against his arm. He wanted to ask what the hell had happened, why she was here, who was out there, but speaking was too big a risk. The wrong sound could give them away.

Questions and answers would have to wait.

Something had gone to hell in a handbasket, that much was clear.

He hunkered lower beside her, the ground hard against his knee, a root digging into his shoulder.

Avery pressed close, her body tight against his side as they crouched behind the brush.

Too close. The scent of her hit him all at once, sweat and fear and that faint trace of vanilla he remembered far too well.

They had always kept their distance. No touching, not after Evan. Not after what came before. But Jackson didn’t have amnesia. He couldn’t forget that before she became Evan’s wife, she had been his.

That had ended with back-to-back deployments and a thousand miles of silence. She had moved on, married a man who deserved her. And Jackson never once blamed her for that.

His body, though, didn’t care about right or wrong.

It remembered the feel of her skin, the sound of her laugh, the way she used to look at him when she thought he wasn’t watching.

Now she was pressed against him again, shaking, breathing fast, and every muscle in him tightened for all the wrong reasons.

He shifted slightly, rifle in hand, trying to focus on the threat instead of the past. Footsteps crunched faintly on gravel, closer this time.

Whoever was out there was moving in.

The crunch of boots came again, closer now. Then voices. Muffled, low. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there were at least three of them.

He shifted just enough to peer through a gap in the brush. Shadows moved between the trees, faint outlines against the light.

Jackson’s pulse stayed steady, but his muscles coiled tight. He’d been in worse situations, outnumbered and outgunned before, but this time was different. He wasn’t alone.

He could take them, maybe. Drop the first two before the third got a shot off. But the moment he fired, Avery would be exposed. If he got hit and went down, there’d be no one left to protect her.

Her hand brushed his arm, trembling slightly, and he felt her breath at his shoulder. She was trying not to panic, but he could feel it. The fear, the trust, both heavy as a weight pressing between them.

He kept his eyes on the movement ahead, forcing himself to stay still. The intruders had stopped near the bend in the trail. One of them said something, voice sharp and frustrated, then another answered, quieter.

Jackson couldn’t make out words, only tone. Command. Obedience. Whoever was in charge had no problem giving orders.

He tightened his grip on the rifle, waiting for his chance.

The voices drifted closer, then faded again. A short burst of static cracked through the quiet, followed by a low murmur that carried on the wind. Jackson strained to listen, every nerve tight, waiting for the sound of boots heading their way.

Instead, he heard retreat.

The intruders shifted direction and were moving back toward the trail.

A few seconds later, the heavy slam of a door echoed through the trees.

Then another. The engine turned over, coughed once, then roared to life.

The vehicle rolled down the dirt path, tires grinding against the ruts until the sound faded into the distance.

Still, Jackson didn’t move. Not yet. He’d learned the hard way that silence could be a trick, and patience was what kept a man breathing.

He counted out the seconds in his head, eyes locked on the dark line of the road.

Only when the air swallowed every trace of the engine did he finally ease his hand off the trigger.

“They’re gone,” he murmured.

Avery didn’t answer right away. She stayed crouched beside him, her breathing uneven, her gaze fixed on the empty trail. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were wide, shimmering in the dim light.

Her lips parted, and the words came out in a whisper. “My identity’s been breached. They found me,” she said, her voice breaking. “And they want me dead.”