Chapter Five
It was pushing ten p.m., and every step sent a hot, searing reminder through Deacon’s side that he’d just been stitched up. Pain he could handle though. Missing a meeting that might put Wynn in cuffs?
Not a chance in hell.
Jessa didn’t look thrilled about this meeting. Her expression was a tight blend of worry and frustration, as if she wanted to argue but knew it would be a waste of breath. Deacon grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, wincing only slightly as he shrugged it on.
“You sure you can do this?” she asked.
“No,” he said, zipping up the coat anyway. “But I’m doing it.”
Her mouth twitched, half exasperation, half something softer he didn’t want to name. She didn’t push further. Instead, she turned toward the sliding hospital doors, her shoulders coiled tight with tension.
They stepped out into the cold night air, the wind biting enough to make Deacon’s ribs seize.
The hospital parking lot was nearly empty, just a few scattered cars under the harsh glow of the security lights.
He swept his gaze across the shadows, scanning for movement, for the glint of a rifle scope, for Wynn’s silhouette lurking where it shouldn’t be.
Nothing.
Just silence and the low hum of the lights overhead.
“Clear,” Jessa murmured, though her hand hovered near her concealed pistol.
Deacon nodded, but he definitely didn’t relax. He’d be damned if he got ambushed twice in one night.
They hurried to Jessa’s SUV that sat alone in that section of the parking lot.
Jessa unlocked it with a quiet chirp, and they both climbed in.
The moment she was behind the wheel, the engine rumbled to life.
Deacon eased back in the seat, breathing through the tug of pain, trying not to let it show.
Jessa shot him a sideways look. “If you pass out, I’m shoving you into a booth and pretending you’re drunk.”
He huffed. “If I pass out, you better at least order me a burger first.”
A flicker of reluctant amusement crossed her face, and she put the SUV in gear. They rolled out of the lot, tires crunching over frost.
The road to Crossfire Creek stretched ahead, dark, quiet, winding between fields and distant tree lines. Too empty. Too exposed. Deacon rested a hand near the grip of his service weapon, scanning the mirrors every few seconds.
Wynn had already proven he knew these roads. He knew the shadows. He knew how to make Deacon bleed. Tonight, though, the bastard wasn’t getting the drop on them.
Jessa drove fast, the glow of Crossfire Creek already faint on the horizon. Shade, AKA Brett Calder, waited at that diner. With answers. With lies. With traps. With something.
Whatever it was, Deacon intended to get it.
The drive out through the Texas Hill Country slipped by in a blur of headlights and cold night air.
The road wound through low, rolling hills and stretches of scrub oak, the moon throwing silver across the fields.
It was quiet, too damn quiet, and every shadow looked like it could hide a rifle barrel.
Jessa kept one hand steady on the wheel, eyes sharp, jaw tight. She wasn’t relaxed, not even close, but she drove like someone trained to handle danger head-on. Which she most certainly was.
They’d been on the road maybe two minutes when Deacon finally said what had been clawing at him since they left the parking lot. “This could be a trap.”
Jessa didn’t take her eyes off the road. “I know.”
“Jess—”
“I know,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Shade knows how to disappear. If he wanted to vanish, he could. Meeting in public—here, of all places—is… odd.”
“Odd’s one word for it,” Deacon muttered. “Damn right risky is another.”
Deacon shifted in his seat, ignoring the jolt of pain. “Roman going to show up for this?”
“Of course he is,” Jessa said. “But he’s coming from San Antonio. He’s probably about thirty minutes out.”
Deacon nodded, not surprised that her brother would be there. Roman Creed would never let her walk into danger alone, even if it meant breaking speed limits all the way there.
“Does Shade have any motive for wanting you or Roman dead?” Deacon asked her.
Jessa hesitated. The pause made his stomach tighten. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Shade’s… complicated. He trades in information. Secrets. People’s dirt. He doesn’t pick sides. He just picks payouts.”
Deacon frowned. “Meaning this ‘secret file’ that Wynn has could be worth something to Shade.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “If the list is real, if it’s as sensitive as Wynn claims, it could be one very large blackmail stash.”
Deacon let out a low whistle. “Hell of a payday.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “So if someone wants to make Roman and me… pliable? More willing to pay or comply or stay quiet?” Her fingers tightened on the wheel. “Attack us. Scare us. Make us desperate.”
Deacon stared out the windshield, jaw locked. “And Shade could be part of that?” he asked.
Jessa exhaled. “He could. He could also be in over his head. Or being used.”
Not exactly reassuring for any of those options.
Crossfire Creek finally blinked into view, a scatter of street lamps and shuttered storefronts against the dark Hill Country sky.
Nearly everything was closed this time of night—hardware store dark, the feed shop locked up tight, even the little boutique row empty except for a flickering porch light.
But the diner on the edge of town?
Luna Mae’s never closed.
Its neon crescent moon sign buzzed faintly, casting the gravel lot in a pale blue glow. Inside, yellow light spilled through the big front windows, revealing a handful of late-night customers.
Jessa slowed the SUV, eyes scanning. “There,” she whispered.
Deacon followed her gaze. Brett Calder/Shade sat in a booth near the back, half-turned to keep the room in view. He was bigger than Deacon expected. Big shoulders. Thick forearms, a neck wrapped in tattoos. Close-cropped dark hair. He wore a faded jacket, but nothing about him said computer geek.
Hell, the guy looked more like a bouncer at a rough-ass bar than a hacker with dark-web reach.
Jessa parked, and they got out. Deacon’s hand hovered near his sidearm as they crossed the lot. He went with habit, instinct, caution. Jessa obviously did, too, and walked as if she expected trouble with every step.
Inside, the bell over the door chimed, the scent of frying onions and coffee hitting him at once. A waitress glanced up, muttered a bored-sounding greeting and then went back to wiping down a table.
Shade’s eyes cut toward them the second they stepped in, and he stiffened when he saw Deacon.
Jessa moved first, heading for his booth. “Shade,” she said, stopping beside the booth. “This is County Sheriff Deacon Raines.”
Shade’s glare flicked from her to Deacon, sharp and annoyed. “I know who he fucking is. You brought the sheriff,” he spat out.
“Damn right she did,” Deacon said.
For a heartbeat, Shade looked like he might bolt. His eyes darted to the door, muscles tensing like a wolf ready to run.
But he didn’t move.
He slumped back against the booth, jaw clenched. “Fine,” he muttered. “Sit. But next time I say alone, I mean it.”
Deacon slid into the booth across from him, ignoring the throb in his side. Jessa sat beside him, shoulders tight with tension.
“Where’s Wynn?” he asked, his voice cop hard. He wasn’t wasting any time with pleasantries.
Shade didn’t blink. “I don’t know.”
Deacon leaned forward a fraction, watching every twitch in the hacker’s face. “Try again.”
Shade’s jaw ticked. “I said I don’t know where the fucker is.”
He was either telling the truth… or he was one hell of a poker player. Before Deacon could press, the waitress wandered up with a tired smile and a notepad. “Coffee?”
“Please,” Jessa said.
“Yeah,” Deacon added. “Black.”
Shade huffed. “I’ll take a refill.” He motioned to the cup already on the table.
She nodded and walked off, the bell above the kitchen door jingling as she disappeared.
The moment she was out of earshot, Jessa turned on Shade. “Why did you want this meeting? And how did you know Deacon was going to be ambushed tonight?”
Shade rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped, eyes darting between them like he was weighing how much to reveal.
“I found out about the hit on the dark web,” he said finally. “Someone was looking for assistance bringing a dirty cop to justice.”
Deacon felt his pulse spike, and his jaw muscles felt as if they’d turned to iron. “Dirty cop?” he repeated, low and lethal. “You want to rethink that phrasing?”
Shade lifted a shoulder, unimpressed. “Wasn’t my wording, Sheriff.” He snarled the title like profanity. “I’m just telling you what was posted.”
“Who posted it?” Deacon snapped.
Shade met his stare head-on, eyes cold. “I. Don’t. Know.”
Deacon didn’t believe him, not fully. He also didn’t look away. Shade didn’t either. Between them, the space filled with something sharp, tense, and dangerous because somebody out there wanted Deacon dead… maybe Jessa, too, and Shade was sitting way too comfortable with that knowledge.
Shade leaned back as the coffees arrived, nodding his thanks to the waitress without taking his eyes off Deacon. The second she was gone, he exhaled as if he was tired of carrying secrets. Or tired of pretending not to have them.
“Look,” Shade said, lowering his voice, “it could’ve been Wynn who posted that request. He’s unhinged enough, grief-crazy enough, pissed-off enough to outsource violence if it gets him what he wants.”
Deacon didn’t argue. Not yet.
“But,” Shade continued, tapping a thick finger against the table, “you two need to be real damn careful about Corbin Knox.”
“We’re already there,” Deacon muttered. “Don’t trust him.”
“Never did,” Jessa added.
Shade nodded. “Good. Because something about the way those posts were worded… the phrasing, the cadence… it reminded me of him.”
Deacon frowned. “You saying Corbin was the one hiring guns on the dark web?”