Chapter Seventeen
Deacon ended the call with Martelli and cursed under his breath.
The whole thing reeked of a setup.
A man pacing in a taped-off cemetery. Shouting at a grave. Explosives strapped to his body. Wynn had escalation written all over him, but this felt calculated. Too loaded.
A trap.
Maybe it was a way to lure Jessa and him out into the open. Draw them off familiar ground. Force their hand.
He hated that he couldn’t see a clean way around it.
If Wynn was there, wired with explosives, Deacon had to go. He couldn’t ignore that kind of threat, not when it sat in the middle of a county cemetery with deputies standing by and civilians at possible risk.
And there was no world where Jessa stayed behind.
He did not even bother pretending otherwise. She would never sit safely at his ranch while he walked into something like that alone. Not after everything they had already survived.
Besides, after the shooting earlier, leaving her solo was a bad idea. A reckless one. If someone wanted to divide them, that would be the way to do it.
Separate them. Isolate one. Take the shot.
Divide and conquer.
Deacon grabbed his keys and took a steadying breath. Not a chance either of them was sitting this out. Whatever waited for them at that cemetery, he intended for both of them to walk in clear-eyed and armed.
They geared up fast and without talking, muscle memory taking over. Vests. Weapons. Radios checked. Deacon kept scanning the windows and the tree line outside, every sense stretched tight.
It was cold when they stepped out, the kind that bit through clothing. The night was pitch black, clouds choking out any hint of moonlight. No natural illumination. No shadows to read. It would be easy to walk or drive straight into an ambush out there.
He didn’t like that.
They moved fast toward his cruiser, spacing tight, gazes firing all around. He unlocked the cruiser, waited while Jessa got in, then slid behind the wheel and brought the engine to life. The dash lights were the only glow in a world that suddenly felt very small.
As soon as they were rolling, Deacon used the hands free and called Noah. “Noah, I need your help. Wynn’s at Whispering Pines Cemetery near Lawless Canyon, and he’s supposedly strapped with explosives. The local sheriff and deputies are on scene. Bomb squad en route. We’re heading that way now.”
“What do you need?” Noah was quick to ask.
“Drone support. I want eyes on Wynn and the perimeter. Full sweep.”
There was less than a minute pause before Noah replied. “Already launched. Two birds in the air. You’ll have visuals in under three minutes.”
Deacon let out a breath he was tired of holding. “Thanks,” he said. “Stay on comms.”
“Copy,” Noah replied.
Deacon focused back on the road as the headlights cut through the darkness. Whatever waited for them out there, they wouldn’t be going in blind.
Jessa’s phone rang a minute later. She glanced at the screen and didn’t hesitate before putting it on speaker. “Roman.”
His voice came through tight and urgent. “I just heard about Wynn. I’m on my way to Lawless Canyon.”
Deacon’s jaw clenched. “That’s not a good idea,” he couldn’t say fast enough. “If this is a setup, that could be exactly what whoever’s behind it wants. Get all of us in one place.”
“You think I’m going to sit this out?” Roman countered, and his tone could have won some kind of badass award if there was a competition for such things.
“No,” Deacon snapped. “I think it’s easier to kill three people standing together than one.”
Especially if Wynn really was wired. Especially if this ended in a detonation instead of cuffs.
“My ETA’s fifteen minutes,” was all Roman said, clearly ignoring everything Deacon had just spelled out.
“That’s about our ETA too,” Jessa let him know.
Deacon tightened his grip on the steering wheel. So much for spacing it out. So much for controlling the variables.
“Roman,” he tried again, “you see anything weird on your way in, you back off. You hear me.”
“I hear you,” Roman replied. And the badass tone managed to hike up another notch. “Doesn’t mean I’m turning around.”
The call ended.
Deacon stared straight ahead into the dark road stretching out in front of them. Three targets converging on the same place. A volatile suspect. Explosives. Unknown shooters still out in the wind.
This felt like someone tightening a noose.
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.
Something else was out there.
And it was waiting.
Deacon had just shut the cruiser door when headlights swept across the gravel drive. Another vehicle rolled in fast but controlled, braking short of the taped perimeter. He recognized it before the engine even cut. Roman.
Figures.
Roman climbed out as Deacon and Jessa stepped away from the cruiser. He moved like a jungle cat on the prowl, black jacket zipped high, eyes already scanning the tree line as if he expected trouble to step out at any second.
“I’m plugged into Noah’s drone feed too,” Roman let them know. “I’ve got alerts set if anything moves among the headstones. Heat, motion, anything that doesn’t belong.”
Good. Despite their difference, Roman was good at what he did. Damn good. And Deacon wanted every drop of that damn good to keep Jessa safe.
The drone feed on Deacon’s phone flickered as the sweep widened. Rows of headstones glowed pale under weak cemetery lights. Shadows pooled between them. Too many places to hide. Too many blind spots for his liking.
Deacon fell in beside Jessa and Roman as they crossed the gravel toward the sheriff and his deputies. The night smelled like damp earth and old stone, the cemetery lights doing little more than carving long shadows between the trees.
Sheriff Martelli stepped forward when he saw them coming. He knew all three of them well enough that there was no small talk, no wasted motion.
“Deacon. Jessa. Roman. Glad you made it.” He tipped his head toward the two deputies flanking him. “This is Deputy Carla Ruiz and Deputy Evan Keller. Both know the layout out here.”
Ruiz gave a short nod, hand resting near her sidearm. Keller’s eyes never stopped moving, sweeping the rows of headstones and the tree line beyond.
Martelli lowered his voice. “Bomb squad’s still about thirty minutes out. They were clear on the other side of the county checking a call that turned out to be nothing.”
Deacon’s jaw tightened. “False alarm?”
“That’s what it looks like,” Martelli admitted. “The timing doesn’t sit right with me.”
“It doesn’t with me either,” Deacon said.
He glanced back toward the darker edge of the cemetery, where shadows thickened and the drone feed on his phone showed slow, methodical sweeps. A false call could be coincidence. Or it could be a setup.
A decoy.
If Wynn or whoever was pulling the strings wanted the bomb squad delayed, that was one hell of a way to do it.
Deacon adjusted his grip on his phone. “Feels like someone wanted us thin on resources.”
Martelli met his gaze. “That’s my read, too.”
Deacon looked past them, toward what remained of Lauren’s grave, and felt the familiar spike of anger and resolve settle in his chest. Someone had planned this. Every minute that ticked by felt intentional.
And he didn’t intend to let them get away with it.
Deacon stepped away from the cluster of other law enforcement and raised his voice, keeping it steady even though every nerve in his body was wired tight.
“Wynn,” Deacon called out. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
He half expected fury in return. Ranting. Accusations. The same venom Wynn had been spewing for days.
Instead, Wynn’s head jerked up too quickly, like a man pulled out of a fog. His eyes were unfocused, darting from Deacon to the shadows beyond the grave markers. He swayed slightly on his feet.
Confused.
Disoriented.
Or playing it well.
Wynn lifted a trembling hand and glanced down at his chest. The bulky vest strapped to him looked crude but deadly, wires visible beneath torn layers of clothing. His breath hitched when he saw it, as if he had forgotten it was there.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Wynn said. His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry either. It carried a raw, broken edge that made the hair on Deacon’s arms rise. “The same way you killed Lauren.”
Deacon felt something cold twist in his gut.
Wynn’s gaze flicked wildly toward the tree line, then back to Deacon, pupils blown wide. “You think I did this?” he demanded hoarsely. “You think I strapped this to myself?”
Deacon didn’t move closer. Not yet. He kept his tone calm, grounded, the way he’d learned to speak to men standing on the edge.
“Then slow down, Wynn,” Deacon insisted. “Take a breath. Tell me who you think did this to you.”
Wynn swallowed hard. His gaze slid past Deacon again, scanning the dark like something was hunting him.
“You… they… they’re finishing it,” Wynn growled. “Lauren was first. I’m next.”
And for the first time since this nightmare began, Deacon couldn’t tell if Wynn was the villain standing in front of him.
Or just another victim.
Wynn lifted a shaking hand and pressed his fingers to his ear. Deacon caught it instantly. An earpiece.
His pulse kicked up hard. Wynn wasn’t alone in this. Someone was feeding him information, or orders, or both. Another hired thug hiding in the dark maybe. Or someone smarter. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.
“Wynn, who’re you talking to?” Deacon called out, keeping his voice even.
Wynn’s eyes flicked side to side again. He didn’t answer. His breathing went shallow, ragged, like every sound around him was too loud.
Roman stepped closer to Deacon, his phone angled so only Deacon could see the screen. The drone feed was tight now, zoomed in on Wynn’s torso. Wires. A blocky device strapped high on his chest. A smaller unit near his waist.
“The explosives look real,” Roman said in a whisper. “There’s a detonator wired in.”
Deacon clenched his jaw. “Does Wynn control it?”
Roman shook his head. “I can’t tell. He might. Or someone else might have remote access.”
That option sat heavy in Deacon’s gut. Someone watching them. Waiting.
Wynn swallowed and pressed harder at the earpiece. “I didn’t do this,” he said again, almost pleading now. “You have to believe me.”
Before Deacon could respond, a sharp crack split the night.
Then another.
Gunshots tore through the cemetery, dirt kicking up near the headstones as everyone dropped for cover.