Chapter Eighteen
Jessa hit the ground hard, her knees slamming into the cold, damp earth as gunfire ripped through the cemetery.
Deacon dove beside her behind his vehicle, while Roman, Sheriff Martelli, and the two deputies scrambled for cover behind the Lawless Canyon cruisers. Bark chipped off a nearby oak headstone, spraying her arm as another round cracked through the air.
“Stay down,” Deacon shouted, but like her, he was lifting his head enough to try to spot the shooter.
The rapid shots rattled across the dark cemetery, echoing off stone and iron. It sounded like another AK, the same nonstop spray they’d taken at the ranch. Another hired gun.
Another attempt to kill them all.
Across the way, Wynn crouched behind a tall weathered tombstone, both hands over his head. He wasn’t shooting. He wasn’t even armed.
“Stop. Stop. Stop shooting,” Wynn yelled, the words slicing through the gunfire.
He rocked back in a panic, eyes wild, the explosives strapped to his chest catching the thin wash of cemetery lights. Whoever was firing wasn’t doing it on Wynn’s orders. Wynn looked terrified.
The shots kept coming anyway.
Jessa pressed lower to the ground, breath frosting in the cold air. Her heart slammed so hard it hurt. Somewhere behind the veil of gunfire sat another tombstone, another patch of shadows, and if the shooter had even half-decent aim, they were sitting ducks out here.
She heard Roman curse, and Martelli shouted for his deputies to stay covered. Gravel pinged against the cruiser they were hiding behind.
Jessa gripped her gun tighter and forced herself to breathe. They had trained for chaos like this, but training didn’t account for seeing Wynn curled up like a terrified child or the explosive-laced vest that could take out half the cemetery if anyone made the wrong move.
And still the shots kept coming.
Jessa flattened herself against the cold ground, mud soaking through her jeans as she tried to angle her body behind the cruiser’s tire. The air stank of gunpowder and damp earth. Bullets kept ripping through the cemetery, each crack vibrating through her bones.
“Shots are coming from the mausoleum,” Deacon called out.
She jerked her head up long enough to follow his line of sight.
About thirty yards away stood the old granite structure, squat and rectangular, with a peaked roof and a pair of heavy iron doors that hadn’t been opened in years.
Its stone walls were streaked with age and moss, and tonight it looked more like a bunker than a tomb.
A rifle barrel jutted out from behind the left corner.
She still couldn’t see the shooter, just the flash of muzzle fire lighting up the stone like angry sparks, but now that she had a direction, she pivoted and raised her gun.
Homes sat along the road that ran past the cemetery. She reminded herself of that as she lined up the shot. A stray bullet could go through a window or a wall and hit someone who had nothing to do with this nightmare.
So she aimed tight. Stone would stop the round. She fired, her shot hitting the mausoleum with a sharp, satisfying smack that sent a splinter of rock flying. The shooter jerked back out of sight.
Good. At least she could put the pause button on this.
But the reprieve didn’t last long.
Jessa’s breath stuck in her throat as Wynn toppled back, arms flailing before he hit the ground beside a shattered tombstone. Another burst of gunfire chewed into the dirt where he’d been standing, spraying chunks of stone and soil.
The shooter didn’t let up. The steady, punishing rhythm of the AK kept pounding through the cemetery, echoing off the trees. Wynn lay there, unmoving, the explosives strapped across his chest glinting faintly in the weak security lights.
“Damn it,” Deacon whispered, eyes narrowed on Wynn. “He’s still breathing. That hit didn’t take him out.”
Another round cracked into the headstone inches from Wynn’s shoulder, sending marble dust into the air.
Wynn groaned and lifted his head just enough to shout, his voice raw and breaking. “He said he’ll blow me up. He said he’ll blow all of you up.”
Jessa’s stomach twisted. Whoever held that detonator, whoever had been whispering poison into Wynn’s ear through that earpiece, wasn’t done. And they were willing to kill every person in this cemetery to tie up loose ends.
Deacon shifted beside her, eyes on the mausoleum. “The shooter keeps focusing on Wynn. He wants him silenced. If Wynn talks, everything unravels.”
Wynn made a weak attempt to lift his head again. But a fresh spray of bullets slammed into the ground around him, forcing him flat.
Jessa took a breath and steadied her aim. She didn’t know how long they had to shut this down, but it wasn’t long. Wynn might be a mess of grief and delusion, but he was their only living link to the truth.
The shooter clearly planned to make sure he didn’t stay that way.
Deacon angled his head toward her. “I’m going to try to circle behind the shooter.”
“No, you’re not,” she hissed. “Not alone. You’re hurt.”
“I can handle it,” he shot back, but the tightness around his mouth said otherwise.
“I’m going with you,” she insisted.
“Jess, this isn’t a debate.”
“Too damn bad. I’m not letting you get yourself killed.” She checked her weapon, her voice barely a breath. “You need backup.”
He muttered something that sounded a lot like a curse, but he didn’t argue again. That told her more than anything how bad this was.
Deacon leaned toward the others. “Roman. We’re flanking the shooter. I’ll take the left. Jessa’s covering me.”
Roman gave a quick nod and shouted over the gunfire, “I’ll take the right side and try to box him in.”
Sheriff Martelli leaned out just far enough to warn them, “Watch your angles. This shooter doesn’t care who he hits.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Jessa whispered.
Deacon touched her elbow, grounding her for one brief second. His eyes met hers, dark and deadly serious. “Stay close. No hero moves.”
“Right back at you.”
Jessa and Deacon started moving, slipping around the back of the cruisers while staying low.
The cold damp ground soaked through her jeans, but she forced herself not to think about it.
The cruisers gave them enough cover to reach the first row of headstones, and once they were behind them, she risked a glance toward the mausoleum.
The gunman must have spotted their movement because he immediately opened fire at them. Rounds cracked into the cruisers, the metal pinging and groaning as bullets tore into the doors and fenders.
“Keep moving,” Deacon whispered, his hand brushing her arm to guide her.
Another burst of shots lit up the dark. The sheriff and his deputies fired back, loud and steady, doing exactly what Deacon had predicted. They were keeping the gunman pinned behind the mausoleum, giving her and Deacon a chance to push forward.
Bits of stone chipped off a nearby headstone when a bullet hit it, spraying dust across her sleeve.
“Too close,” she muttered, ducking lower.
Deacon shot her a sharp look. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” she answered, even though her pulse thudded wildly in her throat.
Another burst came, and she felt the vibrations of it in her teeth.
Jessa and Deacon pushed toward the next section of graves, using the rising ground to shield their approach. Every muscle in her body was tight. The mausoleum loomed thirty yards ahead, gray stone catching faint light. The shooter’s muzzle flashed again from the far corner.
Jessa and Deacon kept moving, staying low as they slipped from the cover of the cruisers to the nearest row of headstones.
Gunfire spat chips of granite into the air, and she felt Deacon tense beside her.
The sheriff and his deputies returned fire, keeping the shooter pinned behind the mausoleum’s stone wall.
Through the chaos, Wynn’s voice ripped across the cemetery. “The bastard drugged me,” he shouted. “I’m not going to let Lauren’s killer walk free.”
Jessa’s stomach lurched. Drugged. More lucid now. And still focused on revenge. She shot a quick look at Deacon. They both knew exactly what Wynn meant. He wasn’t just gunning for the shooter. He wanted to take out anyone he believed had failed Lauren.
Which meant her. Roman. Deacon.
“Wynn, stop,” she yelled, pushing more power into her voice than she felt. “You’re in the line of fire.”
He ignored her.
Instead, he staggered to his feet, hands clawing at the vest strapped to his chest. For one breath Jessa thought he was going to blow himself up right there. But Wynn ripped the explosive rig free and lifted it over his head.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Jessa’s heart hammered as Wynn hurled the vest.
For a split second it tumbled through the air, catching what little light existed in the cemetery.
And then it exploded.