Page 1

DEACON

M ississippi River Delta

Five Years Ago

The bayous of Louisiana stink of rot and secrets. The air here doesn’t just hang—it clings. Hot, wet, and thick enough to chew. It coats your skin and crawls into your lungs, until you can’t tell where the swamp ends and you begin.

I’ve been out here three days, tracking a bail skip who thinks the bayou makes him invisible. It doesn’t. Nothing does. Not from me. He barely made it ten miles off-grid before he started slipping up—empty beer cans, disturbed mud, a fishhook dropped near a campfire that hadn’t burned out yet.

I’m two hundred yards out from him, rifle balanced on a moss-covered log, crosshairs steady. I could take the shot. Could end this whole thing right now and still have time to finish the shitty gas station coffee in my thermos.

But I don’t. Because I’m not alone anymore.

I knew he was coming before I heard the truck.

There’s a stillness that breaks when another predator enters the woods—too clean, too sure of itself.

The birds go quiet. The atmosphere thickens.

I feel it in my gut, that exaggerated sense of awareness I’ve never been able to explain but never questioned either.

Then comes the sound—the tires crunching over crushed shells, the faint grind of gears, and the unmistakable scent of motor oil mixed with something sharper.

Arrogance, maybe. Confidence too loud for a place that lives in whispers.

Whoever it is, they don’t belong here. And they sure as hell aren’t sneaking up on anybody.

My finger tightens slightly on the trigger as I swing the rifle around, sights locking on the newcomer.

He’s not even trying to sneak. Just walking through the trees like he owns the place.

Cowboy boots, dark jeans, t-shirt tight across a chest that says ex-military, still dangerous.

A man like that doesn’t carry fear. He carries intent.

"Who are you?" I ask, voice low, rifle steady. But even as I speak, I’m already drawing in a breath through my nose, tasting the air.

There’s a thread of something wild in it—leather, steel, storm.

He’s not just another man crashing through the swamp.

He’s something more. Something like me. Not human.

Not fully. Shifter. Probably wolf. My own instincts bristle in recognition, a low pulse of acknowledgment humming under my skin.

Territory meeting territory. Alpha to alpha.

He raises his hands just enough to show he’s not armed and not worried. "Name’s Zane Rushton. But my friends call me Rush."

"We’re not friends."

"Yet."

Smartass.

I turn back toward the target I’d been tracking, but I don’t lose awareness of the man behind me. “Whatever you want, you’re wasting your time, Rushton.”

“Funny,” he says, casual like this is a damn social call. “I figured you were the one wasting yours.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I exhale, squeeze the trigger, and drop the skip I’d been tracking—a petty arms runner with more ego than sense. Headshot. No suffering.

Normally, I'd just wound the bastard and drag him back to jail.

But in his 'bid for freedom,' he'd slit an innocent old man's throat—a swamp-shifter who was just trying to live out the rest of his life in peace and harmony.

The bail skip's body collapses in a heap behind the cypress roots.

I lower the rifle and let the silence and the swamp swallow him whole.

Rushton lets out a low whistle.

“You come out here to recruit me for something or admire my shooting?” I ask, wiping down my rifle and slipping it into its case.

“Why not both?”

The son of a bitch grins like this is going exactly the way he planned.

I don’t ask any more questions. Not yet. Because everything about him—his scent, his posture, his calm—tells me this isn’t about the fugitive rotting two hundred yards from us. That was just the opening act. A test.

Rush hasn’t come to chase criminals through the swamp. He’s come to find a hunter willing to track something colder, smarter, and more dangerous than any bail skip. Someone like me. Someone with nothing left to lose.

He’s not here for the fugitive. That bastard was just the price of admission.

I suspect Rushton came for something deeper—something with teeth.

He’s here for the part of me that doesn’t quit, the part that runs on instinct and fury, the part that can still imagine the last scream my sister ever made.

He’s here for the wolf who doesn’t run. The one who hunts back.

We walk back to his truck in silence. Not the awkward kind. The kind where two men already understand more than they’re letting on. The moss underfoot muffles our steps, but every sound—every breath—is heavy with something unspoken.

I don’t ask where we’re going. Because part of me already knows. Wherever it is, it’s going to drag me closer to the thing I’ve been hunting in the dark corners of my soul since the day they zipped up Verity’s body bag.

Rushton doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks the truck, tosses a folder onto the passenger seat, and waits.

I get in, closing the door softly—not because I trust him. But because I’m ready to burn down the world that took my sister from me. In that silence, I make a decision.

My war isn’t out here anymore. It ended the day I came home to a draped coffin and a file full of redacted names.

My sister’s blood is on someone’s hands—a contract killer known only as the Reaper.

No ID. No face. Just a string of dead witnesses and a system too scared or too compromised to go after him.

I’ve hunted ghosts before. This one’s personal.

Rushton is building a team. A unit that answers to no one but the governor, the badge on their chest and the justice they’re willing to chase into the dark—a different kind of Texas Ranger.

And me? I’m not seeking redemption. I want results… revenge. Maybe, this son of a bitch can help me find the Reaper.

And when I do—there won’t be enough mist in all of hell to hide him.

SUTTON

Harris County Civil Courthouse

Houston, Texas

Two Years Ago

The courtroom is ice cold and reeks of mildew and overinflated egos.

I sit ramrod straight in my chair, heels crossed at the ankle, one hand resting on the polished mahogany of the table.

The other clutches a pen I haven’t used—more of a weapon at this point, something to keep my fingers busy and my rage in check.

Across the aisle, Keith is sweating through his designer button-down like a man caught in a lie with the receipts still warm in his pocket.

Small beads drip from his temple and soak into the collar his stylist probably starched this morning.

He dabs at his forehead with a crumpled napkin—probably from the courthouse vending machine—and tries to maintain the posture of someone not completely unraveling. Spoiler: he fails.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband, all faux confidence and smug entitlement, sits beside his overpriced attorney with the posture of a man who thinks he’s still in control. His tie is too tight, his tan is too fresh, and the smirk he arrived with is beginning to slide right off his face.

I allow myself one small smile. Just a twitch. Barely legal. It's the expression you make when you've spotted your opponent's bluff and you're holding four aces. Not smug. Not gloating. Just a quiet, deeply satisfying confirmation that the truth—your truth—is finally winning.

"Let’s be clear,” Valerie Tran, my attorney, says, adjusting her glasses as she rises. “Mr. Henley has testified that he has no substantial assets. That he’s been, in his words, ‘financially devastated’ by this divorce.”

Keith nods solemnly, like he’s attending his own funeral—and trying very hard not to blame the casket for being so dramatic about it. It’s a performance, a calculated act of humility that’s as transparent as his fake tan. He’s hoping the judge mistakes regret for remorse. I almost feel bad. Almost.

Valerie taps a manila folder with two fingers.

"And yet, Your Honor, we’ve traced funds—multiple transfers, shell LLCs, and off-the-books consulting fees—amounting to nearly two million dollars.

Money that Mr. Henley moved over the course of the last eight months.

Most of which he conveniently forgot to disclose. "

I don’t look at Keith. I look at the judge. And the judge looks pissed.

A memory cuts in—sharp and cold.

One Year Earlier – Austin, Texas

I stand in the doorway of Keith's hotel suite, the bottle of champagne slipping in my grip. Room 1903. Surprise visit for our fifth anniversary.

I don’t knock. I managed to convince the front desk clerk that I was Keith's wife and was here to surprise him. Because I was trying to be romantic. Spontaneous.

The woman in his bed isn’t his assistant, but she’s got the same haircut. She’s moaning his name like she paid for the privilege, and I freeze in place—every alarm bell in my forensic brain finally screaming in unison.

Keith looks over his shoulder and keeps pounding into her. He doesn’t even look ashamed. He looks inconvenienced.

“Sutton. I thought you couldn't get away. I wasn't expecting you.”

“I can see that,” I say flatly.

And then I laugh. Because the truth isn’t just that he cheated—it’s that I didn’t see it. Me. The woman who can spot a fraudulent wire transfer in a spreadsheet that hasn’t even finished loading. The one who untangles offshore accounts in her sleep.

I missed this. I trusted him. Never again.

The memory fades.

“Your Honor,” Keith’s lawyer cuts in, smoothing his silk tie.

“If I may—Mr. Henley may have made some questionable financial decisions, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ms. Blake’s earning potential has dramatically increased in the last two years.

As a forensic accountant with several high-profile clients. ..”

“Don’t forget my art business,” I interrupt sweetly.

Keith glares at me, jaw tight, like he’s trying to sear a hole through my skull with his eyes. The judge raises an eyebrow in that subtle, dangerous way that says he’s one misplaced word from tossing Keith out of the courtroom—and maybe into contempt.

“She’s being facetious,” Keith’s lawyer snaps.

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” I reply, managing to sound sincere. “I sell limited-edition prints of men crying into their empty bank accounts. Very niche. Very lucrative. Limited palette, maximum catharsis.”

The courtroom chuckles—an amused ripple of judgment that rolls across the room. Keith goes red, neck first, like a thermometer exploding under pressure. He fidgets in his seat, humiliated and cornered, the walls of his little fantasy collapsing brick by brick under the weight of facts and receipts.

The judge clears his throat and leans forward.

“After reviewing the evidence, it’s clear Mr. Henley deliberately attempted to conceal marital assets.

As such, Ms. Blake is entitled to half of all jointly acquired wealth.

Each party is accorded their personal items as well as any accumulated after their separation.

" Keith starts to rise. His attorney clamps a hand on his arm. The judge’s glare finishes the job.

"Furthermore, the court finds no legal basis to award Mr. Henley any percentage of Ms. Blake’s future income. ”

Keith opens his mouth, probably to whine.

“Save it,” the judge says, and bangs the gavel—ending one phase of my life and heralding the start of another.

Outside the courthouse, I squint into the Texas sun. Valerie claps a hand on my shoulder, victorious.

“That,” she says, “was surgical.”

I smile for real this time. “Thanks. I do like a clean cut.”

I don’t look back. Not at Keith. Not at the courthouse. Not at the years I spent rationalizing red flags and mistaking lies for loyalty.

I walk away, heels clicking sharply against the concrete, then pause just outside the parking garage. I reach down, unbuckle the straps, and slip them off one by one. My bare feet sting against the hot pavement, but it still feels better than the ache those heels left in my arches.

In the back of my Range Rover, two suitcases sit packed along with everything I’ve decided to take—clothes, my sketch pads, a locked fireproof box full of client files, some personal art, and mementos and one faded photo of me and Dad.

That’s it. Everything else stays behind, including the version of me that tolerated Keith Henley for far too long.

I toss the heels in the trash can, not bothering to look back as they tumble in.

A small, satisfying thud follows. I slide behind the wheel, fingers brushing over the worn leather steering wheel like I’m greeting an old friend.

I crank up the A/C and open the sunroof anyway—Keith always said it messed up his hair.

Good. Let it mess up everything. Let the wind tear through whatever is left of the last five years and carry it right out of the vehicle, out of this city, out of my goddamn life.

Engine humming, freedom stretching wide in every direction. I turn on Mary Chapin Carpenter and leave Houston singing 'Rhythm of the Blues' , like a soliloquy of all that has gone before. As I leave the city, I decide to head southeast… Galveston sounds good.