Page 29

DEACON

T he instant I hear that voice—distorted, low, slick with smug malice—every muscle in my body locks tight, like a wire drawn taut to the edge of snapping. My breath halts. Heat flashes under my skin, chased by a wave of cold dread.

"If you want him back alive, you’ll listen carefully."

Sutton freezes beside me, her entire body taut, her breath catching in her throat.

I see the tremor in her fingers, the flash of fear tightening her jaw, and something primal in her eyes—raw, protective, already bracing for the worst. I hear the sharp inhale she takes, taste the rage and fear rolling off her like a storm.

I reach for the phone, but she jerks away, eyes locked on the screen like it might vanish.

"Dad?" she demands, voice razor-edged.

There’s a beat of silence—long enough to stretch the air taut. Then a groan slices through, raw and ragged, like gravel scraped over bone. A pained, guttural sound that punches straight into the gut.

"Kid... don’t you dare come after me," Frank grits out. He sounds winded. Hurt. And scared. Not for himself—for her.

The bastard on the other end chuckles. "Sentimental. You have twelve hours. Bring yourself, alone, to Cinder Gap. Leave your wolf behind. If we see him... the old man dies."

The line goes dead.

Sutton's face drains of color, her knuckles white where they grip the phone.

Her chest rises sharply once—twice—like her lungs have forgotten how to breathe.

The room holds its breath with her. I reach out instinctively, but she lowers the phone with a mechanical slowness, her gaze locked somewhere far beyond the walls of this room.

"We’re going after him," she says quietly, the words more vow than decision.

And I know there’s no stopping her now—not when that fierce determination flares to life in her eyes like a spark catching dry tinder, wild and inevitable. She’s already chosen her path, and I’m just scrambling to keep pace with the storm she’s become.

Sutton stares at the phone like it’s a venomous thing, some cursed relic that just shattered her world.

Her fingers tremble as she lowers it—slowly, deliberately—until it kisses the table with a soft, final click.

Her hands stay there, splayed wide, white-knuckled with restraint.

Her mouth sets into that defiant line I know too damn well, but her eyes.

.. her eyes burn. Not with tears, but with fire.

Determination. Fury so sharp it could carve bone.

"No," I snap, before she says a word. "Absolutely fucking not."

She turns to me, hazel eyes blazing. "Don’t start with me, Deacon."

"It’s a trap. You know it. I know it. Hell, Rush knew it before the call even ended."

"I’m going."

"You think Frank would want you to throw yourself into that? To walk into a goddamn kill box?"

She flinches at that, jaw tightening. "He’s all I have left."

"You have me. Besides he's just another loose end to the Reaper, and we know what he does with loose ends," I growl, crowding her space, forcing her to look up. "You have this team. This life. You don’t walk into a death sentence to chase ghosts."

She doesn’t back down. I doubt she ever will. "Then get me there first. Before they expect us. Before the rest of the team rolls up like a full tactical response."

"Rush isn’t going to authorize that."

"Rush doesn’t need to know." Her smile is all teeth. All fire. All damn trouble. "I'm going with you. We’ll take the Harley, cut through the back roads, and hit Cinder Gap before they expect us. Rush can lead the team in once we’ve breached the perimeter."

I slam my hand against the wall, the force sending a sharp crack through the air as the wood splinters beneath my palm. She doesn’t so much as flinch, her eyes fixed on mine like twin firestorms refusing to yield.

I want to throw something. I want to lock her up. Chain her down. Not because I don’t trust her—but because I do . Because I know exactly what she’s capable of. And I can’t lose her.

Rush walks in then, Gage at his heels. His eyes move between us like he already knows.

"We roll in ten," Rush says. "It’s Cinder Gap. Remnants are moving through the basin. We’ll hit resistance. Might take longer than we want to get there."

"Then I’m going with Deacon," Sutton says before I can open my mouth, her voice hard and unflinching. "We’ll take the Harley—cut through the back roads. Get there before they expect us."

Rush doesn’t even blink. Just nods once, but his jaw flexes, a silent sign that he knows this is a goddamn gamble—and he's weighing lives against time. "Get in and out. If shit turns south, we fall hard and fast."

My mouth drops open.

Rush holds my gaze. "She’s his daughter. She makes the call."

Sutton’s already moving. "Suit up, Ranger."

I glare at Rush as she strides outside. He lifts a brow. "You gonna stop her? Tie her up? Chain her to the bed? I can tell you from experience they get cranky when you do that kind of thing."

He walks out.

I leave the ranch house just in time to see Dalton tossing Sutton a Kevlar jacket. She catches it mid-air, already pulling her hair back into a braid.

Sutton meets my eyes, fierce and steady as she throws a leg over the Harley's seat behind me.

I glance back at her. "You follow my lead. No deviations. No hero shit."

Her fingers tighten on my sides. "Copy that, Ranger. Let's ride."

I twist the throttle, the engine roaring to life beneath us, and we tear off down the back roads toward Cinder Gap, two shadows chasing blood and vengeance through the desert dawn.

Cinder Gap isn’t on any map worth reading—just a whisper of a place choked by dust and decay, where even the wind forgets to blow and silence presses against your skin like a warning.

A dried-out shell of a town clinging to the base of a mountain, half-swallowed by desert and memory.

We roll in ahead of the team, the Harley’s tires kicking up a storm of red grit as we skid to a stop in front of the desiccated main street.

The air tastes like copper and dried blood.

There are no birds. No bugs. Just silence.

"Follow my lead," I say to Sutton as I dismount. She nods, eyes sharp, movements fluid.

Rifle in hand, I step into the street. My boots slam into the brittle earth, the sound sharp and unrelenting.

I move first. She’s on my six, close enough I feel her presence like a second heartbeat.

We slip between skeletal buildings, shadows carved in the dust. The Reaper’s stink is here—cold, clinical violence that sours the wind like rot.

Then we hear it.

Gunfire. From the church at the far end of town.

I break into a run, boots slamming the cracked earth, adrenaline roaring through my veins.

Sutton is right behind me, her breath sharp in the silence, her presence a steady drumbeat against the chaos.

Each step pounds toward the echo of gunfire, toward blood and vengeance.

We move like predators through a dying town, two streaks of motion cutting through the dust-choked air, the church looming ahead like a final battleground.

The scene explodes the second we breach the church doors.

Sutton peels off from my side, diving toward the front where Frank lies crumpled, bleeding.

I stay tight on her, covering her six as she throws herself to the floor beside him.

Behind us, Dalton angles in from the opposite side aisle, firing at a man ducking behind the altar.

The Reaper.

I zero in on him, but he’s already moving—fast and lethal, a shadow slipping through the chaos. His arm snaps up, gun raised. His eyes lock on mine for a heartbeat—and then pivot. He pivots. Aims. Straight at Sutton, who's still kneeling beside her father, exposed and vulnerable.

I fire. The crack of the shot splits the air as the recoil slams into my shoulder. The bullet tears into his upper arm, spinning him half around with the force, a spray of blood arcing in the dim light. He staggers, but doesn’t fall—still upright, still armed, still a threat.

"Sutton, move!"

She doesn’t move—because Frank’s groaning beneath her, blood soaking through his shirt as he struggles to lift his head. His breath rasps, wet and ragged, and he tries to push himself up with shaking arms, fingers clawing for purchase against the cracked floorboards.

"I’m okay, kid," he gasps.

A lie. I feel it before I see it—an instinctive shudder deep in my gut, as if the earth itself tilts. The air grows thick, oppressive. Every sound blurs into silence, the world funneled to a pinpoint of blinding light and dread that claws at my chest.

The red dot appears on Sutton’s chest, then slides sideways—slow, deliberate—until it settles over Frank.

"No!"

The shot cracks. Blood sprays.

Frank jerks violently, a strangled noise ripping from his throat as his body collapses into hers.

Sutton screams—a sound of pure anguish—and wraps her arms around him, cradling his weight like her own body could become a shield.

His blood is hot and sticky, soaking into her clothes, pooling between them.

Each breath he takes sounds more like a gurgle, a gruesome wet rattle that echoes too loudly in the vast silence.

He's slipping through her fingers—bleeding out too fast, too much, too soon.

I drop beside them, knees cracking against the blood-slick boards, my hands instantly pressing down on the gaping wound in Frank’s abdomen.

The heat of his blood seeps between my fingers, sticky and fast-flowing.

Sutton’s sobbing, frantic, her hands trembling as she yanks at her jacket, trying to tear it open to use as a bandage.

Her breath comes in gasps, choked and desperate, eyes wide with shock.

Frank’s hand lashes out with sudden strength, clamping around her wrist. His grip is weak but determined, a final tether to keep her grounded.

"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I couldn’t keep her safe."

"No," Sutton gasps. "You’re not going anywhere."

His eyes are going glassy. "You’re so much stronger than I ever was." He looks up at me. "You take care of her."

"Don’t. Please. Don’t leave me."

His hand goes slack.

Sutton's scream tears loose like a banshee's wail—unearthly, piercing, savage.

It rips through the church with a violence that seems to bend the air itself, reverberating off the old stone and timber like the wrath of something ancient and primal.

Her grief is a living force, rolling off her in jagged waves that crash into the silence and shatter it completely.

The air around us turns heavy, suffocating, as if even the walls are recoiling in shock and sorrow.

"Sutton—" I reach for her.

But she’s not listening. She pushes me away. Crawls over his chest. Her mouth hovers over his neck. Her hands tremble as they hover near his throat, hesitation crackling through her like electricity before instinct takes over.

I realize what she’s about to do one second too late. "Sutton, no!"

Her teeth sink in, sharp and decisive, puncturing the fragile skin at the base of Frank’s throat—just to the right of the hollow.

A shudder rolls through the church like it’s been struck from the inside.

Power arcs from her body like a live wire snapping loose.

Light flashes—gold and silver streaks igniting along the floorboards.

The air grows thick, pulsing, trembling.

A burst of energy explodes outward, raw and electric, flaring in every direction. Thunder crashes. Lightning fractures across the rafters as if the heavens themselves crack open. The stained glass windows rattle in their frames, trembling in resonance with the bond forging between blood and soul.

Frank’s body jerks once, a convulsion more spirit than muscle, and then stills in her arms.

And Sutton, glowing faintly with the imprint of the wolf awakening inside her, lifts her head—eyes blazing, chest heaving—as something ancient and sacred seals itself into being.

Outside, the wind screams through Cinder Gap like it recognizes the birth of something unstoppable.