back to his White House detail and she would probably never see him again. There was zero point in even considering anything more than a professional détente.
And yes, that was probably mostly about self-preservation. Not because of what he’d told her about his father. It would be unfair to consider him guilty for something that had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t anything he’d been able to change about his life—who his father was, and what he’d done. She’d seen enough pain on his face to know he’d come through it and found at least a measure of peace on the other side. He wasn’t harboring anger still. Not like his brother.
Portia changed lanes, pushing aside those thoughts. She wasn’t the one who would heal what was wrong with either of them. Their family was none of her business.
A tan truck edged up on her left. Portia glanced aside, then back at the road in front of her. Declan’s car was four in front of hers. She held her place in the middle lane while the truck pressed on. Until it was only red lights in front of her. No rear license plate that she’d seen.
She edged closer, shortening the gap between them so she could make sure. So she could be close if, or when, the shooter made a move.
Declan tapped his brakes. Had he seen the truck in his rearview? Maybe he’d even spotted it before she did.
Portia bit her lip and glanced at the center display. The truck driver hadn’t done anything yet, and maybe wouldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even the same truck. There wasn’t much for her to call in. She and Declan didn’t need backup.
Not yet.
Declan took the next street, even though his hotel was another five minutes down the highway. Drawing out the truck driver?
Sure enough the tan truck followed. Portia did the same, keeping her distance so they didn’t look like a convoy. That would be too obvious. As it was, Declan had slowed.
Portia’s phone rang, lighting up the dash display. She tapped the screen and the ringing in the car speakers switched to the low drone of tires on the road.
“Special Agent Finch.”
“It’s Declan.”
She lifted her eyebrows at his number on the screen. Before she could say anything else, he said, “Listen, I’m on my way to the hotel, like I said.” He paused. “But there’s a tan truck behind me.”
Apparently he felt the need to impress on her the fact he was doing what he’d told her he would this time. But instead of commenting on that, she said, “I’m behind the truck, on your six.”
He was a smart man with training. He’d get the military reference, meaning she was directly behind him.
Silence filled the line.
“You’re welcome.” She laced the words with all the frustration this man brought out in her. Why was that? She didn’t care about Declan Stringer enough for him to rub her the wrong way to this extent. Not after only knowing him for a few hours.
“Of course you are.” More silence. Then, “I guess you should brace yourself.”
“What—” She didn’t get to finish before Declan’s car brakes came on. He pulled up sharply, and the back end of his car swung out in a wide arc. When he was almost nose to nose with the truck, she saw the whites of Declan’s teeth flash in the truck’s headlights.
The man was crazy. He’d deliberately confronted the truck driver, not even knowing if it was the shooter. Declan could have just scared the life out of an innocent man who was only guilty of driving a tan-colored truck.
The truck driver hit the gas and pulled around Declan to speed off.
Declan’s voice came through the car speakers. “Go get him.”
Portia hung up. She was already doing what he ordered, even before his instruction. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acquiescing over the phone. Not after the stunt he’d just pulled. Besides, hanging up on someone was just so satisfying.
She drove after the truck, following reasonably close to see where he went. The person driving still hadn’t actually done anything illegal. The truck took a right turn onto a side street. Portia followed for two more turns before he pulled back into traffic on the highway about a mile closer to the hotel.
The phone rang, echoing through her car speakers. She turned the volume down.
Changed lanes, tried to spot the truck.
It was too far ahead.
Another mile, and she realized she’d lost him. Whoever he was, killer or not, he was gone now. She couldn’t call in local PD to assist when the driver hadn’t even done anything, and her own team was too far away at this time of night.
Portia slammed the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. She made a U-turn at the next intersection and drove back to where Declan had made that move, her phone ringing in the speakers the entire time. She ignored it.
When she pulled up behind his car he was standing in the open driver’s door, phone to his ear. He hung up and tossed the phone inside, onto the seat, then stalked toward her.
Why was he mad?
Portia swung out of the car and slammed the door with every ounce of frustration she felt.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
She moved right into his space, her bootheels bringing her to eye level with him and she thanked God for that bit of extra height. Normally she didn’t much appreciate that fact about herself. But she was grateful she could face him almost nose to nose right now. “Why did you do that stupid maneuver?”
“You mean bring the situation to a head, rather than lead him to the hotel where I’m staying?” His loud voice was laced with sarcasm.
Portia met him beat for beat. “I meant pushing it. Acting rashly.”
“You lost him, didn’t you?”
“Because you forced him to break off.”
“This isn’t my fault,” he said.
“Well it’s hardly mine.”
“Fine. Neither of us is at fault.”
She folded her arms and stared at him. Did he think that absolved him of the stupidity of that overly flashy maneuver? “Do they teach those stunts at Secret Service school?”
“You didn’t get that training?”
“Not the kind which involves stunt driving just to show off.” And she was done with this yelling match on the side of the road. “Did you get a license plate this time?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t see them. You?”
“No.” She wanted to make a frustrated noise, but then he’d know this case was getting to her. Why couldn’t anything in her life be easy? Why did it always feel like she was pushing a boulder uphill just to make it? God hadn’t promised her easy days,
