Stolen Secrets. Sherri Shackelford

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      As they approached the SUV, the driver’s door swung open. An agent whose name escaped Jordan’s memory unfolded from his seat.

      “Agent Harris, we met once before.” The man opened the rear door. “I’m Luke Westover.”

      Jordan mentally snapped his fingers. Westover had the sort of Midwestern captain-of-the-football-team good looks that guaranteed a “swipe right” on the dating apps. They’d met during a briefing in Pakistan the previous year.

      The agent leaned toward Lucy and handed her an ice pack. “From the EMT.”

      “Thank you,” she replied with a shy smile.

      Jordan cast a sharp glance at her, but she appeared oblivious to the agent’s appeal. Not that it was any of his business. Lucy could admire whomever she pleased. Jordan was protective of her, that was all. As a friend. While Westover was a good agent, he also had all the sensitivity of a toddler in a ball pit. She deserved better, that was all.

      “Let’s get out of here before the press descends,” said a familiar voice from behind him.

      Howard Karp slipped into the passenger seat, leaving Jordan to take the spot next to Lucy.

      Karp was in his late fifties with graying hair and the kind of trustworthy face that sold reverse mortgages on late-night TV. He had five identical suits in his closet, one for each day of the week.

      He stared at them over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his bulbous nose, then stuck out his hand and introduced himself to Lucy. “Apologies in advance. We need to get ahead of this thing quickly.” His gaze dipped to her leg and the ice pack she was pressing against her ankle. “Consider yourself in protective custody.”

      Lucy swallowed. “Okay.”

      “We’ll keep your name out of the press. The next few days are going to be busy. Is there anyone you need to call? Parents? Friends?”

      “Uh, no. Not if it’s only a few days. But I need to call my work.”

      “I’ll take care of that. We’ll send an agent by your house to pick up a few things.”

      “No.” Lucy vigorously shook her head. “I need to go myself.”

      “Not a good idea,” Jordan said. “We can’t risk exposure. Someone followed you this morning. There’s a chance they’re watching your house.”

      “I need to go home,” Lucy said with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “They had a chance to kill me today and they didn’t. They can’t afford to. They need something from me.”

      Jordan exchanged a glance with Karp.

      She was smart—he couldn’t fault her for that. “Okay. We’ll separate into two vehicles, and only one of us will accompany you inside.”

      “I got this one,” Westover announced from the front seat. “I’ll take her.”

      “No.” A fierce possessiveness gripped Jordan. “This one is mine.”

      He clenched his back teeth together. A stand-up guy didn’t let himself have feelings for his friend’s girl. There were unwritten rules. Jordan was alive because one of the hotel’s stone pillars had deflected the worst of the shrapnel. He was here with Lucy when Brandt should have been. Lucy needed a friend and a protector. This was about loyalty, not about his personal feelings.

      “We’ll swing by your house, then.” Karp adjusted his glasses. “Can I get a look at the messages you received following the shooting?”

      Lucy handed her phone over the seat.

      “It’s from a burner account, I’m guessing.” Karp stared at the screen. “But we’ll check it out anyway. Local police are pulling all the surveillance footage from nearby businesses. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll widen the net and canvass for doorbell cameras.”

      “Even if you find something, it’s going to be useless,” Jordan said. “This guy was icy. Seven shots, fifteen seconds apart. All aimed above sight line.”

      “A warning?”

      “An order,” Jordan replied grimly, recalling the information he’d gathered. “We need to learn everything we can about the person who tried to access the information from Lucy’s employer, Consolidated Unlimited. I’ll contact her supervisor and see what they were after. I’ll also pull the security footage. Sounds like someone tried to impersonate her.”

      Lucy stifled a yawn.

      She caught his gaze and her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m exhausted all of a sudden.”

      “It’s the shock,” Jordan said. “If you can, close your eyes. It helps.”

      “That seems impolite, somehow.” Her eyelids drooped and she rubbed her cheeks. “It’s like the adrenaline wore off and took all my energy with it.”

      “It’s a common feeling.” Jordan gave a rueful laugh. “You were shot at this morning—you don’t have to worry about being rude.”

      There was no way to predict how the brain might react to stress. People generally responded to shock in one of two ways—either they became jumpy and hyper, or exhausted and drained.

      Lucy covered her mouth, her nostrils flaring as she stifled another yawn. “I used to get carsick as a kid. The medicine my parents gave me knocked me out. It’s like I’m conditioned to fall asleep when I’m in the back seat.”

      The ice pack forgotten, she turned slightly, curled her uninjured leg beneath her and rested her cheek against the back of the seat. Jordan shifted. He was too cramped to get comfortable. Westover had jammed the driver’s seat as far back as the vehicle allowed, crowding Jordan’s knees.

      Road construction had narrowed the highway to one lane, and a mile of headlights extended into the distance. Jordan angled his body to buy himself some leg room and stretched his arm across the seat.

      Slowed to a crawl, Westover made annoyed noises and slapped his palm against the steering wheel. Karp kept his attention focused on a sheaf of papers in his lap. The minutes stretched out in silence and the hum of the engine was strangely soothing after what they’d been through that morning.

      Soon Lucy’s breathing grew deep and even. Jordan wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, she was nestled into the crook of his arm. Conscious of his audience, he stiffened, but there was nowhere to go. Instead, he forced himself not to notice the soft brush of her hair against his skin or the way her head nestled perfectly in the nape of his neck. He ignored the jolt of awareness when she splayed her hand against his chest.

      Karp swiveled in his seat. “Let her sleep. She’s still got a long day ahead of her.”

      Westover’s curious gaze appeared in the rearview mirror. “Anyone else think it’s odd that her fiancé was killed and now someone is taking potshots at her?”

      “Yeah.” Jordan’s gut twisted. “It’s worth a second look.”

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