Lisa Phillips - Murder Mix-Up

She caught sight of their assailant then. Dark blue jacket. Ball cap. Caucasian. Forties, maybe. She couldn’t get a good enough look at his face.

“Drop the gun!”

He swung it toward her.

Portia fired, then dived. Forced to hit the ground as the shooter did the same. She heard his muffled cry of pained alarm, then footsteps cracking branches and shifting leaves. She’d hit him.

“Portia!” Declan raced toward her while the shooter got away. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Go get him!” Nothing bruised but her ego, she stood and brushed leaves from her behind while she ran after him.

An engine fired up, and what sounded like a diesel truck roared away.

“He got away.”

Like she couldn’t see that for herself? “I don’t suppose you managed to see a license plate?”

Declan shook his head. “Tan truck. Chevy.”

“Older model, diesel.”

His eyebrows lifted.

Portia shrugged one shoulder and headed for her car. “It chugged a little before the engine turned over. Could just be cold, but more likely he has a clogged fuel filter.”

Silence. “He was holding his shoulder. I think you hit him.”

She nodded. Listened to his footsteps bringing up the rear. Shame this wasn’t a leisurely hike through the park. Not that she did anything in a leisurely way, but she enjoyed recreation. So long as no one pestered her with comments or questions, she could get along quite nicely with whoever accompanied her.

And yes, she realized that at thirty-four she likely shouldn’t be quite this set in her ways. But she was who she was: the daughter of a marine gunnery sergeant and single father who not only taught her how to shoot but also taught her everything he knew about cars. Tears were unacceptable, unless they were angry tears—in which case she’d been sent to the garage to work out her frustration on the heavy bag.

She was also the youngest female senior field agent NCIS had. Declan might be a hotshot Secret Service agent, but she’d fought every day to garner the respect she’d earned along with her seniority.

She stared him down over her shoulder. “You’ll need to come in to the office and give a statement.”

“I can do that.” His footsteps sped up until he walked alongside her. “Why do you seem super calm, and not like you just got in a gunfight?”

She put her weapon away. Was it just adrenaline, or was this man the most cooperative witness ever? “The shooter got away.”

Declan shook his head. “That was fast. Like, seconds and it was over.” He blew out a breath. “Things don’t happen that quickly at the White House. We see it coming, and we respond in the applicable way. Then we do hours of paperwork while the person is processed and interviewed, then sent to jail.”

“In that case, about the only similarity between our jobs is the paperwork.” She shot him a look, and he smiled.

“Why does that not surprise me?” He paused. “Are we going to inform the sheriff of what just happened?”

“We are on his turf. But until I know that wasn’t related to my case, there’s no need. It’s my investigation.” And that guy had stuck around purely for the chance to shoot at a second person. Declan. “Not at me.”

“What was that?”

“He wasn’t shooting at me.” Portia slowed beside his rental car and said, “He wasn’t even interested in me until I called him out. That man wanted you dead.”

“You think he’s the one who shot my...your victim.”

“Could be he thought that was your brother and he killed him. He might have it in for both of you.” And why would that be? “Anyone you know who might want to hurt the two of you?”

Declan swallowed.

Portia waited.

“I’d like to hold off on story time until I know it’s necessary for me to tell you.”

She folded her arms. “It’s necessary.”

He didn’t back down. “Still. I’d like to maintain my privacy until I know it’s related to your case.”

Sure, throw her words back at her. Portia said, “That won’t fly for long.”

“Just until I know for sure.”

An uncooperative witness was the last thing she needed. Portia turned to her car, then said over her shoulder, “I expect you at the office, giving your statement on the shooting that just occurred, as well as your description of the truck. Soon as you get there.”

She’d get the rest of the story out of him then. As well as have her people dig into Declan Stringer’s background to find out everything there was to know.

“I’ll check into a hotel and come straight over.”

“Fair enough.” She could accept the fact he wasn’t a man to be pushed around, even if it made her life a little harder that he wasn’t...malleable. Portia was way too type A to respect a man she could manipulate. “I’ll see you there.”

She had to walk away. It was that or stare into those dark eyes some more...and probably forget she had work to get on with. Attraction was one thing—she just had to get done what she needed to in spite of it—but a relationship was a whole different animal. One she wasn’t ever going to go near again, considering the last one had been a disaster.

Her dad had never gotten over her mom leaving the way she had. One day there, the next, stuff gone. Suitcase gone. Car gone. They’d never seen her again.

Probably Portia hadn’t ever gotten over it either. She figured that was true even if she had no intention of ever discussing it with a professional. Too much work to do to see the shrink. And as excuses went, it was the best she’d ever come up with. Get up, go to work. What free time she had, Portia tested her limits rock climbing, bouldering. Strength was more than just physical, it was also mental. And she could see it in Declan Stringer.

Too bad there was intentionally no room left in her life for a relationship—even if she was looking for one. Which she was not. It was just easier that way.

Portia turned up the talk radio station loud enough for it to drown out her whirling thoughts and gripped the steering wheel as she drove. Watching for that tan truck all the way back to Seattle.

Declan was wrong. The gunfight had affected her. It was just that it took longer than a couple of minutes. She shifted in the seat. Process the fear, set it aside. Not something she was about to do in front of anyone. She wasn’t without weaknesses; she just didn’t acknowledge them. Just like her father had taught her.

It was almost six in the evening by the time she got back to the office, but everyone was there. Portia set her weapon in the top drawer of her desk and said “Who wants to go first?”

Lenny, Anna and Chris just looked at each other. No one spoke.

“One of you must have something to explain how our dead man has his picture on a marine’s ID.”

Anna winced, then motioned to the director’s office with a nod of her head. Portia glanced over and saw her boss, Director Elenor Golden, shake Declan’s hand.

* * *

Portia was mad. Declan could tell as much as he trailed after the director. Portia glanced between her boss and Declan, shooting him a look he couldn’t confuse. Yes, he’d gone straight over her head to speak with her boss. But he had a good reason.

He really wanted to know how the dead guy had been found with his brother’s ID—and why the man had been killed.

He needed to know if there was a threat to his family.

After all these years?

The idea had niggled at him for the first hour of drive time before he’d made a few phone calls. Now he wanted to know badly enough to have used his not inconsiderable pull to get on this case. Not working it. Just close enough that he could observe.

What else was he going to do with his vacation?