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Hopefully, so would his dad.
Without warning, Zane slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car zoomed to top speed and he wrenched the wheel in an abrupt left turn that rocketed them off the deserted highway and down a bumpy side road.
She grabbed the dash. “Zane? What the—”
“We picked up a tail in Portland,” he said as conversationally as if he’d invited her to lunch. He hit the brakes, then waited through a long series of scary beats before he threw the car into reverse and backed out just as fast as he’d entered, angling the Cooper across both lanes.
She twisted to peer across him, where his side of the vehicle now directly blocked the path of an oncoming car. “Are youinsane?”
He kept his fingers tight on the wheel, his eyes on the fast-approaching black sedan. “He’ll stop.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’ll speed straight ahead onto the side road again.” His fierce glance pierced her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
A horn blared, tires shrieked, rubber smoked on asphalt.
“Stay down.” Before the sedan had shuddered to a full stop, Zane leapt out of the Cooper, gun in hand.
Nerves jumping, she peeked over the edge of the convertible door and watched him stalk toward the other vehicle, big hands cradling his pistol pointed at the driver.
“FBI.” His smoky timbre was calm, and so silkily dangerous it made Jillian’s scalp prickle. “Keep your hands where I can see them and pull over to the shoulder. Nice and slow. Then shut off the engine.”
As the man complied, Zane inclined his head at Jillian. “Park the Cooper in front of him so you’re off the road. Then leave it running and get back into the passenger seat.”
She quickly did as he’d ordered.
“Step out,” Zane commanded the other driver. “Keep your hands up.”
A tall middle-aged man, dark hair cut short, lanky body dressed in a spendy tailored suit and gray silk tie emerged cautiously from the sedan, hands carefully apart. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“It’s Special Agent. Turn around and put your hands on the hood.” When he complied, Zane swept the guy’s feet farther apart, forcing all the man’s weight and balance forward onto his arms. Keeping the gun trained on him with one hand, Zane tugged his FBI ID from his pocket, held it under the guy’s nose.
“Special Agent Zane Wolfe,” the man recited. “I’ll remember that.”
“Please do,” Zane replied, still lethally calm. “Because if you cause Ms. Ramsay any grief, I’ll be the one raining hell down on you.”
“I have no idea what—”
“You don’t want to play that game with me, pal.” Zane slid his gun into his back waistband and did a quick, thorough pat-down.
When he tugged a pistol from a hidden shoulder holster beneath the man’s suit jacket, Jillian gasped.
Zane stuffed the confiscated weapon beside his own. “You have ID and a permit to carry concealed?”
“Yes. You don’t have probable cause to detain and search me.”
“I’ve watched you following us since we left the city, and you were driving erratically. It’s my sworn duty to ensure the public’s safety. I stopped you to determine if you’re driving impaired.”
“That’s a load of horseshit.”
“Where’s your ID and permit?”
“Wallet. Left inside jacket pocket.”
Zane extracted the man’s cell phone and wallet, flipped the wallet open. “Dwayne Polson, private investigator.” He scowled. “Who are you working for, Polson?”
“That’s privileged client information, which I have no obligation to disclose. So unless you’d like to formally charge me with a crime and arrest me, I’ll be on my way.”
