I have a plan: Home. Bourbon. Silence.
All I need to do is get there.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of white snags my attention. I turn in time to catch sight of the Jeep, now sitting parked on a tree-lined street.
I don’t think about it again until I’m a quarter mile down and it pulls out onto the main road. The instincts responsible for my survival tingle, and even though I tell myself it’s my lizard brain, I can’t get my gut to buy it.
Overruling logic is the amygdala’s job, but once upon a time, I was in the FBI. With everything going on, I decide it’s best not to risk it on the off chance I am not, in fact, being paranoid.
I take a left off the main road.
I go two more blocks before the Jeep appears.
I turn right.
Lo and behold, the white vehicle pops up behind me.
It’s possible it’s a coincidence. This is a small town. There are only so many places you can go, but I’m not convinced.
For the next ten minutes, I drive around in a convoluted labyrinth of twists and turns that all end with the white Jeep in my rearview mirror.
Whoever is following me hasn’t been trained because they are absolute shit at it. I knock professional from the list of possible suspects.
A professional would attach an AirTag to my car and follow me from a distance, leaving me none the wiser. Getting tailed isn’t much of a concern in rural Illinois. That’s more a former-life type of thing.
I narrow my gaze on the mirror. The only thing they manage to do right is stay far enough back that I can’t make out the license plate, denying me the opportunity to call it in.
Numerous times, I’ve pulled over on a side street to see if they’ll pass me, but they never do. They just sit a few blocks back and wait.
Which is where I now sit as I weigh my options.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m tempted to drive to one of the two-lane, less-traveled country roads, then pull a U-turn to get behind them.
I discard that idea. I’m not particularly worried about danger, but there’s a chance I’m wrong. It’s against protocol, and I can’t forget that if any of the men or women working for me endangered their lives that way, I would tear them a new asshole. Ending up dead on the side of the road because of my own arrogant stupidity isn’t the way I want to go out. So even though all I want to do is deal with this quickly and get home, I sigh, pick up my cell, and call Ryder.
When he answers, I say, “For some unknown reason, I’m being tailed by an amateur in a white Jeep.”
There’s a beat of silence. “How do you know it’s an amateur?”
“Because no professional would be this horrible at it.”
“Where are you?”
I give him my location. “They’re sitting a couple blocks back.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Probably an overzealous reporter looking for intel.”
“Seems logical.”
“They won’t pass me and stayed far enough back I can’t get a plate.” I scrub my hand over my jaw. “I’ll share my location with you in case they go on the move, but I’m going to sit here. Do a drive-by, get a plate, but don’t engage until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“On it.” He hangs up.
I’ve been driving in varying circles, which puts Ryder about fifteen minutes away. I keep my eyes on the white Jeep. I’m almost positive it’s some journalist—probably right out of school, considering their ineptitude—but something about this is bothering me. The timing feels wrong.
Nothing interesting ever happens here. I’ve been the sheriff six years, and after the shit I’d seen in my old life, I can count the incidents that made me break a sweat on one hand. So, while my head insists this is nothing, my gut is sending me all sorts of warning signs.