Unknown.

By the end of the day, Jim wanted to beat anyone who said that word.

“Unknown” had been the conclusion of everything. Was the truck driver a solo actor? A terrorist? A psycho? Or had he merely fallen asleep at the wheel? The BMW Sweep Car’s driver and his right-seat fellow agent had busted up ribs and arms but had survived. There wasn’t enough of the truck driver left to identify. First, his head and torso had been shattered by the nose of the BMW ramming through the windshield, then a fire had broken out. The spilled gas from the broken BMW finally found an ignition spark as the First Lady’s helo lifted well clear and headed to JFK to meet the waiting Air Force jet.

The man who owned the truck had reported it stolen thirty-six hours earlier and had been found in a bar next door to his shipping business, enjoying a pint and a roast beef sandwich. He, for sure, hadn’t enjoyed the rest of his night. His original load of fifteen thousand pounds of exercise equipment for a new gym had still been aboard but was a complete write-off. Despite his apparent innocence, he and his company would be on a terror watchlist for a long time to come.

Another group of agents were scanning traffic cameras hoping for a clear shot of the driver’s face, but with little luck.

Other than battered metal, the Suburban had come through unscathed. He, Reese, and every other agent who’d been on the scene spent the entire night in the New York Secret Service office in Brooklyn going through every step of the thirty-seven seconds from the moment the truck had veered across FDR drive until the Sikorsky White Hawk had lifted its wheels off the pier.

When finally released, he and Reese had collapsed into a bed together, with Malcolm—the only one who’d slept that night—sprawled happily at their feet. Jim had held her close as she once more recounted each action, each motion, every nuance of what she’d done and felt.

“For just an instant, when everything broke loose, I saw my father. Saw his car right there in front of me. Except this time there was no helmet hiding his face. It was as if he was trying to say something, but I couldn’t hear it.”

She doodled a finger on his chest.

He’d seen it all unfolding.

The big truck swinging wide ever so briefly, as if gathering momentum for its slash across the lanes of the FDR. Or perhaps to get away from the rushing phalanx of the Motorcade’s sirens and lights. A moment of inattention, bouncing a tire off the low divider between directions of the FDR, then overcorrecting? There was no way to be sure.

Reese sliding free after banging off the wall and the Lead Car braking to take the hit.

Jim had known what Reese would do—had known what he’d have done in the circumstances—but didn’t get to see it. He’d had to trust in her abilities as he turned to search for, and clear, anything that might slow her down.

The guards manning the inner gates were listening intently to their radios, unaware that five tons of armored SUV would be racing down on them in mere seconds. Unwilling to clutter the command frequency, he raced from the main gate toward the team manning the gate out to the pier. A quick hand signal had Malcolm following in a tight heel position, but on his right side, away from Reese’s path.

He’d signaled and yelled for the agents to open the inner gate. They’d made it in time for Reese to race through.

He had ducked through himself moments before they slammed it shut and raised their weapons.

“Defend,” he’d shouted, though they already were, and raced after Reese.

He’d almost choked as she slid the Suburban sideways beneath the spinning rotors of the helicopter. It was one of the slickest moves he’d ever seen…until last night when he’d watched the video of her passage through the main gate at speed.

“My dad,” he told Reese as he held her in the dark until she finally wound down, “said that you’re a crappy driver until you’ve driven your first hundred thousand miles. I didn’t believe him, of course, until I had. Then I understood what he meant. I’d finally laid down enough miles to notice anything that wasn’t normal. I’ve logged over a million now, and there’s no way in hell I could do what you just did.”

He could feel her shrug.

Everyone had been as impressed as hell when they’d seen the video, judging each slide so perfectly in an unfamiliar vehicle. She’d probably shaved five, maybe ten seconds off what any other driver could have done. But each time someone had commented on it, she’d shrugged it off.

“I wasn’t the impressive one. It was the Lead Car driver who really did something, putting his life on the line without hesitation. All I did was drive.”

“All you did was drive? You had one job, he had another. Even the very best drivers say they couldn’t have done better; why aren’t you letting that in?”

Again the shrug.

Reese lay awake a long time after Jim fell asleep.

He’d let her replay every instant of the incident until she was sure she wouldn’t have done much different with a month’s practice and planning.

Some way to prevent the necessity for the Lead Car driver’s heroic act? None that she could think of.

Should she have worried about the truck in the other lane as they emerged from the tunnel? There was nothing to indicate that she should have.

Any race you finish alive is a good one. Any you complete with your car still running is a victory. How many times had Pop said that to her and her brother? But her brother had broken Pop’s first rule shortly after Pop had.

He’d taken to racing motorcycles at a young age, and died attempting to jump a small ditch during the Dakar Rally in Argentina. A negligent moment—just five days after Pop died—not enough lift or maybe a crumbling edge…and he’d been flung headfirst into a tree. At least the death had been instantaneous. Pop had stayed conscious long enough for the ambulance to arrive, but hadn’t even made it off the track.

By Pop’s standard, she’d had a victory. By any standard.

Jim’s final question rankled at her. So why couldn’t she let it in?