Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) (15 page)

The second Ukrainian finally came back, nodding as he approached.
 

"She speaks truth about photograph," he said, and held up the printout of Emily and her wild-haired friend. "And I see list on wall."

Taggart reached out to take the photo from him. "Let me see that."

And that was all the distraction Parker needed.
 

He launched himself from the floor, kicked Taggart's legs out from under him as he went, and tackled the Ukrainian holding his pistol on me.

The second one dropped the photo and reached for his gun, but I lunged forward before he could pull it free and slammed him against the opposite wall.

I won't pretend that this did much. The guy was at least twice my size. But it put him off balance long enough for Parker to knock his friend out with a couple punches to the head and return his attention to Taggart, who was already climbing to his feet.

The only problem with my strategy—if you could call it that—was that it made the second Ukrainian really, really, really angry. He threw me off him with a shrug of the shoulders, then swung out hard, swatting me away.

I can't swear to it, but I think I may have been airborne for a moment before I landed in a heap on the floor, my head spinning, and saw the Ukrainian get his hand on the gun in his belt and finally pull it free.

But Parker was finished with Taggart and already turning, and even though his opponent was a good three inches taller and wider than him, Parker was fearless. He moved with a speed and agility I'd never before witnessed, proving that he was good with his hands in more ways than one.

I can't say that I enjoy violence, but there was something viscerally satisfying in seeing Parker outmaneuver this clod. In a quick motion, he disarmed the guy, then hit him smack in the face with his own gun. The thug howled in rage as blood poured from his broken nose.

Parker shouted for me to "Run!" and hit him again, then a third time, knocking him to his knees. He finished the guy off and turned to me, repeating his command as he motioned me toward the stairwell.

But as I scrambled to my feet, a shot rang out. Parker grunted and stumbled forward and I saw Taggart sitting up behind him, gun in hand.

Parker whirled and returned fire and Taggart dove around a corner as Parker urged me forward, "Go! Go! Go!"

 
I turned and ran and heard more shots and hoped that Parker wasn't too far behind me as I slammed through the stairwell door and started down. I was a flight below when the door above flew open again and Parker came barreling in, a patch of blood on the side of his neck.

"Don't slow down!" he shouted, as he clamped a hand to the wound. "I'm right behind you."

I did as I was told, and for the next couple minutes the only sound I heard was the echo of our footsteps on cement as we wound our way down to the first floor. Then we burst through the doorway, hit the street at a run, and Parker motioned me toward Taggart's cruiser parked at the curb.

The black SUV sat several feet behind it, and when the driver saw us coming, he threw his door open, got out and started firing. Parker let loose on him, returning fire with a single-mind ferocity that's impossible to describe, knocking the guy down with two shots to the middle of his chest.

He shouted for me to get in the cruiser, which was sitting there with its engine idling, just like it had back in the warehouse when Taggart first grabbed me. I didn't know if this was common practice with cops, but Parker seemed to have anticipated this gift and I wasn't going to question it.

We climbed inside and he put the car in gear. I was trying to catch my breath, when he suddenly swiveled his head in my direction and shouted, "Down!"

I ducked and glass shattered around me and I knew it must be Taggart, who seemed to be as much of an Energizer Bunny as Parker. Parker jammed his foot against the gas pedal and we took off with a squeal, burning up the road behind us.

I chanced a look over the seat and saw Taggart running to the SUV and knew this was far from over.

"What time is it?" Parker asked. He was holding his neck again. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"You're hurt," I said.

"I'm fine, it's just a graze. The time. Check the time."

I fumbled for my cell phone and told him.

"That gives us less than ten minutes to get there." He flipped a switch on the dash. "Hold on."

And as the siren came to life, I strapped myself in and watched the traffic in front of us part like the Red Sea.

We were a block from our destination when Parker cut the siren. We knew that Taggart was behind us, and hoped the speed of our travel had put some distance between us.

But we couldn't worry about that now. We had to stop Emily before someone else got hurt. Even if that someone was a depraved, ruthless creep.

Innocent until proven guilty
, I again told myself.
Innocent until proven guilty.

The newly built Raymond T. Atherton Child Protection Center was located in Carriage Square, a once thriving retail hub that had fallen on hard times during the recession. The square was an open air court, dotted with trees and park benches, surrounded on three sides by tall buildings.

The Atherton Center was housed in the building at the rear of the square, facing the street. As Parker pulled up and double parked, we saw that a crowd had gathered in front of the building, a mix of onlookers and local dignitaries—judging by the limos and Town Cars that lined the street.

Stretched across the front of the building's entrance was a fat pink and blue ribbon. Several of the dignitaries—Gregory Ivan among them—sat watching from a row of folding chairs set off to the left side. A children's choral group, ranging in ages from five to fifteen, were in the midst of singing a song that I'd heard before but couldn't place. An upbeat, happy tune that reminded me of my own childhood.

Parker and I got out and waded into the crowd, our gazes shifting skyward, toward the buildings on either side of the square. The one on the left was nothing more than a wall of brick with no openings, and could easily be ruled out as a possible sniper's perch.

The building on the right had a number of floor to ceiling windows that looked from the outside as if they couldn't be opened—and we ruled it out as well.

I turned and looked behind us, at the building across the street, facing the square, an open-air parking structure about seven stories high.

"That's gotta be it," Parker said. "If she's here, that's where she is."

The children's choir was finishing up the song, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the speeches began and Ivan would take his place at the podium in the center of the square, making him the perfect target.

I nodded to Parker and started back through the crowd, but he put a hand on my shoulder and stopped me before I reached the street.

"Too dangerous," he said. "I'm going in alone."

"Come on, Zach, we've been over this."

"I don't care. I won't risk you getting hurt."

"So what am I supposed to do? Stand here with my thumb up my butt?"

"You can warn Ivan."

My eyebrows went up. "I thought you said that was a waste of time."

"It probably is, but at least it's worth a try. Get to him before he steps up to that podium. Tell him you think his life is in danger. Then clear out of there as quickly as you can."

"I don't like this," I said and gestured to his neck. "Look at you, you're still bleeding. You're not operating at a hundred percent."

"I told you I'm fine. Now get to Ivan before he gets to that podium."

Without another word, he kissed me—lingering for only a moment—then sprinted across the street and disappeared into the parking structure. I looked up toward the floors above, saw a few cars driving the ramps, but nothing out of the ordinary. Emily could have been hiding anywhere up there.

The children had finished their song and everyone was applauding. I turned, looking past the crowd toward the folding chairs as one of the dignitaries got to his feet and made his way to the podium.

Gregory Ivan sat watching him with a smile, his hands in his lap, clutching some index cards. Sucking in a breath, I was about to start toward him when I felt another hand on my shoulder—this one considerably less gentle than Parker's.

Before I could react, I was forcefully spun around and found myself face to face with Taggart. I made a noise in my throat and tried to back away, but he released my shoulder, grabbed me by the back of the neck, and spun me around again, shoving his gun into my side as he pushed me toward the street.

"Make a scene and I'll put a hole in your kidney."

"You've got this all wrong," I said. "We have to warn Ivan."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe because he's one of the men you work for?"

Taggart snorted. "You don't know what you
think
you know."

"Which part?" I asked. "That Ivan is Brotherhood or that you're working for them?"

"Both." He nudged me toward the street. "Now keep moving."

"I don't understand," I said.

"What a surprise."

"Ivan doesn't work for the Brotherhood?"

Taggart snorted again. "Gregory Ivan is one of the Brotherhood's worst enemies. He's spent his entire career trying to shut them down. And now that we've helped him do that, it's time to shut
him
down."

"
What?
"

He pushed me across the street toward the entrance to the parking structure. "Like I said, you don't know what you think you know. I don't work for the Brotherhood either, and you're just the whiny little bitch who got caught in the middle."

I tried to puzzle this out and then it hit me.

"You're working for Emily."

"Not for.
With
."

"Jesus Christ," I said. "You knew about me the whole time. And all that stuff you said when you had me in your car…"

He shrugged. "A little play-acting on my part. With all these bugs and trackers and such, you never know who might be listening and I like to cover my bases."

"You son of a bitch."

"That I am. And with the Brotherhood and their chief tormentor out of the way, we'll be in place to take over their territory."

"So all this is nothing more than a power play."

"That's right. And you're the decoy. Once Papanov was toast, we knew that what was left of the Brotherhood would be out for blood and my job was to make sure they went after you while Anastasia finished taking care of business. She capped off two more of their guys and now Ivan's the cherry on top."

"What about Parker? Why get him involved?"

"Because he's good at what he does, and I figured I'd let him do the bulk of the work for me, then take over from there. It's all about selling the story, hot stuff, and these Ukrainian idiots bought it all."

We had reached the parking structure and Taggart threw open the stairwell door.

"Now get inside and start climbing."

He nudged me with the gun and we hit the stairs and made our way to the seventh floor.
 

A sign on the door that led to the parking area read:
 

UNDER RENOVATION

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Taggart threw the door open and pushed me forward and my gut filled with dread. The tableau I saw before me was one that will forever be etched in my mind.

The place was littered with plastic sheeting, scaffolding and construction equipment. A cement truck sat in the middle of the aisle, a sleek gray Jaguar parked next to it, looking completely out of place.

Emily Finn—my former BFF—was perched on a short, cylindrical cement piling, dressed in black, a pistol in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. Mounted on the ledge in front of her was a sniper's rifle, pointed downward, toward Carriage Square.

But none of this held my attention. What caught my eye and forced a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, was the figure lying on the ground near the Jaguar, blood seeping out from the wound in his side.

It was Parker.

And he looked as if he was dying.

For real, this time.

I jerked away from Taggart and rushed to Parker. He was conscious, but he'd lost a lot of blood—
so
much blood—and his eyes were glazed and slowly losing their light.

I cradled him close, tears springing into my own eyes, and ran my hand over his head, smoothing back his hair.

I couldn't believe this was happening.

Emily took a drag off her cigarette, then blew smoke and said to Taggart, "Thanks for the warning. Who would've thought this fool would wind up giving us so much trouble?"

"I sure as hell didn't anticipate it."

She cocked a brow. "No, you didn't did you? So remind me again why I partnered up with you?"

"Don't start busting my balls, all right?" He gestured to the sniper's rifle. "Just do what you have to do and let's get the hell out of here."

"Do what I have to do," she said. "I've been sitting here thinking about just that. And you know what conclusion I've come to?"

"I wouldn't hazard a guess."

She smiled. "That you've served your function and I no longer need you."
 

She raised her pistol and fired. The silencer attached muffled the sound of the shot but it was still loud enough to make me flinch.

A small round hole opened up in Taggart's forehead and he flew backward, slammed against the cement wall, then slid to the ground, dead.

I watched this with utter disbelief, but didn't scream.
 

I didn't dare.
 

Parker squeezed my hand and I looked down at him. His mouth was moving, his eyes still showing life, shifting to the right, as if he was trying to direct my attention to something.

I followed his gaze and saw what he wanted me to see.

His pistol lay under the Jaguar, just beneath the driver's door.

Then Emily addressed me for the first time. "I have to say, Kels, it's very touching to see how much you seem to care for this jerk. And in record time, too."