Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) (2 page)

I could barely breathe. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

"Are you
hurt
?"

I was dazed and borderline hysterical, but no, I didn't notice any leaks—although I was surprised I hadn't peed my pants.

"I-I don't think so," I stammered. "Just my head." I couldn't believe this was happening. "What did those men want? Why were they shooting at you?"

"Me?" he said with a laugh. "Nice try, Duncan. That's about the funniest thing I've ever heard."

There was that
Duncan
nonsense again.

What was going on? Who the hell was Duncan?

But before I had a chance to ask him, he spun me around—only compounding my dizziness—then yanked my arms behind me and slapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists.

"By authority of the state of Texas, you're under arrest," he said, then pushed me toward the front of the bus.

I tried desperately to clear my head. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.
 

"
Arrest
? I'm under
arrest
?"

"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be. It's bad enough we almost got our asses shot off because of you."

I tried to pull away from him. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?"

He shoved me toward the door well. "Don't even try, all right? My task is to bring you in, so cut the crap and start cooperating."

"Bring me in?" I wished my head would stop spinning. "But I haven't
done
anything."

 
The guy sighed and kept pushing me toward the door well. "Just keep moving. Those boys in the SUV might decide to reload and come back, and I'd just as soon not be here when they show up. Or the cops, for that matter."

"I don't understand. Aren't
you
a cop?"

"Not likely," he said, as we reached the top of the steps. "And no more questions. I've read your profile and I know you're not stupid. So shut the hell up and get moving."

The bus driver was gaping at us, scared out of his wits, still nursing his wounded hand, one of his earbuds dangling. My captor gave me a nudge and I did as I was told, trying not to stumble down the steps and go sprawling across the blacktop. With my hands cuffed behind me, it wouldn't be much of a sprawl, and I was likely to eat pavement.

A few steps later, we were outside and looking at the bus, which had pretty much demolished a lamp post.

My new friend gestured. "My car's parked down the block, near the bus stop. I probably could've just tailed you, but I know how slippery you can be."

Okay—enough was enough.

I stopped in my tracks, wrenched my hands free from his grasp and spun on him. The world tilted slightly, but leveled off quickly. The back of my head throbbed, but I finally regained my balance.

"What's your name?" I said.

He frowned at me. "What?"

"If you're not a cop and I'm under arrest—which is completely ludicrous—I'd like to know who the hell is arresting me."

"Parker. Zach Parker. You happy? Now turn around and move."

"On what charge?"

He sighed again. "Do we really have to play this game?"

"On
what
charge?"

"Take your pick," he said, then spun me around and planted a hand between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward.

I stumbled down the street. "Who is it you think I am? Who is this Duncan person?"

"Oh, brother..."

"I'm serious. I don't know who you're supposed to be arresting, but it isn't me. You can check my driver's license. It's back on the bus. I'm a student for godsakes. My name is Kelsey—"

"Shut. Up."

But I didn't shut up. Instead, I started shouting. Calling out for help, hoping that someone in the surrounding office buildings would hear me. But who was I kidding? This part of Hunter City was a ghost town at night, and the people back on the bus were too dazed and confused to do anything to help. I kept it up anyway as Parker quietly muttered profanities and pushed me toward what looked like a shiny new rental car parked about half a block away.

As we got closer, sirens echoed in the distance. The police were responding. And in my mind I was searching for ways to stop this guy from dragging me into that car. Stall him just long enough for the cops to get here and straighten this whole mess out.

Or shoot the maniac dead.

But I couldn't come up with anything, so I kept shouting until I was nearly out of breath.

"If you don't shut the hell up," he said, "I'm gonna have to cold cock you. And for the record, I've never hit a girl in my life."

"Lucky me," I huffed.

"Doesn't mean I won't make an exception."

I spun on him again. "Look, I'm telling you I'm not this Duncan person. Why won't you believe me?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you want to keep playing this game, knock yourself out. But my job is not to care, okay? I pick you up at Point A and take you to Point B, then somebody hands me a nice fat check. So save your protests for the other end of line. Because I don't really give a flying—"

The roar of an engine cut him off as headlights illuminated us. We both turned and caught sight of the black SUV, barreling down the street in our direction.

Oh, shit.

Parker echoed this sentiment and swiveled his head, looking toward his car, which was still some distance away. He pulled his gun. "We'll never make it to my car before they reach us."

"Who?" I cried. "Who are these people? What do they want from me?"

"What do you think, genius? They want you dead."

Then they proved it by once again opening fire.

Bullets. More bullets. Gouging the blacktop at our feet.

So we did the only thing we could. The only thing that made any sense.

We ran.

And you know what? Stepping off that bus had been a cakewalk in comparison.

The real test, the
real
challenge, was running with my hands cuffed behind my back as Parker returned fire and nudged me forward, urging me to pick up the pace.

Try that for a few seconds and see how long you last.

"Train station," he shouted. "Head for the train station."

I hadn't realized the commuter depot was just a few yards away. I saw the sign and picked up speed, hoping I wouldn't trip over my own two feet and plant my face in the pavement before we reached it. And all along the way, some distant part of my brain was wondering why I hadn't thought to take the train instead of the bus. Maybe I could have avoided this impossible situation. Maybe I'd be halfway to my apartment by now, ever closer to my big empty bed.

But I doubted it would have mattered. This band of malcontents hadn't targeted me at random. And neither had Parker. They all really
did
think I was this Duncan person. And sooner or later they would've found me.

The question was
why
?

What had led them to believe I was anyone other than Kelsey Coe?

Because that's the name I was born with. That's the name printed on my birth certificate and my driver's license and my newly-minted passport. And that's the name people use when they want to get my attention.

Of course, our friends in the SUV weren't having much trouble doing just that, even though they thought I was someone else entirely.

"Hurry! Hurry!" Parker urged.

He had hold of my elbow now, and with an arm extended, he slammed open the glass doors into the depot and pulled me inside. Out on the street, the SUV screeched to a halt, then its doors flew open and two very unhappy men climbed out, tucking guns in their belts as they headed toward us.

Up ahead was a short set of stairs that led to the HCRT Incline, which, if you've never seen it, is simply a tram that takes you up a long ramp to the train platform.

We ran and jumped aboard just as the doors were about to close, unable to see our pursuers, but happy that they'd have to wait for the next tram to catch up to us. We were both out of breath, our chests heaving, the two other passengers onboard staring at us as if we were contaminated by something viral.

I looked at Parker and said, "You know, this would be a heckuva lot easier if you'd take these stupid cuffs off me."

"Now why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because
you've got the wrong person
?"

"Tell it to the judge," he said.

I probably could have slapped him with a nice juicy comeback, because according to every movie I've ever seen, that's what a girl's supposed to do in this type of situation. But all my best comebacks tend to pop into my head about ten minutes too late, and I was too scared and winded to think of anything clever.

Instead, I concentrated on the poor, world-weary businessman who was standing at the back of the tram, staring at my cuffs and Parker's gun like a child who had just witnessed a horrible car accident.

I said to him, "If you've got a cell phone, do me a favor and the call the police. Because this guy's certifiable."

Parker nudged me. "Shut up, Duncan."

"My name isn't Duncan."

"Oh? Then what do you prefer? Foster? Abernathy? Yates? You've used them all."

"I prefer Kelsey," I said. "Kelsey Coe. And I want you to remember that so you'll know what to call me when this all gets straightened out and your buddy the judge tells you to apologize."

"The only thing needs straightening out is you, hot stuff. You've got a rap sheet about as long as my joystick."

Ten minutes later, the words
must be an awfully short list
popped into my head, but it was much too late by then.

I told you I'm not very good with comebacks.

But back to the tram:

It came to a stop and the doors hissed open. Parker hustled me off before the other two passengers could even blink, then pushed me across the platform toward a waiting train. I'm not sure if he knew where it was headed—because
I
certainly didn't—but we once again barely beat the closing doors.

And across the platform, another door—this one marked STAIRS—crashed open and the two thugs from the SUV appeared, looking all hot and bothered after an arduous jog.

But much to my relief, they were too late. The train was already in motion. Parker played the smart-ass, giving them a cute little wave as they watched the train disappear down the tracks, the bigger one scowling at us, looking as if he was about to go postal.

Parker chuckled softly, his hand on my arm, his gaze on the thugs, as I was struck by a sudden need for spontaneity.

Wrenching away from him again, I bolted down the aisle toward the vestibule door.

Have I mentioned how those cuffs were a pain in the ass?

Well, nothing had changed and it took considerable effort to run, but I managed to reach the vestibule door (you know, the one that connects the train cars?) and slam against it hard enough to trigger whatever hydraulic mechanism controlled it.

It slid open with a
whoosh
and let me through as Parker shouted behind me. I didn't have to look to see if he was coming. That was a given. My only goal was to get through to the next car, and the next one after that and hopefully get lucky enough to bump into a transit cop making his rounds.

Not that I'm the luckiest person in the world. Lottery tickets hate me, and if I'm anxious to register for a ten-thirty class, I'll inevitably wind up with the one that starts at eight. But I was determined to
make
my luck by keeping up my pace and staying separated from Mr. Zachary Parker for as long as humanly possible.

And surprise, surprise,
it actually worked
.

Three cars later, I saw a stocky woman in a dark uniform with a gun and holster on her hip and the patch on her sleeve said
TRANSIT POLICE
. I ran up to her, breathlessly begging her to "Help me, help me, please. There's a guy trying to—"

"Hold it, Duncan!"

Parker stood behind us near the door I'd just run through. He shifted his gaze to the transit cop.
 
"Officer, don't listen to her, she's a wanted fugitive and she's in my custody."

But the cop, God bless her, wasn't that easy. She put one hand on the butt of her gun, the other on my shoulder and pushed me behind her protectively.

"And who might you be?" she said to Parker.

He reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a wallet. He let it fall open, revealing a set of credentials and shiny tin star. "Deputy U.S Marshal Zachary Parker. And she's my prisoner."

Say what?

"Hey!" I said. "He told me he
wasn't
a cop."

"And you told me you're not Mia Duncan, so I guess we're even." He gestured to the transit cop, who actually looked like a very sweet lady. "Now, if you're done with her, I'd like her back."

The transit cop gestured in return. "Let me have a closer look at those creds."

"No problem." Parker walked the down the aisle and tossed the wallet to her. She flipped it open, studied the card and the badge, then shrugged, grabbed hold of my arm, and started steering me toward him.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, although the answer was fairly obvious. But when you've been wronged, you can't just stand there a say nothing. "You
believe
this load of bull?"

 
"He's legit and you're the one with the cuffs," she said. "Last thing I'm gonna do is get in the middle of something federal." She looked at Parker, tossed his wallet back, then gave me a final push. "Perp's all yours, deputy."

Perp?
Perp?

Then it struck me. She had that telltale twinkle in her eye, the one that said her legs had gone all wobbly at the sight of Mr. Hunkadoo. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that people are ten times more likely to believe an attractive person over a runt—and I was the runt in the situation. Not to mention—as she'd so astutely pointed out— that I was wearing those stupid cuffs. They weren't exactly a sign of credibility.

To add insult to injury, she said to Parker, "Let me know if she causes you any more trouble."

He smiled. "Thank you, officer."

Shifting that disarming gaze to me, he grabbed hold of my forearm and pulled me toward him. And maybe I was imagining this, maybe
I
was the one who was crazy, but I thought I saw a touch of admiration in his eyes. As if my attempt to run had somehow raised his opinion of me rather than lowering it.