Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) (3 page)

Then he spun me around, took hold of my wrists and unhooked one of the cuffs.

Had he finally come to his senses?

I experienced a fleeting moment of surprise and joy, but he quickly killed it by spinning me around again, pulling my hands in front of me and snapping the cuff back in place.

It was an improvement, but not much of one.

"Don't say I've never done you any favors," he told me, then placed a hand on my shoulder and sat me down on the nearest seat. "You try to run again, I'll put a bullet in that cute little ass."

And that, as they say, was the end of that.

So it was official.

For all intents and purposes, I was now Mia Duncan. Wanted fugitive, perp and slippery scofflaw who had a rap sheet as long as "Deputy" Zach Parker's aforementioned joystick.

(However long
that
might be.)

And no matter how much I argued, no matter how much I might protest this injustice, he wasn't about to believe a single word I said.

Which, I guess, was only fair. Because I sure as hell didn't believe he was a U.S. Marshal.

By now, however, I'd convinced myself that he wasn't a psychopath either. He was, pure and simple, a hired gun. A bounty hunter. And maybe if I really
were
Mia Duncan and had the wealth of her experience, I would have realized that right away.

But in my own defense, I'd barely had a chance to breathe since the shooting started and I've never claimed to be quick on the uptake.

Parker gestured for me to scoot over and sat down next to me, his gaze taking in the train car, alert and wary.

"So where'd you get the fake badge?" I asked him.

"It isn't fake. Not that it's any of your business."

"Then why did you tell me you aren't a cop?"

He looked at me. "You talk a lot, you know that?"

I shrugged. "Nervous habit. And getting shot at makes me nervous. So does being manhandled by a Neanderthal."

"Manhandled?"

"What else do you call it?"

"Saving your life."

Well, there was
that
, too. But I had a feeling his concern had more to do with protecting a paycheck then a fellow human being.

"You're a bounty hunter," I said.

He frowned. "I prefer the term fugitive recovery agent. I don't want anyone confusing me with that guy with a mullet on TV."

That wasn't likely to happen. "At least he goes after the right people."

Parker rolled his eyes again. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth. My name is Kelsey Coe. I'm a student at HCU, and I'm temping part-time at the Law Offices of Mercer, Klein, Anderson and Bremen. I can even give you my boss's cell phone number. He'll vouch for me."

"Well why didn't you tell me that in the first place? And here I've gone to all of this trouble for nothing."

I looked at him. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Better that than a stone cold killer."

It took me a moment to get his meaning. "Is that what you think I am? You actually believe I
killed
someone?
Me
?"

"Make that a lot of someones."

"So now I'm a serial killer?"

"More like a hit man. Or woman, in this case. Murder for hire." He sighed. "But you know all this. Quit trying to play me for a fool."

 
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You
are
a fool. And you've got the wrong person."

"Look," he said, "if you want me to call you Kelsey, then Kelsey it is. But that doesn't change the fact that you're wanted in three states and have a federal bounty on your head."

"You are so gonna be sorry when this is over. I work for attorneys. That means lawsuit. And they're very good at what they do."

"Trust me, you'll get more mileage from a defense attorney. And you'd better hire a good one."

We were talking in circles.

Have you ever gotten into a debate when you know the truth, that the facts are on your side, but you're dealing with someone who's either willfully ignorant or simply doesn't have the mental capacity to comprehend what you're saying? Or maybe they're so sure they're right that they simply can't hear you?

That was how I felt at that very moment.

So I had a choice. I could keep arguing with him, keep insisting that I was who I was (and still am, the last time I looked), or I could simply ride this thing out and wait until I had a chance to actually
prove
it. Sooner or later the police would find the contents of my bag scattered all over that bus and someone was bound to wonder what had happened to Kelsey Coe and start asking questions.

In the meantime, I doubted a judge was about to shut me down the way Parker had. I might spend a night sitting in a jail cell—not something I was thrilled about—but in the end I'd be set free. And that was when I'd give my new boss a call and ask him to prep a lawsuit.

I didn't care about money. I'd file it simply to make a point. One that Zachary Parker wasn't likely to get until that paycheck had been ripped from his manly man hands.

"You're toast, you know. You'll be lucky if you can get a job hunting squirrels after this debacle."

"I like squirrels," he said. "They don't chatter all the time."

"You're insufferable."

He gave me an imaginary tip of the hat and smiled. "I aim to please..."

"Damn," Parker said. "These people are organized."

We were slowing to a stop, and he was looking through the train car windows at the platform ahead. I followed his gaze and saw two shady-looking guys watching the train approach. It wasn't the same two who had followed us from the SUV—that would've been impossible—but they could easily have been kissing cousins.

Parker got to his feet and gestured for me to stand up.

Panic rose in my chest. "Where are we going?"

"To the last car in the chain. The minute this train stops, one of them will board and start looking for us."

"What the hell do they want?"

"I already told you. You. In a box."

"But
why
?"

"Maybe you killed the wrong guy."

The transit cop had long disappeared, so Parker took hold of my arm and pushed me back down the aisle toward the vestibule door. Moving with my hands in front of me was much, much easier, and we made quick progress going from car to car to car until we came to the last one in the chain.

The train was easing to a complete stop, and Parker gestured. "The minute those doors open, I want you to move." He pointed to the platform. "You see that column? That's our cover."

"And what if there're more than two of them?"

"Then it might get bloody."

I gulped down something sour and waited for the doors. What was merely a matter of seconds seemed to stretch out forever, my heart thumping, my breathing shaky and shallow. I had been frightened on the bus, and again when the men in the SUV had started shooting at us, but I was more scared than ever now.

Then a voice on a loudspeaker announced the station and the doors did their thing. The moment they slid open, Parker grabbed me by the arm and we bolted, heading straight to a square column less than two yards away. If one of the men on the platform turned in our direction, we'd be in trouble, but a moment later we were hidden behind the column, protected from their hostile gazes.

I could barely breathe. Parker seemed to sense my distress and put a hand on my back. "Easy. We'll be just fine."

I kept my voice low. "Do you think they saw us?"

"There's only one way to find out."

He started to peek around the column, looking in their direction.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, panic again rising in my chest.

"You want me to just close my eyes and use my psychic powers?" He gestured toward a set of steps to our left that led down to the street. "Get ready to run again."

"What? Can't we just stay here?"

He gave me a look, then returned to his task and carefully peeked around the corner. I don't know what he saw, but a second later he whispered, "Go! Go!" and we took off, running as quickly as we could, taking the steps two at a time until we reached the floor below. Then Parker grabbed my arm again, pushed through the glass doors out into the street, and raised a hand, signaling to the row of taxi cabs that lined the curb.

One of the cabs pulled out and came around to greet us and we jumped in back.

"What now?" I said, as the cab lurched into motion.

"I think it's best we stay off the streets for the rest of the night."

"Rest of the night? I thought you were taking me to some kind of judge?"

"How many judges do you think are still awake after midnight?" He tapped on the glass behind the driver. "Take us to the Starkwater Motel on Westlake."

"Yes, sir."

I balked. "You're taking me to a
motel
?"

"I'd rather go straight to the airport, but if these guys are as good as I think they are, they'll be watching for us. We'll probably be better off driving first thing in the morning. Assuming my rental hasn't been towed."

I was once again overcome by disbelief. This was getting crazier and crazier by the moment. "What are you talking about? Where are you taking me?"

"Where do you think?" he said. "Straight back to Houston."

The Starkwater Motel was a dump. The kind of place that, decades ago, rented its rooms for eight dollars a night and had been going downhill ever since. A hovel you'd expect to be frequented by prostitutes and pimps and drug dealers and apparently guys like Zachary Parker.

"You have
got
to be kidding me," I said as the cab dropped us off at the entrance.

"I've stayed here before. It's not as bad as it looks."

"Really? Define bad."

"We'll be fine," he said. "And the chances of our gun happy friends finding us here are pretty much nonexistent."

"Hooray," I murmured, although I had to admit the idea of not being shot at had its appeal. I was also bone tired. And as much I would have loved to be in my own bed, in my own apartment, I knew that was impossible at this point. So if this place at least had decent beds, I was all too happy to utilize one.

But as we pushed our way inside the office, I was still reeling over the thought that Parker was planning to take me to Houston. I'd had it in my mind that he'd escort me to some kind of holding cell, then I'd see a judge in the morning and get this whole crazy thing cleared up.

But Houston?

I mean...
Houston?

Houston was at least two hundred fifty miles away. And if we drove there instead of flying, the trip would take the good part of a day.

And what would happen then? A hearing in court? A jail cell for the night? How long would this nightmare continue before it was over?

I considered making one last appeal to Parker in hopes that he'd believe that I really
was
just a lowly college student who had never hurt a soul, but I knew I'd be wasting my breath. He was as single-minded and stubborn as any male I'd ever met.

As he rang the bell on the front desk, I decided I didn't have anything to lose, and rattled off a ten digit number.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" he asked.

"My mother's phone number. She lives in Ft. Lauderdale and she's probably asleep, but I'm pretty sure she'd want to clear up any doubts you have about my identity. Her name is Angela. Angela Coe."

"Nice touch," he said. "So who's really on the other end of the line? Your handler? One of your employers?" He smiled. "I'll bet you've worked up a backstory and everything. Just in case."

Oh, there was a backstory all right. One that I preferred not to get into.

Truth was, I hadn't seen my mother in several months, and only called her when I absolutely had to. She and I had never really gotten along, and things between us grew worse after my father died. He had always been the buffer, and without him it was often all out war.

That didn't mean we didn't love each other, and my mother would surely vouch for me. But then she'd spend the next two hours lecturing me about not having a boyfriend and how she had never trusted Josh and how badly I had screwed up my life. It would've been
my
fault that I'd wound up in this situation. Something I had said or done that had surely lined up the Gods of Karma against me.

"Look," Parker said, and seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure. Maybe he was as exhausted as I was. "The sooner you accept that this as a done deal, the better off you'll be. And while I'll admit you don't look like much of a killer, I also know that looks can be deceiving. There isn't a single doubt in my mind about who you are, so nothing you say or do will convince me otherwise."

"You really are a jerk, you know that?"

He was about to respond when a door behind the counter opened and a bleary-eyed desk clerk stumbled out. He was middle-aged and gaunt and hadn't shaved or changed his shirt in at least a week. He looked only briefly at Parker, then gave me the once over—twice.

A tiny smile appeared on his lips and I had a feeling he was tucking my image into his private spank bank, although the chances of me fulfilling any fantasies he might have been conjuring up were about as likely as thermonuclear war breaking out before morning. And even if it did, he
still
wouldn't get lucky.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Parker nodded. "One room, two beds."

That raised an eyebrow. "Eighty-three bucks a night, plus tax."

Parker reached for his wallet. "Do we get mints on our pillows for that price?"

"No," the clerk said, now staring openly at my chest. "But I'll be happy to tuck this one in, if you like."

Parker flipped the wallet open and slammed his badge onto the counter, immediately drawing the clerk's gaze. "You want to adjust the attitude? Or do I have to adjust it for you?"

The clerk swallowed and his face went pale. "Uh, nossir, no. I didn't mean no disrespect."

"Of course you didn't. You'd be in very serious trouble if you had."

The clerk smiled weakly, then turned silently to his computer and started tapping at the keys.