Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) (6 page)

I had no idea who I should be rooting for here, but if Taggart really
was
a U.S. Marshal, maybe we could get this whole mistaken identity thing cleared up faster than I'd hoped.

Parker said, "I need that bounty, Sean. You know I do."

Taggart shrugged. "That isn't my concern, is it? You either do as you're told or I shoot you. It's as simple as that."

I half expected Parker to yank his gun from his waistband and open fire, but he didn't. Instead he reluctantly pulled it free, dropped it on the nearby dresser and crossed to the bed.

"Now what?"

"What do you think?" Taggart pulled a set of cuffs out of his jacket pocket and tossed them to Parker. "Cuff yourself to the bed frame."

Parker glanced at me and I couldn't help offering him the glimmer of a smile, thinking,
now you'll know how it feels…

Looking defeated, he sat on the bed, leaned down and cuffed his left wrist to the bed frame.

"I don't suppose you'd consider a bribe," he said to Taggart. "You let me take her in, we can split the reward."

Taggart huffed. "Who says I'm taking her in?"

Then he pulled the trigger and shot Parker three times in the chest.

PART TWO

Out of the Frying Pan

Into the Fire

I screamed.

I don't think I've ever screamed so loud and so hard, but it didn't last long.
 

As Parker slammed to the floor, Taggart took a step forward, swung the pistol toward my face, and smacked me on the side of the head.

Pain rocketed through my brain and the world disappeared for what seemed like only the briefest of moments…

One…

     
Two…

          
Three…

                 
Four…

…and before I knew it, I felt movement beneath me:
 

The rumble of a car engine.

I opened my eyes, the pain now a dull throb in my right temple. I didn't know how much time had actually passed, and it took me a second or two to figure out where I was.
 

Judging by the grill that separated me from the front seat, I had somehow been teleported into the back of a police cruiser, my hands once again cuffed behind me, and Taggart the refrigerator—Taggart the deputy U.S. Marshal—Taggart the cold-blooded
killer—
was behind the wheel.

I had been terrified back on that bus when all the bullets started flying. Even more so when Parker and I were running from the men with guns. Yet I don't think I'd
really
known terror until that very moment—because jerk or not, Zachary Parker had not deserved to be shot like a rabid dog. And the fact that the guy who shot him now had complete control over me, did not lead me to believe I was in safe hands.
 

Who says I'm taking her in?

Every instinct told me that wherever we were headed, there was no judge waiting on the other end to hear my story, and I would never get a chance to prove that I was Kelsey freaking Coe, not Emily Finn aka Mia the hit girl Duncan.

I would've started screaming again, but my mouth was covered with something sticky and smelly that I assumed was duct tape, and it was hard enough just to breathe.
 

But I must have groaned, because Taggart turned and looked at me through the grill. "You'd best lay still and be quiet, cutie pie, or I'll come back there and hit you again."

I just stared at him, unable to hide my terror, and he was apparently in a talkative mood, because he kept going, as if we were grabbing coffee at the local Starbucks.

"You pissed off some very important people when you whacked Papanov. They sent their crew to whack you right back, but now cooler heads have prevailed and they've realized that before they kill you, maybe they should find out who hired you." He laughed. "Never overestimate the intelligence of your average mid-level Ukrainian mobster."

Mobster
?

The people chasing me worked for the
Ukrainian
mafia
?

Until now, I had been holding onto the thinnest, most fragile thread of hope that I might somehow survive this night. But that thread had been abruptly severed by two chilling words, and no amount of wishful thinking could mend it.

Nobody runs from the mafia. Ukrainian or otherwise. I'd read enough news stories to know that.

Once you're on their radar, you're bound to stay there.

What the hell had that bitch Emily gotten me into?

If the people who wanted her dead were powerful enough to give orders to a deputy U.S. Marshal, how far did that power reach?

"I've gotta say," Taggart went on, "I'm an admirer of your work. Papanov was a slimy bastard who should've been wasted years ago, and I don't think I'm in the minority with that opinion."
 

He abruptly turned the wheel, taking a narrow road between two buildings.
 

"But I'm not high enough on the food chain for what I think to matter. I just do my job and bank the money they pay me." He turned to look back at me and smiled. "Kinda like you, right? Although I've gotta admit you don't look like the cold-hearted bitch I thought you'd be. I guess everyone turns human when they're staring death in the face."

So there it was.
 

No equivocation whatsoever.

I was going to die tonight. Just like Parker.

But if the men who hired Taggart wanted to know who had hired
me
—or rather Emily slash Mia—then there was a pretty good chance it would be a very painful death.

I'm not sure if I started whimpering right about that moment, but I certainly had a right to. If I did, Taggart didn't make an issue of it and finally decided to stop talking and concentrate on his driving.

We rolled past some old brick buildings that seemed to be located on a remote, unpopulated planet. After a while we turned, passing through a large, open doorway, the cruiser's headlights illuminating a cavernous warehouse that looked as if it hadn't been used in half a century.

I thought about Parker again and couldn't help feeling sick to my stomach.

Nobody deserved to die chained to a bed like that.

And I had a feeling I was about to suffer a fate much worse…

Taggart came to a stop in the middle of the warehouse, put the car in park and left the engine running. He checked his watch, then climbed out and opened my door and pulled me off the back seat, dropping me to the warehouse floor as if I were nothing more than a side of beef.

After changing his grip, he grunted and dragged me around to the front of the cruiser, placing me about three yards from the headlights, which were shining in my face.

He disappeared into the darkness and came back carrying an old metal chair with faded red vinyl upholstery. Without a word, he hoisted me up and sat me down, then went back to his cruiser and perched on the right front fender.

I had to squint to see him.

He checked his watch again, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. "We've got a few minutes before my employers show up. I don't think I need to tell you what kind of nasty things they're willing to do to get you to talk, so if you want to die quick, your best bet is to tell me who hired you to whack Papanov, right now, before they get here and start to work." He took a drag and exhaled. "You think you're up for that?"

I didn't particularly like the
die quick
part, but I didn't hesitate. I nodded vigorously.

"Smart choice," he said, then stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, slid off the fender and came over to me.

He tore away the duct tape and I gasped and sucked in precious air. "Please," I said. "You have to listen to me. I'm not who you think I am."

"Uh-oh, here we go."

"I mean it. It's true." How could I make him believe me? "My name is Kelsey Coe and I'm a student at Hunter City Universi—"

He slapped me across the face and didn't hold back. My already pounding head now had a stinging cheek to accompany it.

Jesus
, that hurt.

Tears filled my eyes as I did my best to shake off the pain and started to speak again, but two syllables in, he raised his hand, ready to hit me a second time.
 

"Stop," he said. "Just stop."

So I stopped. What choice did I have?

He took another drag, flicked the cigarette aside. "Maybe you didn't understand. The only thing I want coming out of your pretty little mouth is the name of the guy who hired you. Is that too much to ask?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't
know
his name. I'm not Mia Duncan."

Taggart sighed. "Did you give Parker this much trouble?"

The mention of Parker's name once again summoned up the image of those bullets hitting his chest. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize something pleasant—like a baseball bat connecting with the back of this creep's head.

"You can't wish this away, Duncan. Sooner or later you're gonna talk, and the longer you wait, the more you'll suffer."

I looked up at him. "Why did you shoot Parker?"

"Because he had it coming. Why do
you
care?"

"He was a defenseless human being."

Taggart chuckled. "You mean like Papanov? What did Parker do, flash those baby blues at you and tell you his sob story?"

"Sob story?"

Taggart shook his head. "Forget it. You don't know anything about him."

"I know he didn't work for the Ukrainian mafia. I know that much. What kind of cop are you, shooting an unarmed man and taking money from criminals?"

"First off, I'm not a cop. I'm a deputy U.S. Marshal. There's a difference, in case you didn't know. Second, Zach Parker was an opportunistic, holier-than-thou pretty boy who deserved every single one of those bullets, and if I hadn't been married to his sister once upon a time, I would've done it years ago."

"Sister? You're his
brother-in-law
?"

Unbelievable.

"
Ex
," Taggart said. "And she gave her last gasp a couple years after our divorce. So now she and Parker can reunite at the pearly gates and complain about what an insensitive prick I am."
 

No kidding.

I shook my head in disgust. "What makes you think you'll get away with it? Shooting him."

"Because nobody knows I was there. Except you."

"What about the desk clerk?"

Taggart grinned. "Poor guy felt so bad about shooting Parker, he put a bullet in his brain. Imagine that."

Something unpleasant rolled over in my stomach.
 

This creep was certifiable.

"But why am I even telling you this?" he asked. "If you think this boo-hoo Miss Innocence act is gonna change anything, I've got some very disappointing news for you."

"I told you, you're making a mistake. I'm not Mia Duncan."

"It isn't me you've gotta convince," he said, then checked his watch. "And your window of opportunity is just about up. You can't say I didn't try."

As if on cue, I heard the distant rumble of an engine.
 

A car approaching.

Taggart grinned again, then turned and strode toward the warehouse entrance. A pair of headlights washed over him and he waved to the approaching vehicle.

This was the moment when the dread I'd been feeling was supposed to spread and deepen, but to my surprise, I heard the faint sound of movement in the darkness behind me, then someone touched my wrists.

I flinched and nearly yelped, but a hand quickly covered my mouth as a voice whispered in my ear. "Stay quiet. He won't be distracted for long."

Parker.

It was Parker.

What the hell?

The word "surprised" is so inadequate.

I could dress it up with adverbs, but none of them would help.

I could try using "stunned" or "blown away," and while they're both pretty close, they
still
undersell what I felt at that moment.
 

After fully assessing everything that had led up to the sound of Parker's whispered warning, and his hot breath against my ear, and his hand across my mouth, I've come to the conclusion that no single word or phrase can describe the mix of emotions that plagued me during that handful of seconds. I'm a painter desperately searching her pallet for the right color—and it just doesn't seem to exist.

Zachary Parker—my former captor, a man I'd seen shot dead—three bullets to the chest, no less—was alive.

And while it was true that, except for one brief moment in that disgusting motel bathroom, he had treated me with the cold indifference his profession required, his sudden return from the dead left me relieved and grateful and scared and confused and yes… surprised. Stunned. Astonished. Flabbergasted. Multiplied by a hundred.

How was this even possible?

A big, black, familiar-looking SUV glided into the warehouse now, and I knew that at any moment Taggart would turn and find Parker crouched in semi-darkness behind me, working a key in the handcuffs. My heart once again pounded, thumping in my ears, and all I could think was
hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry
…

Then my hands were free and Parker was pulling me out of the chair, dragging me with him toward the rear of the warehouse. My shoes were still back at the motel and my feet were bare, and I felt every bit of grit beneath them as we moved as quickly and quietly as possible, heading past a stack of wooden crates into the bowels of the building.

Unfortunately, we weren't quiet enough, because seconds later, the shouting started—Taggart's voice booming in the nearly vacant space—accompanied by the loud slam of car doors and the frantic chatter of voices that I assumed were speaking Ukrainian.

I had no idea where we were going and didn't really care, as long as it was away from Taggart and his friends. I let Parker lead me into the mouth of an unlit corridor just as shots rang out and, once again, bullets began to fly.