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.
SIX
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, "Le
t 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.
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.
SEVEN
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..."
EIGHT
"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."
NINE
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."
Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Page 2