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…
FIFTEEN
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?
SIXTEEN
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.
These boys really loved their bullets.
And I hated them. With a passion.
Especially when they were ricocheting around me.
"Come on! Come on!" Parker shouted. No point in being quiet now.
He flew through the darkness as if he could see where we were headed, and maybe he could. He had, after all, somehow risen from the dead. Maybe he had super powers, too.
He jerked me forward and we turned a corner and I now saw light—glorious light—at the end of the corridor. And for a brief moment I wondered if Parker hadn't risen after all.
Maybe I was dead, too.
Maybe I had never really recovered from Taggart's blow, and this was merely some fevered death dream I was experiencing as I passed through to the afterlife.
But as we got closer, I realized that what I saw was merely an open doorway with another pair of headlights shining into it. We heard more shouting behind us and Parker tightened his grip on my wrist and picked up speed. We plunged together through the doorway into a loading area where an ancient pickup truck stood, its engine running, its high-beams pointed in our direction.
"Get in!" Parker shouted, and didn't have to say it a second time.
I don't think I've ever moved so fast. Within milliseconds I jerked open the passenger door and dove inside as the shouts grew louder and guns started popping. I heard the clang of bullets against metal as Parker jumped behind the wheel and punched the accelerator.
I didn't dare sit upright. Instead, I hung onto the seat cushion for dear life as we flew backwards, spun halfway around, then rocketed forward at a speed that seemed impossible for a truck this old. Parker worked the wheel like a Nascar driver on his last lap, and all I could think about was whether I preferred to die in a fiery crash or a hail of gunfire—and it was a definite toss-up.
I chanced a peek through the rear window and saw the loading area receding from view, Taggart and three men with guns in their hands running after us. I recognized them from the train station.
They fired a few more shots, but we were too far away now for it to make a difference. Then they finally gave up and stopped in their tracks, and one of them bent forward, trying to catch his breath.
I could barely breathe myself. My pounding heart seemed to be squeezing my lungs.
I finally turned, sat upright, then grabbed the seatbelt and strapped myself in.
Parker said, "That was a lot closer than I expected. Are you okay?"
I'm sure this question was just a way to fill the silence, because how could anyone in my position possibly be okay? Surely he already knew the answer.
I looked over at him, saw the holes that Taggart's bullets had punched in his shirt and said, "How the hell are you even alive?"
Parker thumped his chest with the palm of his hand. "Kevlar. Never leave home without it."
"You're kidding me. A bullet proof vest? Those things actually work?"
"Better than ever," he said, then reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his cell phone, which was a mangled hunk of plastic, metal and glass. "My phone pitched in, too. I'm just grateful I didn't take one to the head."
"I can't believe Taggart shot you like that. He's crazy."
"You think?"
"He killed that poor desk clerk."
Parker nodded. "Sean Taggart is a sociopath. No two ways about it. Only he's very good at hiding it from the people around him. I should know. I worked with him for nearly two years."
"And he was married to your sister."
Parker swiveled his head toward me. "He told you that?"
"He likes to talk almost as much as he likes to kill. How did you know where to find us?"
"He's as predictable as I am. He's used that warehouse a time or two and since it was close by, I figured that's where he'd take you. He thought I was dead, so why not stick with what's familiar? I knew he wasn't in this alone."
I nodded. "That's twice now."
"Twice what?"
"That you've saved my life."
He shrugged. "It's probably closer to three or four, but who's counting? I need that bounty."
"I told you, I'm not—"
"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah—just be happy I didn't put the cuffs back on you." He checked his rearview mirror. "And if you think this is the last we've seen of Sean Taggart and his buddies in the SUV, think again. They'll keep looking for us."
"So what do we do?"
"The first order of business is to ditch this truck."
"Where did you get it?"
"It was parked near the motel office. I think it may have belonged to the desk clerk. But we can't go back there. We'll have to dump it somewhere else and head out on foot."
"And then what?"
"Same as before. Find a place to hole up until morning."
"Another motel from hell?"
Parker shook his head. "They'll be checking all the motels. We'll have to camp out in an alleyway or something."
"An alleyway?"
"Don't worry, I'll find you a couple cardboard boxes to sleep on."
"I see getting shot hasn't made you any less of a jerk. I hope you realize that while you're wasting all this time on me, the real Mia Duncan is out there somewhere, getting away with murder."
"Jesus, do you ever give up?"
"No, because it's the truth. And you must be starting to believe me. You just don't want to admit it."
He frowned. "Believe you?"
"You said it yourself—I'm lucky you haven't cuffed me. So why haven't you? Taggart took your gun and I'm within neck snapping distance. Why doesn't that make you nervous?"
He jerked his gaze in my direction. "Don't get any ideas, because you will regret it."
"The reason you haven't is because some small part of you is figuring it out. You've spent enough time with me now to know that I'm not a killer. It's not part of my DNA. I'm not like Taggart and those men he's working for. The closest I've ever come to a gun before this is bad movie night at the campus student center."
"Like I said, tell it to the judge."
"I'm telling it to you. And if you think hauling me into a courthouse is gonna get you that reward, I hope you don't need the money too badly, because you're about to be disappointed."
He was looking at me again and I saw the doubt in his eyes.
"Emily Finn set me up," I said. "She made friends with me, borrowed my car and deliberately left it near the crime scene, all because we look like sisters. She must'
ve known she'd have the Ukrainian mafia after her, and I'm her escape clause."
"Look," he said. "The tip I got led me straight to you, not some fantasy figure named Emily Finn."
"And who gave you that tip?"
"A detective at the Houston PD."
"Man or woman?"
"A woman. I worked a case with her a couple years back."
"And did she give you this tip in person or on the phone?"
"The phone," he said.
"So how can you be sure it was even her? Especially after two years? What if it was Mia Duncan pretending to be her? And what if she didn't call just you, but Taggart and the FBI and everyone else who might be looking for her? Don't you get it? I'm a diversion. A delaying tactic."
"Oh, come on, that's pretty farfetched. And even if what you're saying is true, and the real Duncan is out there somewhere, what difference does it make? Except for that surveillance photo, nobody even knows what she looks like."
"Nobody?"
"She's a phantom. Uses intermediaries to arrange all her hits."
"I think you're forgetting something," I said.
"Yeah? And what's that?"
"I know what she looks like. And so will you, if we can find a computer."
SEVENTEEN
"This would be a lot easier," I said, "if one of us had a phone."
Parker shot me a look. "You registered that complaint five minutes ago."
We were on foot now, having left the truck parked three blocks over in front of an auto body shop. We were close to Hunter City University and headed in that direction.
"Yeah, well, if you hadn't been in such a hurry to get me off that bus, I'd still have my purse and—"
"You registered that one, too," Parker said. "Have you ever heard of a little concept called move on?"
"You don't have to be nasty about it."
"This is your idea, remember? I'm still not convinced you aren't gonna try to kill me the first time I turn my back on you."
I rolled my eyes. Talk about moving on.
Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Page 5