It wouldn't be too hard to point them to Emily and prove that I wasn't the person they were looking for. At least I didn't think it would be. Surely there had to be a record of her somewhere. She had enrolled in classes at HCU, so admin would undoubtedly be able to corroborate her existence.
Or would they?
I thought back to the night I'd met Emily. I had been going to Zumba for a couple weeks and she was a late starter, showing up in the middle of a session. I had only noticed her because I was situated close to the door when she came scurrying in.
Later, we struck up a conversation outside, and I honestly can't tell you who approached whom first. Considering the outcome of that meet, I now suspected it was Emily who came to me. She had targeted me from the start because of our physical similarities. Had been planning to use me all along. For all I knew, she could have been stalking me for weeks. Surely someone from the class would remember her, wouldn't they?
I honestly didn't know.
But I've always been the type who believed in being proactive. I could lay here in this impossible position and let my arms go numb while waiting for my bed partner to get his beauty sleep. Or I could take matters into my own hands—no pun intended—and find proof that Emily Finn was the woman they were actually looking for.
Of course, I had no idea how to go about doing that, but now wasn't the time to quibble over details. I needed to get myself free and flee this poor excuse for a motel room.
The rest would come later.
Looking down at the cuffs again, I wondered if I was kidding myself. Did I really think I could fit my hand through that less than generous opening?
It didn't hurt to try.
Well, technically, it probably would, but you know what I mean.
Squeezing all my fingers together, I formed a kind of cone with the hand and began twisting and pulling. The cuff bit into my wrist, the pain much more intense than I had anticipated, but I gritted my teeth and kept pulling.
For reasons known only to my future therapist, I started thinking about my ex-boyfriend Josh. I remembered a time when he had begged me to let him handcuff me. He had gone to some sleazy sex shop downtown and bought a pair of those pink fuzzy cuffs that are all the rage with pseudo-sadomasochists. The two of us were buck naked on the rug in the living room of the apartment we shared when he produced them from out of nowhere and asked me to put them on.
I can't tell you how ridiculous he looked kneeling there, those pink fuzzies dangling from a fingertip, an odd, pleading look on his face that was far less attractive than he had intended it to be. I suppose I could have gone along with the game—I'm not exactly a prude in bed (or on a rug, for that matter)—but the idea of being anyone's sex slave, even for kicks, was not one I warmed to, despite the electric room heater blazing right next to us.
I sometimes think that my refusal to put those cuffs on was the beginning of the end for Josh and Kelsey. It wasn't enough that I was willing to let him do pretty much anything he wanted to me. And, believe me, I did what I wanted to him. But apparently that refusal was an act of betrayal to Josh. A sign that I didn't trust or love him.
And, who knows, maybe I didn't. Maybe I deserved his growing lack of interest in the weeks that followed. Or maybe he was just a spoiled brat who needed to throw a tantrum whenever he didn't get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.
I suppose I'll never know.
And at this point, I don't really care.
Anyway, back to business.
Despite considerable effort, I wasn't having any success with the cuff. Try as I might, I couldn't quite squeeze the hand through the limited space I'd been blessed with. And the pain was excruciating. I was pretty sure I was scraping off a couple layers of skin every time I pulled.
I was about to give up and accept my fate as "Deputy" Zach Parker's prisoner (would I have put those pink fuzzies on for him?), when the pain briefly intensified and something gave. I don't know if it was the cuff itself or the bones in my wrist that had finally yielded, but the space between metal and flesh suddenly felt wider than ever. I renewed my efforts with gusto, twisting and turning and wincing until I finally pulled my hand free.
Then the cuff dropped away and clanged against the bed frame.
Shit.
I felt Parker stir next to me and was sure he had awakened to put the brakes on my escape. He sighed and murmured something unintelligible, then rolled and flung an arm over my waist, pressing himself up against me.
Was he awake?
No, if he were, I doubted he'd be hugging me like a long lost lover.
I don't know what kind of dream he was having, but I could guess, because I felt a definite hardness pressing up against my butt—and I was pretty sure the gun he was carrying wasn't quite so big.
Hmmmm.
Again, there's something you need to remember.
I hadn't had sex in weeks.
So you'll have to forgive me if I was victim to SAS—Sudden Arousal Syndrome—knowing that my host himself was aroused, even if I wasn't technically the reason for it. But I couldn't allow myself to be distracted by something as trivial as Parker's dream woody. The good news was that the clanging cuff hadn't awakened him and I had a real shot of getting out of there without him knowing it.
Assuming, of course, I could get the beast off me without disturbing his sleep.
The simplest solution was to slide right off the bed. I was barely clinging to the edge of the mattress anyway, and gravity would do most of the work. And if he suddenly woke up, I'd lie and tell him I didn't like having his hands all over me and had decided to sleep on the floor.
Sucking in a breath, I scooted over slightly, teetered for a moment, then carefully slid off the edge and sank to the carpet.
And, boy, did it stink down there.
When was the last time anyone had cleaned this place? And how the hell did they manage to stay open with rooms like this? No self-respecting pimp, hooker or drug addict would've been caught dead here.
Or maybe they had, and that's what I was smelling.
Yuck.
Parker stirred, murmuring again, and I froze in place, trying not to gag, thinking how I'd probably have to toss these clothes the moment I could find replacements, because no amount of scented laundry crystals could salvage them now.
Not that it much mattered. The first order of business was getting out of this hole.
When Parker settled down again, I unthreaded the cuffs from the bed frame, then got on my hands and knees and started a slow crawl toward the door. The journey took only a few seconds, but felt like minutes thanks to my unwavering certainty that he would wake up at any moment and get a moonlit view of my fleeing backside.
Trying not think about what I must look like down here, I finally made it to the door and quietly got to my feet—which were bare, my shoes laying somewhere in the darkness behind me.
Shit.
Why hadn't I thought to grab them? They were my favorites—an unbelievably comfortable pair of Chelsea ballet flats that had cost me nearly two hundred dollars. I'd had to use birthday money from my Aunt Maggie to pay for them, but money was money. Leaving them behind was a small price to pay for freedom, I supposed, but there were the practicalities to think about, too. The last time I'd run around outside barefoot I couldn't have been more than six years old.
Between the shoes and the smell of my clothes, this was quickly becoming a very costly case of mistaken identity.
Oh, well. What could I do?
Get the hell out of here, that's what.
Grabbing hold of the door knob, I reached up, worked oh-so-quietly to swing back the security latch (ha, right!), then turned the knob and hoped the hinges wouldn't squeak or groan the moment I started to—
"Going somewhere?"
I froze in place as a light went on behind me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Turn around," he said.
"You're pointing a gun at me, aren't you?"
"You'd bett
er believe it."
"And you really would shoot me, wouldn't you?"
"Is it gonna come to that?"
I released the knob, put my hands up, cuffs dangling, and turned toward him.
Parker was sitting on the edge of the bed, groggy but awake, his gun in hand, pointed in my direction.
"No," I said. "It's not gonna come to that."
"I'm glad we have an understanding." He gestured with the gun. "Now come back over here slowly. Any sudden moves, I won't have any choice but to react."
I walked over to him, slowly. When I was standing in front of him, he said, "Let me see your hands."
I assumed he wanted to cuff me again. I held them out to him and saw that my right hand was not only red and raw, but I had indeed scraped off some of the skin.
Ouch.
He said, "You go to that much trouble, you must be pretty desperate to get away. Doesn't strike me as the actions of an innocent woman."
"Right," I told him. "Because innocent women enjoy being manhandled by men with guns. You treat your girlfriend like this, too?"
He ignored the question, got to his feet and took hold of my arm, pulling me through a doorway into the tiny bathroom. After tucking the gun into his waistband, he took a key from his pocket, removed the cuff from my left wrist, then unwrapped a miniature bar of soap and held it out to me.
"Better give it a good wash. God knows what kind of infection you could pick up in a place like this."
"Why do you care?"
"I don't want you claiming you were mistreated."
I scoffed. "Let's see, I've been shoved around, shot at and had you and your little deputy pressed up against my backside while you were dreaming about God knows what. I think we passed that threshold a while ago."
He looked at me. "My little deputy?"
"That would be the part you'd focus on."
He turned on the faucet. "Just wash your wrist, okay? Me and my deputy would like to get back to sleep."
"Must've been a good dream," I muttered, then took the soap from him, lathered it up and ran it over the badly chafed skin.
It stung like hell.
When I was done, he grabbed a towel from the rack over the toilet, took hold of my wrist and gently padded it dry. Call me crazy, but there was a tenderness to the task that seemed out of character for the guy, as if he'd suddenly been possessed by a different soul—a loving father, or a big brother.
Or an attentive lover.
This feeling lasted only a few milliseconds, but I sensed it as surely as I'd sensed his impatience with me since the moment we met.
Maybe he wasn't as much of a brute as he pretended to be.
Or maybe this was just wishful thinking. I've always been prone to looking for the best in people—which some might call a flaw.
Whatever the case, the moment passed and he was all business. "All right, back to bed."
"Please don't tell me you're gonna cuff me again."
He took hold of my arm and guided me out of the bathroom. "We'll try your ankle this time. Maybe that'll keep you in one—
There was a sudden loud crash as the door to the outside splintered and swung open and a man about the size of a refrigerator stood silhouetted against the moonlight, pointing a gun at us.
"Well now," he said with a smile. "Isn't this cozy."
THIRTEEN
Parker and I froze in place, my heart pounding.
Was this one of the men who had been chasing us?
The refrigerator took a step into the room. "It was awfully kind of you to get the package ready for delivery, Zach."
Say what?
He knew Parker?
He looked about thirty-five, wore jeans and a leather jacket, and he did seem to have the air of law enforcement about him.
I relaxed slightly—hoping this was a good sign—but he didn't lower the gun, and hearing him refer to me as "the package" didn't do a whole lot for my sense of well-being.
Parker said, "How did you find us, Taggart?"
"Easy. I started checking all the local dumps and wound up here. You're good but you're predictable, and the desk clerk was all too happy to tell me what room you're in."
"I knew I should've kicked that guy's ass."
"What you should've done was stay home and let the professionals handle this." He looked at me, then back at Parker again. "Not that I can blame you. She's quite a burger."
Still trying to get my heartbeat under control, I turned to Parker. "Who is this guy?"
"Shut up," they both said.
Ooookay.
Taggart gestured to Parker's waistband. "Put your weapon on the dresser and go sit on the bed."
But Parker didn't move. "I'm not gonna let you do this, Sean. She's mine."
"The hell she is."
"I mean it. I did all the work, it's only right that I collect the reward."
I suppose it should have been flattering to be fought over, but when I dreamt of such things, this wasn't exactly how the scenario had played out.
"I'm afraid you're shit out of luck," Taggart said. "As of this moment she's under the control and care of the U.S. Marshal's Service."
I looked at him. "So you're a real cop?"
"Shut up," they both said a second time.
But I couldn't help myself. If this guy was the real thing instead of a wannabe like Parker, then maybe he'd be a little more open to listening to the truth.
I took a step forward. "You don't understand. There's been a terrible mistake. I'm not the person you're looking—"
"Shut up!" they both growled a third time.
It would have been comical if tensions hadn't been so high. These two obviously had a history and, lucky me, I was caught in the middle of it.
"I won't tell you again, Zach. Put your weapon on the dresser and go sit on the bed."
I saw a flicker of movement in Parker's eyes and thought for a moment he might try something stupid. It was obvious that whatever their history might have been, it wasn't a pleasant one, but I hoped it wouldn't turn this night into something uglier than it already was.
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
FOURTEEN
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.
Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Page 4
