I nodded and tucked it into the pocket of my new jeans. In addition to the burners, Parker's plastic bags had been full of clothes from a local thrift store—jeans, T-shirts, jackets, baseball caps, sunglasses and, for me, a worn pair of running shoes. The fit wasn't perfect, but it was close enough, and should Taggart and his friends happen along, they might be thrown off by the change of attire.
At least temporarily.
Of course, we had no reason to believe they'd find us before we left town. Not with Taggart's tracker lying at the bottom of the Dumpster. But Parker told me it was better to be safe than sorry, and I couldn't disagree.
That sentiment only carried so far, however. Before we left Cody's place, Parker had a change of heart and tried to convince me to stay and let him go after Emily alone.
But I refused—with a big hell no.
I wanted to be there when he slapped the cuffs on her.
I wanted to see the look on her face when she realized the world she had constructed to hide her crimes—and make me her fall guy—had come crashing down around her.
Was that foolish of me?
I don't think so, but I'll let you be the judge.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The drive from Hunter City to Houston is a long one, through small towns and seemingly endless stretches of empty landscape. We were nearly an hour into it and rolling toward a town called Cedardale, when the rental car's engine suddenly cut out and Parker swore under his breath.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I'll tell you when I know," he muttered as he wrestled with a steering wheel that had lost most of its power and pulled to the side of the highway.
A moment later he had the hood up and was poking around inside. I got out and stood next to him, and while I don't consider myself a clueless female, I might as well have been staring at the engine of a space shuttle.
"I can't tell what's what," I said.
Parker smiled. "I used to work on cars with my dad, but technology has ruined all that. These days, you need an advanced degree in engineering just to…" His eyes narrowed as he spotted something amiss. "Uh-oh."
"What? What's wrong?"
He leaned forward for a closer look. "The car's been rigged with a kill switch."
That didn't sound good. "What's a kill switch?"
"A mechanism that rental agencies install in case one of their cars gets stolen. They can cut power remotely and stop the thief in his tracks."
"And you think that's what happened?"
"The way it just went out on us? Yeah."
"But you rented it, right? Why would they think it's stolen?"
"No reason they should, unless I gave them a call and told them it was." Parker looked grim. "Or someone else did."
"Taggart," I said.
Parker nodded. "He's right—I am predictable. I came in by plane and he knew I'd have to use a rental to get you to Houston, so he called around until he found the right agency. But losing power isn't the worst of it."
"What do you mean?"
"The kill switches are also GPS trackers—only a lot more sophisticated than the one we found on you. Which means there's a pretty good chance he knows exactly where we…" Parker paused and looked toward the highway, scanning the horizon. His expression hardened and he swiveled his head back to me. "We need to get out of here. Now."
I turned and saw a couple of black dots in the distance, shimmering in the morning heat as they moved toward us along the highway, but there was no way to tell if they were a threat to us.
"You think that's them?"
Parker opened the passenger door, unlatched the glove box and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He pointed them toward the two black dots, watched for a moment, then lowered the glasses and tossed them onto the passenger seat.
"Run," he said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We ran. Harder and faster than ever before, heading for the nearest off ramp that took us straight to a massive truck stop. The only saving grace was that I was now wearing running shoes.
The Cedardale Truck Plaza looked like a shopping mall, with a post office and fast food franchises and a grocery store and repair garage and even a small chapel. The lot was the size of a half dozen football fields, jammed full of RVs, trucks with campers, and long haul freight trucks.
We ran past a multi-pump gas station and onto the lot, moving into a sea of sixteen wheelers parked in rows alongside the main building. We slowed as we approached, catching our breaths and checking over our shoulders to see if anyone was behind us on the ramp.
So far so good.
Maybe what we'd seen on the highway hadn't been Taggart and his friends after all. Maybe it was just a case of Parker being overly cautious.
But just as these thoughts exited my mind, a black SUV appeared at the top of the ramp and drove toward us. I felt Parker's hand on my shoulder and he jerked me sideways, pulling me into the space between two big rigs. Breathing hard, we watched as the SUV glided past, followed by Taggart's cruiser.
Something came loose inside me. The donut I'd eaten during the drive started wreaking havoc with my digestive system and I began to tremble involuntarily.
Sensing my distress, Parker got behind me and put his arms around me as we watched the two cars approach the main building.
"Easy," he said. "They can't even be sure we're here. For all they know, we've already caught a ride."
The SUV came to a stop and deposited two of the Ukrainians onto the blacktop, who then separated and headed in opposite directions. As the SUV started moving again, Taggart pulled his cruiser into a slot in front of the main building and got out, reaching for his shirt pocket as he approached a couple of truckers standing near the entrance.
He showed them what I assumed was a photograph of either me or Parker, got negative head shakes in response, then headed inside. Fortunately, no one had seen us yet, but the SUV was probably sweeping the area, and with two of the Ukrainians on foot, we needed to get moving. Quickly and quietly.
We heard a faint clanging sound and Parker pulled me backward, toward the rear of one of two trucks. Crouching down, he peered through the undercarriage of the big rig on our left and raised a hand, warning me to be quiet.
I crouched beside him and saw the legs of someone walking. I couldn't be sure, but my instincts told me it was one of the Ukrainians.
Taking hold of my elbow, Parker pulled me to my feet, urged me to follow him, and we weaved our way through the maze of trucks, all the while keeping our eyes out for the second Ukrainian, who could pop up anywhere.
After several minutes, we paused to catch our breath in front of one of the rigs, neither of us speaking, but knowing we had to find a way out of here. Fast.
Then a voice said, "Something I can help you folks find?"
We turned and saw an elderly but rugged looking guy approaching from the far end of the truck. He tugged off a pair of work gloves, revealing tattoos on his knuckles.
"We're waiting for a friend," I blurted out, unable to come up with a better explanation.
"Well, do it somewhere else. People here don't like strangers hovering around their rigs."
As the trucker reached up and opened his door, Parker glanced around and said, "Are you about to head out?"
"Yes, I am. What's it to you?"
"Just wondering if you're headed into Houston. Because, if you are, we sure could use a ride."
The trucker frowned. "I thought you were waiting for a friend?"
Parker nodded. "I'm hoping we found him."
TWENTY-NINE
At first I thought the old guy was going to tell us both to go to hell, but he must have seen the distress in my eyes.
"What kind of trouble you folks in?"
Parker nodded to me. "The kind that could get my friend Kelsey hurt, if we don't get out of here fast."
"Meaning what?"
I told him the truth. "The Ukrainian mob is after me, and they're here, right now, searching the grounds."
He started to smi
le, as if I'd just told him a mildly amusing joke. "The Ukrainian mob?"
"I know how it sounds, but it's a long story and I'll be happy to tell it to you if you'll get us out of here. That's all we ask."
The smile disappeared and he studied me, searching my eyes.
Then he said, "How old are you, Kelsey?"
"Almost twenty-five."
"And what's your boyfriend's name?"
"I'm Zach," Parker said, and held out a hand to shake. He kept peering over the trucker's shoulder as if expecting to see one of our pursuers appear.
The trucker shook the hand. "People call me Nash, which is short for Nashville—but that's a long story, too."
Parker nodded. "Are you gonna help us?"
Nash looked at me again. "You're lucky you remind me of my daughter when she was your age." He gestured to the open door. "Go ahead and climb on in."
THIRTY
Several hours later, Nash dropped us off outside a diner in Houston, the long ride allowing both Parker and me a chance to get more sleep.
While Parker had dozed in the passenger seat, Nash had suggested I crawl in back to his sleeper, which looked like a bunk in one of those old submarine movies my dad used to watch. It was a cramped but comfortable space with dogeared motorcycle magazines piled in a corner, and photographs taped to the walls.
Several of the photos showed Nash at a younger age, standing bare chested next to a sleek black Harley Davidson, tattoos covering his chest and arms. Some included friends and what I assumed was family—including his daughter—and it was clear to me that he was once a member of an outlaw biker gang. And still could have been, for all I knew. Which would've explained his willingness to help us without asking for any of the details I had promised him.
Or maybe he figured the less he knew, the better off he'd be.
I slept for a good three hours before the rig came to a stop and Parker's hand touched my shoulder, shaking me awake.
"Welcome to H-Town," he said.
We climbed out and thanked Nash and he warned us to watch our backs, then put the big truck in gear and pulled away. We went inside the diner, found a table, and ordered coffee and sandwiches, hoping to figure out our next move.
"We need to get you somewhere safe while this goes down," Parker said, after a sip of his coffee. "I've got an apartment in town, but Taggart knows about it, so—"
"I told you, I'm not going anywhere. That's why I'm here. We do this together."
He shook his head. "Just because you managed to dodge a few bullets doesn't make you super woman. It's too dangerous."
He had a point, but I've got a stubborn streak as long as Nash's semi trailer and hate being told no. And this was important to me. Emily had purposely set me up and, dangerous or not, I wanted an active part in bringing her down.
I've never claimed to be smart.
Or sane.
I said, "I'm no super woman, but I'm no wimp, either. Not after what I've been through."
"And I won't risk you getting hurt."
"So what am I supposed to do, sit here and drink coffee while you're out there having all the fun?"
"You can stay at my mom's place."
"What?"
"I'll call her and make up some excuse. She's spends most of her time at the hospital with Haley anyway, so I'm sure she'll be fine with it."
I leveled my gaze at him. "Zach, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?"
"Yeah."
"I know I owe you my life, and I'll be forever grateful, but I'm not your prisoner anymore. I'll make my own decisions."
"I'm starting to think Taggart did some real damage when he hit you."
"Make all the jokes you want, but I won't change my mind. You're not going to that condo without me."
Parker sighed and stared out the window and didn't speak for several seconds. Then he said, "Just so you know, I'm doing this under protest."
"You've made that abundantly clear."
He reached across the table and took my hand, and I won't lie—just the heat and strength of his fingers grasping mine summoned up images and feelings I wouldn't soon forget. And I knew in that moment that the sudden courage I was displaying had more to do with Parker than my desire to play amateur detective.
I didn't want to be away from him.
Not even for a second.
"I meant what I told you last night," he said. "And if you get hurt, I'll never forgive myself."
"How do you think I'll feel if I let you go there alone and something bad happens? We're in this together now."
Our gazes met and he smiled and shook his head. "I've been on a lot of first dates, but this has gotta be the craziest one yet."
PART FOUR
Love and Bullets
THIRTY-ONE
The high-rise that held Natalie Tevis's condo was located near Hermann Park in South Central Houston. It was one of those sleek glass towers that reeks of money and privilege and had me considering a change of majors.
Apparently a career as a duplicitous and deadly hit woman had its advantages.
Parker instructed the cab driver to drop us across the street, near the entrance to Buddy Boy's Lounge. The place looked about as reputable as it sounds and served as a sharp and depressing counterpoint to the high-rise that dwarfed it. The smell of stale urine and vomit rose from an adjacent alleyway, and the open front door revealed a dank, dark space that seemed more like some pervert's basement than a bar.
We looked toward the lobby of the high-rise, which had both a doorman and two security guards stationed inside.
"Looks like members only," Parker said. "This may be tough."
"How do we even know she's home?"
Parker took his new cell phone from his pocket and dialed. "There's one way to find out."
"Who are you calling?"
"The number your friend Cody gave me. Tevis's landline." He put the phone to his ear and I could hear the faint, filtered sound of the line ringing. After several rings with no answer, he hung up. "Either she's indisposed or she isn't home."
"Well, she has to show her face sooner or later—coming or going. We just wait her out."
Parker shook his head and gestured to a ramp at the side of the building. "Underground parking. If she's driving, we may miss her. And if she is home and leaves by car, we won't be able to follow on foot. I need to get inside."
"I?"
"If I go into that lobby and start flashing my badge, having you along won't do a whole lot to convince them I'm legit. As soon as I get in, I'll call you and let you in through the fire exit."
"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Stand here and pretend I'm a hooker?"
"I think you can do a little better than that." Parker gestured to the bar. "You could have a drink. Wait for my call."
"In there? I don't think so."
"It could take me awhile to get in. These security guards are paid to be protective of their tenants. They won't bend over just because I've got a badge."
"Fine," I sighed. "I'll wait inside."
He grinned. "Just order a beer and make sure it's in a bottle."
Then he turned and crossed the street.
THIRTY-TWO
Five minutes later, I was sitting at the counter near the bar's open door, nursing an IPA and wondering what had possessed me to step foot inside this place.
In a far corner, an overweight woman in a short blue dress, that accentuated every fold of fat and ripple of cellulite in her body, had draped herself over a man in a Megadeth T-shirt with enough grease in his hair to lube his ex-wife's motorcycle. She dunked her fingers in a martini glass, snatched up an olive and popped it in her mouth. Then she leaned forward and passed the olive to him with her tongue.
Yuck.
Far be it from me to judge, but the urge to hurl was once again upon me. Fortunately, I glanced outside and saw Parker crossing the street toward the bar.
He came through the doorway looking glum, and climbed onto the stool next
to mine. The barkeep—a grizzled old man whom I assumed was Buddy Boy—started over, but Parker waved him away.
"That was a total disaster."
"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"
"I showed them my badge and told them I was there as part of an investigation that involved one of Tevis's co-workers and they called up to see if she was available."
"Was she?"
"She didn't answer, but that's not the problem."
"I don't understand."
Parker sighed. "While the first guard was calling, the second one took a closer look at the badge and my creds and immediately got suspicious."
"Why? I thought they were real?"
"They are, but it turns out his brother is a deputy and happened to mention that the Service changed the design of their ID cards last year. The one I showed him is outdated and that raised a red flag. I made an excuse and got out of there, but I wouldn't be surprised if they're checking up on me."
"Wonderful," I said. "So what do we do now?"
"Nothing's changed. We need to get inside that apartment and be waiting for Tevis—give her a welcome home surprise."
I smirked. "At least you'll have it right this time. But how are we supposed to do that if we can't even get into the building?"
"Don't give up so easily. There's always you."
"Me? What am I supposed to do?"
"This whole disaster started when Tevis decided she needed a fall guy. I wouldn't be surprised if she ran her own facial scan, searching for potential lookalikes, and you turned out to be the ideal choice. Now all we have to do is beat her at her own game."
It took me a second to realize what he was suggesting. "You want me to pretend to be her?"
He smiled. "Think of it as poetic justice."
THIRTY-THREE
My insistence that I be included in this hunt was starting to feel like a bad idea.
Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Page 9
