He said to the thug, "From that look you've got, I'm guessing our boy's still on the loose?"
The thug nodded. "They ditched the transmitter, so we're running blind. Griffin and Fitzgerald are up top the hill, searching for 'em."
I thought about that crevice and hoped it was hidden well enough. When I left, it had been invisible to my eye, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.
I looked at the road beyond the SUV and knew it must lead to civilization, and maybe a ranger station along the way. If Ethan and I hadn't been forced to take a detour we surely would have found it by now.
But as my father used to say, a miss is as good as a mile. And the thought that we had been this close to finally getting out of here only deepened my feelings of complete inadequacy. I knew I couldn't possibly have foreseen a dead pilot and a crashing airplane, but a part of me thought that if I was going to take a job, I should've been prepared for anything.
Parker was right. I hadn't had enough training. Not close to enough.
Making a mental note to sign up for a survival class should I actually manage to survive, I stayed low as the two men continued chatting, the exchange getting a little snarky. They were throwing insults now, typical stuff men say to each other instead of measuring their penises—which I won't go into here.
We've all heard it before.
After they'd exhausted the snide remarks, all three crossed through the clearing to the other side, where Ethan and I had originally been forced to detour.
When they were finally out of sight, I started moving again, traveling along the periphery of the clearing until I had circled around to that road home.
I didn't want to take the road itself, for fear of being spotted, so I used it as a guide and stuck to the trees, dodging limbs and fallen branches. I traveled a good half mile until I found what I'd been hoping to find, nestled in another clearing off to the right of the road.
A ranger station.
Halle-freaking-lujah.
TWELVE
It wasn't a full-sized station, but one those small, one room satellite shacks that are located in strategic areas throughout the forest. A park ranger's job is tough and often isolated, and supplies and communication gear—or a toilet, for that matter—might mean the difference between life and death or the requisite digging of holes.
A sign out front designated this as RANGER SUB-STATION NO. 5. Such places are usually unoccupied, but I saw a white Trailblazer parked out front with the words U.S. PARK RANGER stenciled on the side.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
Thank God.
Checking to make sure none of Swan's thugs were around, I emerged from the trees, crossed to the Trailblazer, then moved around it and up a short flight of steps to the shack's front door.
Before I reached it, it flew open and a middle-aged park ranger looked out, startling me. The name tag clipped to his chest read HAWTHORN.
"Can I help you with something, ma'am?"
He had an affable smile, but his hat was slightly askew and he looked a little guilty, as if I'd caught him in the middle of a nap or something. Taxpayer outrage can be a nasty, nasty thing.
I was still trying recover from the surprise, when he frowned. He'd gotten a better look at me now and realized that I'd either been in an accident or had just finished wrestling a grizzly. I had no idea how bad I looked, but after what I'd been through, I doubted I'd be making the cover of Elle anytime soon.
"My God," he said. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"A radio. I need a radio or a phone that works."
"No cell phones out here, but there's a radio inside and one in my cruiser." He gestured to the Trailblazer, then glanced warily at the gun holstered on my hip. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"I was on that plane that crashed. The pilot's dead, but I was with another man and—"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Is this some kind of joke?"
His expression was rife with skepticism and it made me angry. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
"I admit you're pretty banged up, but…"
Despite the holster and gun, I could see he still didn't quite buy it, so I gave him the bullet point version (no pun intended) of who I was and what Ethan and I had been through. And as my story progressed, his skepticism was replaced by pure astonishment. I'm sure the urgency of my tone didn't hurt.
"Christ on a cracker," he said. "That's one helluva ride you two went through."
"Which is why I need a radio.We have to get a rescue crew up there and pull my prisoner out of that cave before it's too late."
He pushed past me and started toward the Trailblazer, gesturing for me to follow. "Better yet, why don't you take me to him right now and we can get him out of there ourselves."
"I told you, there are some very dangerous men up there. They won't hesitate to shoot both of us."
"If they see my cruiser and this uniform, they're likely to get scarce, real fast."
"Not these guys."
He grinned. "That your professional opinion is it?"
The inappropriateness of that grin made me want to hit him with a large, heavy object. I already felt inadequate enough. I didn't need some superior creep making it worse.
"Trust me, all right? It's gonna take more than that uniform to scare these guys away, and one wounded man is already one too many."
Ranger Hawthorn's grin faded. "I think you're underestimating my abilities, little lady, but you may be right." He nodded toward the Trailblazer. "Now hop in the cruiser and I'll call it in. Everyone's out at the crash site, so we can head that way and meet up to strategize."
With Swan's men in the vicinity, that sounded like a plan to me.
We got into the Trailblazer and he reached into the pocket of his jeans but came up empty. "Dammit, I left my keys inside. Hold on."
I waited in the passenger seat as he headed back to the shack. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket to check the time—4 p.m.—and was surprised to find a couple of bars had lit up, indicating I had service—weak, but hopefully good enough. Contrary to what Hawthorn had told me, we were apparently in range of a tower, although a simple turn in my seat might change that. Cell phone signals are notoriously fickle beasts.
Thankful for small favors, I hit speed dial and called Parker. I didn't know how much information about the crash had been released, but he was bound to be in the middle of a full bore panic right now.
He answered on the first ring. "Kelsey?"
There was uncertainty in his voice and I knew he was wondering if I had been found, or just my cell phone.
I didn't leave him in suspense.
"Alive and kicking," I said.
"Oh, thank God. Thank God. You're all over the news. I hit the road from Dallas the minute I heard. Are you okay?"
"Banged up, but still in one piece. I can't say the same for my prisoner."
"Why? Is he dead?"
"At this point, I'm not sure. I hope not. But it's a long story I can't get into right now. Just tell me you're headed this way, because I need you."
"I made record time and I'm already in the woods," he said. "And don't worry, I spent half my childhood here, so just tell me where you are and I'll come straight to you."
"Right now I'm outside Sub-Station Five, but I'm with a ranger and we're about to head out to…" I paused. It suddenly felt as if I was talking to dead air. "Parker?"
No answer.
"Parker?"
I checked the phone and the signal was gone.
Shit.
I had no idea how much of my response he'd heard, but at least he knew I was alive. I moved the phone around, hoping the bars would come back, but had zero luck. Whatever miracle—or passing cloud—had given me service was apparently a fleeting one. A cruel one, too.
Heaving a sigh, I moved to stick the phone back in my pocket, but as I did, I felt a presence outside my window and turned my head.
The window was open and Ranger Hawthorn stood about two feet away fro
m me. His entire demeanor had changed—his gaze hard and cold and not even remotely affable. The guy he'd been just a few seconds ago no longer existed.
He pointed a gun at me. "I thought I told you there isn't any cell service out here. Now you've gone and made me a liar."
THIRTEEN
I suppose I should have been surprised by this sudden twist in our tale, but I wasn't. Not in the least.
The moment I saw Hawthorn standing there, something in my mind clicked and I realized that there had been things about him from the moment I'd met him that hadn't felt quite right.
First, there was his initial reaction when he greeted me on the porch. That flash of guilt. Then there was the slightly askew hat, the false bravado, and the completely inappropriate grin which had just about sent me over the edge.
Now I noticed his shirt was too tight in the shoulders, and the jeans he was wearing weren't regulation attire, so I had to assume the real Ranger Hawthorn was either dead or tied up inside that shack, wearing half a uniform, and now short a set of car keys.
Unfortunately this all clicked in a wee bit late, and the catalyst for this revelation was pointing at a spot somewhere in the middle of my forehead.
Still, the fact that it had kicked in at all, without me having to think too much about it, allowed me to avoid that moment of stunned hesitation that tends to trip you up when you need to act quickly and decisively.
Drawing from the well of my animal brain—the instinct for survival finally kicking in—I did what I knew Parker would do—
—I flung my door open, fast and hard.
It clipped Fake Ranger Hawthorn's hand, knocking the gun out of it, and now he was the startled one, stumbling back as I rocketed out of the Trailblazer and flung myself at him, using speed and desperation to throw him off balance.
His feet flew out from under him and he went down, landing on his butt. He had at least a hundred pounds and several inches on me—hell, I was tiny in comparison—but this "little lady" had surprised the crap out of him. And before he could fully comprehend what had just happened, I spun away, scooped up a stray tree branch and swung it at his head.
The impact was palpably audible—like a baseball bat hitting a cantaloupe—and he went down sideways and stopped moving.
Dead? I doubted it. But certainly down for the count.
This wasn't the first time in my life I'd reacted with sudden violence in the face of an impending threat, and I simultaneously felt proud of myself and just a little appalled.
Was this the real Kelsey Coe? Had my propensity for rage in tight situations been percolating inside me all along, or was I simply doing what anyone would do?
Then again, did I really care?
He was down and I was standing and, at this point, that was all that mattered. I figured he was lucky I hadn't used my Glock.
Feeling the sudden need to see if the real Ranger Hawthorn was alive, I found the stray gun, picked it up, then sprinted past the Trailblazer and up the steps and threw open the shack's front door.
The interior was about the size of a deluxe mobile home bedroom, with a desk taking up one wall, a cot sitting beneath the front window and a portable stove across from it. There was a two-way radio transmitter quietly squawking atop the desk, and off to the right was an open door leading to a tiny bathroom.
But none of this really drew my attention.
My gaze was on the center of the room.
Lying on the rustic wooden floor was a bare chested man with a visible dent in his head and blood seeping out from under it. His eyes were open and glassy and I knew he was as gone as Hap.
I let out a long breath and stood there, motionless, feeling sorry for a man I'd never met and didn't know. A man who was yet another innocent casualty in J.L. Swan's bid to silence a potential witness.
I so wanted to hurt that guy.
And Wilky, too—along with all those men who were searching for us.
But at the moment I had other things to worry about.
Trying not to look at those glassy eyes, I stepped around Ranger Hawthorn's body, went to the desk and turned the volume knob on the radio. I heard the chatter of what I assumed was the rescue team, working in and around the crash site. Much of what they said was indecipherable shorthand, but to my untrained ear it sounded as if some were still sifting through the wreckage while others scoured the woods nearby, searching for the two survivors.
It was time to let them know that at least one of those survivors was still alive. Hopefully both.
I thought about Ethan lying on the floor of that tiny cave, then glanced again at the body at my feet, and I hoped to God Ethan wouldn't wind up like Hawthorn.
Heaving another sigh, I scooped up the radio mic, flicked the button on the side and was about to speak—
—when the door burst open behind me and Fake Ranger Hawthorn staggered in, blood trickling down his face, another gun in his hand and pointed directly at yours truly.
"You fucking bitch!" he shouted and pulled the trigger.
FOURTEEN
A gun.
A freaking gun.
Why hadn't I thought to check for a spare?
I wasn't sure where he'd been hiding it, or how he'd managed to get to his feet in that condition, but I didn't have time to wonder.
I dove as he fired, and the shot narrowly missed me, obliterating the radio transmitter. If he hadn't been dazed and staggering, his aim would've been a lot better and I'd be as dead as the guy on the floor.
I rolled away toward the open bathroom as he staggered some more and tried to blink the blood from his eyes. He was one unhappy bad guy, hurling epithets full of Fs and Bs and mostly Cs as he turned in the doorway—squinting and wiping, squinting and wiping—getting ready to squeeze off another shot as soon as he could pin down my location.
I came to a stop with my back against the door jamb and fumbled with the gun I'd picked up outside, trying to get it in firing position, when he pulled the trigger again—
—and I lunged sideways, a spray of splinters bursting from the door frame above me.
I finally brought the gun up, pointing toward the silhouette in the doorway. The sun against his back made him a clear and easy target, and knowing he was half-blinded by the blood, I didn't hesitate.
I squeezed the trigger and the gun fired and the slug knocked him in the chest and sent him flying through the doorway and down the steps, where he landed in a heap and stopped moving.
He was definitely dead this time, and unless I had just stumbled into the zombie apocalypse, I didn't figure he'd be getting up again.
Before I could process that I had just shot a man, I heard the squawk of a radio and swiveled my head toward the desk.
"Renner, do you read me? We heard shots. What's going on?"
Had I been mistaken about the transmitter?
No, it was in pieces, several of them decorating the floor. And that certainly wasn't the voice of a rescue worker.
So where was the transmission coming from?
"Renner—this is command. What's going on?"
I zeroed in on the source and saw a military grade walkie-talkie sitting on the floor beneath the desk. Fake Ranger Hawthorn—aka Renner—must have left it there when he heard me coming. Back before he knew I wasn't a taxpayer on an afternoon hike.
I needed to get out of there. It was a good bet that they were already in motion and headed this way. And I doubted they were on foot. There were at least five of them to contend with and none of them would be dazed and staggering. Parker may have called me a natural, but despite my mounting body count, I wasn't that good with a firearm.
This was now two people I'd shot and killed since I met him.
Maybe I needed to reconsider our relationship.
Or think about getting therapy.
But was it my fault I'd been put in this position twice in the span of a few months? Maybe fate had some kind of vendetta against me and liked to watch me suffer.
Not that I wa
s chewing my lip over either of those deaths. But it would've been nice if someone else had handled the dirty work.
I got to my feet and crossed to the desk, scooping up the walkie-talkie from the floor. If they were coming after me, I might as well have as much information as possible, and with any luck they wouldn't know I had the radio.
But as I turned and headed for the door, I heard tires on dirt and took a quick detour, ducking out of sight. I moved to the window above the cot and peeked past the curtain, expecting to see either an F-150 pickup or a black SUV—or both—but was thrilled when I saw Parker's navy blue Range Rover pull to a stop next to the RANGER SUB-STATION 5 sign.
Oh, thank God.
Thank God, thank God, thank God.
He'd heard at least part of what I'd said, and at that moment I couldn't have been more relieved. I'm not the type of girl who prays for a man to pull her out of tight situations, but when it's a man as able as Parker is, I'd be crazy not to be overjoyed.
As he got out of the car and looked down at the crumpled body of Renner, I bolted out of that shack and flung myself into his arms.
And, naturally, that's exactly the moment Swan's hunting party decided to show up, both vehicles blazing down the road toward us.
The bastards.
How were Parker and I supposed to have a moment if they couldn't respect our privacy?
FIFTEEN
"Get in the car," I said. "We need to go."
He stared at me incredulously. I must have looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. "Jesus. Are you okay?"
"I will be once we're gone."
He gestured to Renner. "Who the hell is this guy? Did you shoot a ranger?"
"I'll explain later, all right?" I nodded to the approaching trucks. They were still a distance away, but they were coming fast. "Those guys are friends of his and they will kill us."
Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) Page 5
