Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) (5 page)

"Hers or yours?"

"Hers. She loved to chatter. Half the time I could barely get a word in."

That was hard to believe, but I bit my tongue. "And?"

"And I found out that Swan has a lot of business dealings that aren't strictly legal. Not even close. Which shouldn't have been a surprise considering the size of his bank account and the people he associates with, but anything I could imagine was child's play compared to what he's really into."

"And she told you about it?"

"In great detail. Names, businesses, shell companies, Cayman accounts. She seemed to take pleasure in it. Like she was boasting about how rich and clever he was. And I was thinking, if she's so impressed by him, why the hell is she lying in a hotel bed with me?"

Gee, I wonder
, I thought. "Maybe you were one of her what ifs."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Go on."

"I should have walked away right then," he said. "I had long since given up on trying to scam Swan, because only a fool would go after a guy that connected, but I may have overindulged a bit when it came to his wife."

"Don't tell me. You fell in love with her."

He laughed and said,"God, no," and I suddenly understood.
 

It was the sex.

"Men and their addictions," I muttered, with a trace of disgust. Although my addiction to Parker was pretty substantial, so who was I to judge? "She's that good, huh?"

"
Was
that good. She's dead now."

I stopped and stared at him. "What?"

"Car accident. Although I'm convinced that Swan set her up."

"But why?"

"The same reason he set us up. She knew too much and obviously couldn't keep her mouth shut."
 

"But how did he know she'd told you anything?"

"She confessed to him. Felt guilty about what we had going and just blurted it out one night. Told him everything, and promised to break it off."

"That must have been an interesting conversation. So did she?"

"Break it off? She didn't really have a choice at that point. I'd just been arrested for wire fraud and was stuck in county lockup. She came to visit and warned me that I'd better watch my back. That Swan was worried I might make a deal with the feds and start telling them what I knew—which was more than enough to launch a pretty serious inquiry into his finances. Three days later her car went off the cliff on Mulholland Drive."

"So you made bail and took off."

"Exactly. And now here we are. Swan writes Wilky a very large check and Wilky arranges an accident—except the cliff was a lot higher this time. I'm guessing Swan only resorts to firepower when things don't go his way."

"Kinda crazy to come after us in broad daylight."

"Who's to know? Everyone's distracted by the crash and a few random gunshots will probably be attributed to hunters."

"If Swan
knows we're alive, then the people coordinating a rescue must know, too, so maybe we'll run into a search party."

"Maybe," Ethan said. "But this is a big place and—"

The crack of gunfire cut him off. The bullet narrowly missed his head, exploding the tree branches behind him.

We both ducked and Ethan said, "I don't think that's your search party."

And then we ran.

That boring desk in college?

It was sounding pretty good right now. And so was that cushy swivel office chair back at PC&A.

It's one thing to get shot at when people think you're a bad guy. It's another thing altogether when you clearly aren't, but they shoot at you anyway.

That's when you know they
really
care.

As we ran, it occurred to me that maybe all I had to do was separate myself from Ethan and they'd go after him instead of me. But apparently I'm short on survival instincts, because I just couldn't do it. This was my first gig, he was
my
prisoner, and I'd be damned if I'd let them take him.

Of course, the ex-boyfriend thing may have had something to do with it, too. I was no longer in love with the guy, and wasn't even sure I
liked
him all that much, but a few hazy, idealized memories of romantic bliss should count for
something
.

Shouldn't they?

Two more shots cracked and the bullets whizzed past us.

Ethan took a sharp right and began running away from me, up a thickly wooded slope. I followed, but he waved me off, proving that great minds think alike.

"We need to split up," he said over his shoulder. "They're after me, not you."

For a moment this struck me as a sweet gesture, but then I realized this wasn't an effort to protect me at all. He was trying to get
rid
of me. I was, after all, supposed to be escorting him to jail.

I stayed right at his heels. "Don't even think about it. We part ways at L.A. County lockup. Not before."

"And how do you plan on getting me there?"

"I'll figure that out once we've reached civilization."

"Assuming we ever do."

We heard shouts below, far enough away to assure us that Ethan's sudden detour had put some distance between us and the shooter. We came to a stop and crouched behind a thick cluster of trees, again trying to catch our breath as we peered cautiously toward the bottom of the slope.

There was no sign of movement, but the shouts continued, two—or maybe three—men trying desperately to coordinate our demise.

"Which way did they go?" one of them said.

"I don't know, let me check."

It took a moment for that reply to sink in.

Check? I thought. What was he checking?

Tracks in the dirt?

The smell of desperation in the breeze?

And then it hit me, and I silently cursed myself for being such an idiot. No
wonder
they'd been able to find us so easily. And I should have known, because I'd been through it once before—and not that long ago. I'd been forced to do a humiliating strip tease in an alleyway to find the culprit.

"Oh, shit," I whispered. "You've got a tracker on you."

Ethan's brows went up. "What?"

"Check your pockets. Wilky must've planted one, just in case. They've got some kind of receiving unit down there and they don't need a cell signal to operate it."

Ethan immediately began checking his pockets and didn't have to search long. He found it, a button-sized transmitter that had been slipped into his shirt pocket—a contingency move that was already paying off.

"Son of a bitch," he said and flung it away from us, high and hard. But as he threw it, he winced, and I noticed a dark stain on the side of his shirt.

Blood.

A sizable patch of it, soaking through the cloth.

"Oh, Jesus," I whispered. "You've been hit."

"What?"

He followed my gaze, looked down at his side and saw the blood. Despite the whisper, I could hear the surprise and dismay in his voice as he ran a hand along it, checking for damage. "I
thought
I felt something, but figured I got stabbed by a branch."

"No, that's smaller and a lot deadlier and you're losing blood fast. We need to get you out of—"

Another shout cut me off. "Up there! They're up there! They've stopped moving."

For a moment I thought we'd been spotted, but then I saw a man appear below—a hard-eyed thug dressed in hunting gear
 
and carrying a rifle as he moved toward the base of the slope. He was pointing up and away from us, toward where Ethan had thrown the transmitter—a dozen or more yards to our left.

We ducked down, flattening against the ground, and Ethan winced again.

"This is really starting to hurt," he whispered. "Maybe Swan already has what he wants."

"Stop talking like that. Can you move?"

"I think I can manage."

"Good," I said. "They're gonna go straight for that transmitter, and we need to be someplace else. Fast."

"Fine, but where?"

I pointed. "Let's head farther up the slope. Maybe we can find a cave in the mountainside. I want to get a look at that wound."

"I'm not sure what you can do about it."

"We won't know until I look, will we? But if we stay here much longer it won't matter."

Things had gotten awfully quiet below.

I carefully rose to a crouch—half expecting to find the barrel of a rifle in my face—and looked past the trees. Two more thugs, disguised as hunters, had joined the first. They spoke quietly for a moment, then fanned out and moved stealthily up the slope, heading straight toward the transmitter, just as I'd hoped.

I touched Ethan's shoulder. He tried to rise, but groaned softly and clutched his side. He was rapidly losing strength.

I looked up toward the top of the slope, scanning the mountainside for some place to hide. Somewhere out of sight that would allow us to assess the damage and figure out what to do next.
 

It didn't look promising, but we had to try.

Checking to see that our pursuers were still headed away from us, I helped Ethan to his feet, then draped his arm over my shoulder and urged him up the slope.

"Try to move as fast as you can," I whispered.

He gave me a weak smile. "And here I thought you liked it slow."

Have I mentioned he was a slop eating, mud wallowing pig?

A few minutes later, something went right for a change—although in the scheme of things, my expectations were low.

To my surprise, we
did
find a cave, but it was much too big and obvious to hide in. If our stalkers came looking—and they surely would once their tracking signal led to a pile of nothing—they were bound to check here first.

As we were about to move on, however, I noticed a shadowy spot in the mountainside, several yards to our right, obscured by a cluster of trees and forest overgrowth.

Another cave?

I thought so, but couldn't be sure. Ethan was fading fast, so I sat him on the ground and went over for a closer look. And just as I'd hoped, there was a small but significant crevice behind the foliage that looked promising, if not particularly inviting.

"Any luck?" Ethan asked in a voice that sounded weak and out of breath. He had a hand clamped to his side and I saw blood running through his fingers.

"Luck is a relative term, but at this point we can't be choosy."

After shoving some of the foliage aside, I moved back to Ethan, helped him to his feet and guided him toward the crevice. We had to turn sideways to get inside, but once we did, it opened up into a rock-walled chamber about the size of a motel bathroom.

I sat him down again and went back out, gathered some fallen tree branches and dragged them over to the crevice. If
I
had spotted it, our pursuers might, too, and I didn't want to take that chance.
 

I stepped back in and did my best to blanket the entrance so it would be even less noticeable from the outside. I may have been deluding myself, but thought I'd done a pretty good job.

When I was finished, I turned and crouched beside Ethan and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Just like old times," he said with a grin that looked more like a grimace. "What's next? My pants?"

"Don't get your hopes up." I peeled the shirt away from the wound and took a look at it.

There wasn't much sunlight streaming in, so I took out my cell phone and used the flashlight app to see what I was dealing with. And I won't lie to you. It didn't look good.

I didn't lie to Ethan, either.

"Well?" he asked.

"I'm no expert, but I think it's safe to say that you'll die if we don't get you some help."

"Thanks for the heads up. Didn't I tell you that
before
we made that ridiculous climb?"

"The problem is, you could die if I
do
go for help and can't find a ranger soon enough."

"Or if one of Swan's men spots you. There's always that."

"It won't be so easy without their little transmitter."

"Maybe. But even if you manage to get past them and find help, I doubt you'll get back in time."

I almost said, "Don't be so dramatic," but he was right. The rate he was losing blood, chances were good we'd come back and find him either dead or in a coma. I didn't doubt he had a bullet lodged in there and it wasn't being kind.

"Quit talking for once, okay? Let me think." And as I did, I pulled at his shirt, took it off, and tore two large strips out of it, acutely aware that I had no real idea what I was doing.

"I need to lay down," he said, then scooted himself forward slightly and lay back with a grunt. "Hey, Pooks, you know what?"

I slipped one of my makeshift bandages around his waist, covered the wound and tied the ends together, pulling it taut, just as he'd done with the parachute strap. I doubted it would do much, but one could hope.
 

"What?" I said.

"I was barely nineteen, okay? I may have seemed like I could handle anything, but when my dad got arrested, I kinda went haywire inside. Then when he killed himself…"

"I know, Ethan. I was there, remember?"

"What I'm trying to say is that I didn't know what I was doing. I cared about you. Hell, I loved you. More than I've ever loved anyone."

For the first time since I'd seen him on that plane, I felt connected to Ethan again. Because God knew I had loved him, too. Fiercely. So much so that I had cried for a month straight when he left. And to make matters worse, my mother had made no secret that she was glad Ethan was gone. He had always been a "hoodlum" to her.

Apparently she wasn't wrong.

"I was a caustic presence, then," he said as if channeling my thoughts, then gestured to the wound. "And look at me now. I still am. Look at all this trouble I've gotten you into. Trouble you didn't ask for."

I wrapped the other strip of cloth around him, tied it and pulled it taut. "I volunteered for this job, remember? And I'm not the one with the hole in my side."

"Goes with the hole in my head," he said, then laughed, and the laughing made him wince. "Had a hole in my head back then, too. What kind of fool would walk away from someone like you?"

"Really, Ethan, you need to be quiet."