Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) (6 page)

It was getting a bit thick and I thought he might be delirious. Not that I wasn't touched by what he said, but I needed to stay rational and not let myself succumb to emotion. His deterioration was more rapid than I would have expected, and I knew I had to get him some help. Now.

But he took hold of my hand, staring up at me with eyes that weren't fully engaged. He was fading fast. "You asked me earlier if Elena was my 'what if'. I played dumb, but I knew what you meant. And here's the thing, Pooks.
You
were always my 'what if'. Nobody but you."

Then his gaze clouded and his eyelids closed.
 

I felt a hitch in my throat, thinking for a moment that he was dead, but then I saw his chest move and knew that he was merely sleeping. Still losing blood, but sleeping. Both bandages were soaked through now, but at least they'd slowed the flow a bit.

I lay his hand on his chest and got to my feet, not sure what to think or feel. So much had happened in the last few hours—not to mention the last half dozen years—that I could barely catch my mental or emotional breath.

I looked down at him and felt that familiar tug. That longing. It didn't have the same strength it had in the old days, but it was there, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Then Parker's face filled my mind and I felt guilty all over again.

Snap out of it, Kels. You've got work to do.

Steeling myself for what was to come, I turned to the crevice and peeked out, ready to make my move.

It wasn't much of a move.
 

I did what came fairly naturally to me at this point—

—I bolted.

After checking to make sure none of our new friends were nearby, I squeezed through the crevice, shoved the branches and bushes back into place, checked my handiwork, then took off like a frightened jack rabbit, hoping I hadn't been spotted.

As I barreled to the bottom of the slope, convinced I'd wind up on my ass, the only thought that occupied my mind was
he's gonna die, he's gonna die, he's gonna die.
And I used that to spur me on.

I didn't want Ethan to die.

I didn't want
anyone
to die—except maybe the men who were stalking us.
 

But Ethan was… well… Ethan was special.

Not that I owed him anything. His own stupidity had put him in a position to get shot at. But that little tug of emotion I'd felt as I stared down at his inert body made me realize how much he still meant to me. Even after all these years.

Even if he was only a memory.

In the future, when I thought about him, I wanted to remember his
kiss
, not his dying breath. Criminal or not, he was still a human being, and I wanted him to have what I had with Parker. Not a roll in the sack with some rich jerk's arm candy, but an unbreakable bond with someone he truly loved and cared about. Someone who would make him a better human being.

That's all any of us wants, right?

And he would never have that chance if I didn't find him some help.

I got to the bottom of the slope without taking a tumble or attracting attention. I knew Swan's men must have realized by now that they'd been duped, and had split up and started searching again. So the faster I moved, the better.

As I turned to thread my way through a group of trees, hoping to find a campground or some friendly hikers with an actual working GPS device, I heard voices echoing and the sound of doors slamming.

Car doors.

Yes, yes, yes.

Cars meant access. And access meant roads. Or at least what might pass for one out here.

I immediately headed in that direction, staying low behind a bush as I reached the edge of a clearing. I had been hoping to spot a family dragging a vacation trailer, or a ranger's truck or even a group of
real
hunters—the kind that shoot deer, not people—but what I saw instead was a sleek new F-150 pickup and a black SUV, both parked at the edge of the clearing.

My heart stopped. These were exactly the people I'd been hoping to avoid.

The SUV was the most recent arrival—the source of the slamming doors—two men moving away from it and approaching the pickup.

Standing near the truck was the hard-eyed thug in hunter's gear who carried a rifle. Not that this was unusual. They were all carrying rifles.

Of the two new arrivals, one of them was about six-four with a lean, muscular body, and a face that said he skinned and ate cats when he was in the mood for a snack. He had that singular way of moving that tells you he's the bastard in charge, and I shivered at the thought of a personal meet and greet. Seeing him from thirty yards away was bad enough.

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.

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 from 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."

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.