Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) (7 page)

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.

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 was 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?

"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."

"Who are they? Did they hurt you?"

"Parker, as much as I'd love to cuddle and tell you all about my fun-filled day, that's never gonna happen if we don't start moving. Those men want the prisoner dead and from this distance they probably think you're him. Now get in the car."

I pulled away from him and started for the Rover, but Parker didn't budge. He stood there and stared at the two vehicles, quietly assessing them as they approached.

"How many men?" he asked.

I stopped. "Are you
crazy
? They're armed and very, very danger—"

"How many?"

I pushed out a breath. "Five. I counted five. Two in the SUV, three in the pickup. But that's just a guess. Can we please
go
now?"

The trucks were getting closer.

"What kind of firepower?"

"Are you kidding me?"
 

"Just answer the question, Kelsey."

"Rifles. All I saw were hunting rifles."

He nodded, then finally, thankfully, started toward the Rover. I went around to the passenger side to climb in, but stopped short when Parker threw open his door and reached for the rifle rack between the seats.

He tugged his shotgun free and gestured to the glove box in front of the passenger's seat. "Hand me the badge in there."

Parker was a former Deputy U.S. Marshal and didn't have much restraint when it came to pretending he was still with the department. I'd warned him what could happen if he was ever caught impersonating a deputy, but it didn't have much impact.

"Come
on
," I cried. "What are you gonna do?"

"Control the situation."

"
These men are killers.
"

"Maybe so, but there's no point in trying to outrun them. And if they think I'm law enforcement, they're likely to believe I've done the logical thing and called in the cavalry—especially with a dead ranger on the ground over there."

"He's not a ranger. He's a friend of theirs."

"Let's see if that's still true."

If this is the first time you're meeting Parker, you should probably be aware that he's one of the most stubborn men I've ever known. Once he's made his mind up to do something, he does it, and you're wasting your breath if you think you can talk him out of it.

There are times I appreciate this personality trait, and times I'm infuriated by it.

Guess which one this was.

"Parker, if you think you can scare them off with a badge and a shotgun, you're out of your mind. The
real
ranger is lying dead inside that shack and the guy on the ground is the one who killed him. If they're willing to go that far to get what they want, what makes you think they'll spare
us
?"

"You really
have
been busy."

"Will you get in the goddamn car and start driving?"

"Just give me that badge," he said, "then climb into the passenger's seat and put your hands behind you like you're wearing cuffs."

"
What
?"

"If this starts to go south, I want you to jump behind the wheel and get the hell out of here. Take this road into town and find the nearest Sheriff."

"Parker…"

"Trust me, Kelsey. I've dealt with guys like this before. The last thing they want is a bunch of cops after them. Chances are good they'll assess the situation and cut their losses."

"You don't know who they work for."

"You can tell me about it as soon as we're done. Now give me the badge."

There was no point in arguing with him. I nodded, then found the badge in the glove box and handed it to him. Reluctantly. As he went around to the front of the Rover, I climbed into the passenger's seat and held my hands behind me.

I was perilously close to hyperventilating.

The trucks were almost upon us, the black SUV in the lead. Parker took a couple steps forward, shotgun in one hand, badge in the other. He held up the badge so the first driver could get a good look at it, and the two vehicles kicked up dust as they came to a halt in front of us.

I held my breath, expecting the men inside to come out firing. But for a long moment, nobody moved.
 

Then the passenger door of the SUV flew open and the lean, muscular guy who snacked on cats got out and came forward. He had a wary look, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was walking into, but was prepared for anything.

He didn't have his rifle on him, but I had a feeling he was armed and I wondered where he was hiding the handgun. Probably at the small of his back.
 

There was an undercurrent of menace in the way he moved, and when he got about two yards away, Parker brought the shotgun up. "That's far enough, sir."

To my surprise, the cat eater smiled, as cordial as a Sunday School teacher. "Is there a problem, deputy?"

Parker nodded to Renner's body. "I think you could say that."

Cat Eater took a look, showing no sign of recognition.
 
Or sympathy. "That's a shame. Hunting accident?"

"I don't think it was an accident," Parker said. "I've got the suspect in custody."

Suspect?
 

I'm slow sometimes, but a little further explanation would have been nice.

Cat Eater shifted his gaze over Parker's left shoulder and stared directly at me through the windshield with what I can honestly say were the coldest eyes I'd ever seen.