Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) by Alana Matthews
Authors: Alana Matthews
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the building.
Unfortunately, we weren't quiet enough, because seconds later, the shouting started—Taggart's voice booming in the nearly vacant space—accompanied by the loud slam of car doors and the frantic chatter of voices that I assumed were speaking Ukrainian.
I had no idea where we were going and didn't really care, as long as it was away from Taggart and his friends. I let Parker lead me into the mouth of an unlit corridor just as shots rang out and, once again, bullets began to fly.
These boys really loved their bullets.
And I hated them. With a passion.
Especially when they were ricocheting around me.
"Come on! Come on!" Parker shouted. No point in being quiet now.
He flew through the darkness as if he could see where we were headed, and maybe he could. He had, after all, somehow risen from the dead. Maybe he had super powers, too.
He jerked me forward and we turned a corner and I now saw light—glorious light—at the end of the corridor. And for a brief moment I wondered if Parker hadn't risen after all.
Maybe I was dead, too.
Maybe I had never really recovered from Taggart's blow, and this was merely some fevered death dream I was experiencing as I passed through to the afterlife.
But as we got closer, I realized that what I saw was merely an open doorway with another pair of headlights shining into it. We heard more shouting behind us and Parker tightened his grip on my wrist and picked up speed. We plunged together through the doorway into a loading area where an ancient pickup truck stood, its engine running, its high-beams pointed in our direction.
"Get in!" Parker shouted, and didn't have to say it a second time.
I don't think I've ever moved so fast. Within milliseconds I jerked open the passenger door and dove inside as the shouts grew louder and guns started popping. I heard the clang of bullets against metal as Parker jumped behind the wheel and punched the accelerator.
I didn't dare sit upright. Instead, I hung onto the seat cushion for dear life as we flew backwards, spun halfway around, then rocketed forward at a speed that seemed impossible for a truck this old. Parker worked the wheel like a Nascar driver on his last lap, and all I could think about was whether I preferred to die in a fiery crash or a hail of gunfire—and it was a definite toss-up.
I chanced a peek through the rear window and saw the loading area receding from view, Taggart and three men with guns in their hands running after us. I recognized them from the train station.
They fired a few more shots, but we were too far away now for it to make a difference. Then they finally gave up and stopped in their tracks, and one of them bent forward, trying to catch his breath.
I could barely breathe myself. My pounding heart seemed to be squeezing my lungs.
I finally turned, sat upright, then grabbed the seatbelt and strapped myself in.
Parker said, "That was a lot closer than I expected. Are you okay?"
I'm sure this question was just a way to fill the silence, because how could anyone in my position possibly be okay? Surely he already knew the answer.
I looked over at him, saw the holes that Taggart's bullets had punched in his shirt and said, "How the hell are you even alive?"
Parker thumped his chest with the palm of his hand. "Kevlar. Never leave home without it."
"You're kidding me. A bullet proof vest? Those things actually work?"
"Better than ever," he said, then reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his cell phone, which was a mangled hunk of plastic, metal and glass. "My phone pitched in, too. I'm just grateful I didn't take one to the head."
"I can't believe Taggart shot you like that. He's crazy."
"You think?"
"He killed that poor desk clerk."
Parker nodded. "Sean Taggart is a sociopath. No two ways about it. Only he's very good at hiding it from the people around him. I should know. I worked with him for nearly two years."
"And he was married to your sister."
Parker swiveled his head
Unfortunately, we weren't quiet enough, because seconds later, the shouting started—Taggart's voice booming in the nearly vacant space—accompanied by the loud slam of car doors and the frantic chatter of voices that I assumed were speaking Ukrainian.
I had no idea where we were going and didn't really care, as long as it was away from Taggart and his friends. I let Parker lead me into the mouth of an unlit corridor just as shots rang out and, once again, bullets began to fly.
These boys really loved their bullets.
And I hated them. With a passion.
Especially when they were ricocheting around me.
"Come on! Come on!" Parker shouted. No point in being quiet now.
He flew through the darkness as if he could see where we were headed, and maybe he could. He had, after all, somehow risen from the dead. Maybe he had super powers, too.
He jerked me forward and we turned a corner and I now saw light—glorious light—at the end of the corridor. And for a brief moment I wondered if Parker hadn't risen after all.
Maybe I was dead, too.
Maybe I had never really recovered from Taggart's blow, and this was merely some fevered death dream I was experiencing as I passed through to the afterlife.
But as we got closer, I realized that what I saw was merely an open doorway with another pair of headlights shining into it. We heard more shouting behind us and Parker tightened his grip on my wrist and picked up speed. We plunged together through the doorway into a loading area where an ancient pickup truck stood, its engine running, its high-beams pointed in our direction.
"Get in!" Parker shouted, and didn't have to say it a second time.
I don't think I've ever moved so fast. Within milliseconds I jerked open the passenger door and dove inside as the shouts grew louder and guns started popping. I heard the clang of bullets against metal as Parker jumped behind the wheel and punched the accelerator.
I didn't dare sit upright. Instead, I hung onto the seat cushion for dear life as we flew backwards, spun halfway around, then rocketed forward at a speed that seemed impossible for a truck this old. Parker worked the wheel like a Nascar driver on his last lap, and all I could think about was whether I preferred to die in a fiery crash or a hail of gunfire—and it was a definite toss-up.
I chanced a peek through the rear window and saw the loading area receding from view, Taggart and three men with guns in their hands running after us. I recognized them from the train station.
They fired a few more shots, but we were too far away now for it to make a difference. Then they finally gave up and stopped in their tracks, and one of them bent forward, trying to catch his breath.
I could barely breathe myself. My pounding heart seemed to be squeezing my lungs.
I finally turned, sat upright, then grabbed the seatbelt and strapped myself in.
Parker said, "That was a lot closer than I expected. Are you okay?"
I'm sure this question was just a way to fill the silence, because how could anyone in my position possibly be okay? Surely he already knew the answer.
I looked over at him, saw the holes that Taggart's bullets had punched in his shirt and said, "How the hell are you even alive?"
Parker thumped his chest with the palm of his hand. "Kevlar. Never leave home without it."
"You're kidding me. A bullet proof vest? Those things actually work?"
"Better than ever," he said, then reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his cell phone, which was a mangled hunk of plastic, metal and glass. "My phone pitched in, too. I'm just grateful I didn't take one to the head."
"I can't believe Taggart shot you like that. He's crazy."
"You think?"
"He killed that poor desk clerk."
Parker nodded. "Sean Taggart is a sociopath. No two ways about it. Only he's very good at hiding it from the people around him. I should know. I worked with him for nearly two years."
"And he was married to your sister."
Parker swiveled his head
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