Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) by Alana Matthews
Authors: Alana Matthews
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
