Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) by Alana Matthews Page A
Authors: Alana Matthews
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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.
FOURTEEN
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
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.
FOURTEEN
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
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