Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Read Free Page A

custody."
    But the cop, God bless her, wasn't that easy. She put one hand on the butt of her gun, the other on my shoulder and pushed me behind her protectively.
    "And who might you be?" she said to Parker.
    He reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a wallet. He let it fall open, revealing a set of credentials and shiny tin star. "Deputy U.S Marshal Zachary Parker. And she's my prisoner."
    Say what?
    "Hey!" I said. "He told me he wasn't a cop."
    "And you told me you're not Mia Duncan, so I guess we're even." He gestured to the transit cop, who actually looked like a very sweet lady. "Now, if you're done with her, I'd like her back."
    The transit cop gestured in return. "Let me have a closer look at those creds."
    "No problem." Parker walked the down the aisle and tossed the wallet to her. She flipped it open, studied the card and the badge, then shrugged, grabbed hold of my arm, and started steering me toward him.
    "What the hell are you doing?" I asked, although the answer was fairly obvious. But when you've been wronged, you can't just stand there a say nothing. "You believe this load of bull?"
      "He's legit and you're the one with the cuffs," she said. "Last thing I'm gonna do is get in the middle of something federal." She looked at Parker, tossed his wallet back, then gave me a final push. "Perp's all yours, deputy."
    Perp? Perp?
    Then it struck me. She had that telltale twinkle in her eye, the one that said her legs had gone all wobbly at the sight of Mr. Hunkadoo. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that people are ten times more likely to believe an attractive person over a runt—and I was the runt in the situation. Not to mention—as she'd so astutely pointed out— that I was wearing those stupid cuffs. They weren't exactly a sign of credibility.
    To add insult to injury, she said to Parker, "Let me know if she causes you any more trouble."
    He smiled. "Thank you, officer."
    Shifting that disarming gaze to me, he grabbed hold of my forearm and pulled me toward him. And maybe I was imagining this, maybe I was the one who was crazy, but I thought I saw a touch of admiration in his eyes. As if my attempt to run had somehow raised his opinion of me rather than lowering it.
    Then he spun me around, took hold of my wrists and unhooked one of the cuffs.
    Had he finally come to his senses?
    I experienced a fleeting moment of surprise and joy, but he quickly killed it by spinning me around again, pulling my hands in front of me and snapping the cuff back in place.
    It was an improvement, but not much of one.
    "Don't say I've never done you any favors," he told me, then placed a hand on my shoulder and sat me down on the nearest seat. "You try to run again, I'll put a bullet in that cute little ass."
    And that, as they say, was the end of that.

SEVEN

    So it was official.
    For all intents and purposes, I was now Mia Duncan. Wanted fugitive, perp and slippery scofflaw who had a rap sheet as long as "Deputy" Zach Parker's aforementioned joystick.
    (However long that might be.)
    And no matter how much I argued, no matter how much I might protest this injustice, he wasn't about to believe a single word I said.
    Which, I guess, was only fair. Because I sure as hell didn't believe he was a U.S. Marshal.
    By now, however, I'd convinced myself that he wasn't a psychopath either. He was, pure and simple, a hired gun. A bounty hunter. And maybe if I really were Mia Duncan and had the wealth of her experience, I would have realized that right away.
    But in my own defense, I'd barely had a chance to breathe since the shooting started and I've never claimed to be quick on the uptake.
    Parker gestured for me to scoot over and sat down next to me, his gaze taking in the train car, alert and wary.
    "So where'd you get the fake badge?" I asked him.
    "It isn't fake. Not that it's any of your business."
    "Then why did you tell me you aren't a cop?"
    He looked at me. "You talk a lot, you know that?"
    I shrugged. "Nervous habit. And