Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Parker & Coe

  No. 2

  PRESENT TENSE

  A Love and Bullets Thriller

  Alana Matthews

  BRAUN HAUS MEDIA

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  PRESENT TENSE

  Copyright © 2014 by Alana Matthews

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Published by Braun Haus Media

  Cover photo credits:

  Couple © Coka / Dollar Photo Club

  Red planes © VeSilvio / Dollar Photo Club

  Plane © Icholakov / Dollar Photo Club

  Bullet Holes © Sascha Burkard / Dollar Photo Club

  BOOKS BY

  ALANA MATTHEWS

  Parker & Coe Thrillers

  Identity Unknown

  Present Tense

  Cruel Bounty (coming soon)

  Harlequin Intrigue Novels

  Man Undercover

  Body Armor

  Waterford Point

  A Wanted Man

  Internal Affairs

  PRESENT

  TENSE

  PART ONE

  Out of the Past

  ONE

  The last place I expected to find myself was on a plane that was about to crash.

  I've never had a problem with air travel. I'm not one who panics at every hint of turbulence, or clutches my armrest when we come in for a landing. I'm the kind of girl who quickly stows her carry-on, pops in her noise canceling earbuds, then snuggles up to an inflatable pillow and spends most of the flight caught in the loving embrace of the Land of Nod.

  But when I'm standing near the cockpit of a rickety twin-engine transport plane, the pilot slumped over the controls, the nose of the fuselage pointed in the direction of the good green earth while hurtling at a speed known only to God… Well, let's just say that panic comes very natural to me.

  But at least I wasn't alone in my terror.

  Ethan Rider was handcuffed behind me.

  And this was only the beginning of a very bad day.

  TWO

  It was supposed to be an easy job. A simple babysitting gig that wouldn't require anything more than escorting a harmless, nonviolent prisoner from Houston to Los Angeles.

  It was a cold Thursday morning, and I was in the office alone when the offer came in, while Parker was three hours north, chasing down a lead on what he called a Five Figure Fugitive.

  When I told him about the job, he didn't sound thrilled. "I don't know, Kels. I'm not comfortable with you doing this alone."

  "What could possibly go wrong?" I said, the irony in my tone probably lost to the cell phone connection.

  We were both still healing after our encounter a few months earlier with soulless uber-bitch, Anastasia Brantov. So it was no real surprise that Parker had immediately shifted into over-protective mode.

  "I'm just not sure you're ready."

  "You're the one who almost died, remember? And I'm not completely helpless. Don't forget I saved your life."

  I didn't bother to mention that he'd also saved mine quite a few times. All within the span of about twenty-four hours.

  Which was part of why I'd fallen for him.

  I mean, how could I resist?

  It didn't hurt that, unlike the men in my past, Parker was someone I could count on, yet was full of surprises. The good kind. The kind that made you smile and sometimes laugh and wonder how you got so damn lucky. Then, of course, there were the rugged but gentle (and quite talented) hands, the broad shoulders, the narrow hips, and a set of bluer than blue eyes that often had me wishing I was carrying an extra pair of panties.

  Even the sound of his voice could get me going.

  "You're not convincing me," he said.

  It took me a moment to remember what we'd been talking about.

  Oh, right. The job.

  "Come on, Parker, what's the big deal? I pick a guy up, we fly to LA, I collect my fee and come home." My choice of words could've been better, but I continued on. "I'll probably be back before you are, and Wilky promised us forty percent."

  Wilky was a mid-level bail bondsman whose go-to guy was nursing a broken collarbone. When he'd asked if we'd be interested in a quick, easy score, I'd said "yes" without hesitating.

  "Does he know I won't be involved?" Parker asked.

  "It didn't come up. Besides, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think he cares. He sounded a little desperate and just wants a warm body to escort the prisoner. We were the first to say yes."

  "We?"

  "I made an executive decision."

  "I'm glad to hear you're stepping up, but you don't have enough experience yet. You haven't even finished your weapons training."

  I almost laughed at that one. So far, this so-called training had consisted of three trips to a shooting range and one dead sociopath—not in that order. But I guess he had a point.

  "You yourself said I'm a quick study. And if you think I'm gonna spend the rest of my life stuck behind this desk while you have all the fun…"

  "Fun? You wouldn't be saying that if you knew anything about prisoner transport. Which you don't."

  That was certainly true. Up until now, my job with Parker, Coe and Associates had been limited to setting up an LLC, paying license fees, hiring a freelance accountant, renting some office space, and fielding a few phone calls. I handled the paperwork, made nice with various law enforcement agencies and bail bondsmen, and hoped we'd get enough business to keep our doors open for more than a month or two.

  "So how am I supposed to learn this stuff if I don't start?" I asked. "It's not like I'm hunting down a terrorist. The hard part is done. The prisoner's a con artist, not a killer."

  PC&A was a skip tracing outfit, a fugitive recovery firm—or what the great unwashed call a bounty hunting agency. The "Associates" part was merely wishful thinking. Parker was the hunter, while I—Kelsey Alicia Coe—sat in our newly rented office watching lame reality shows and Turner Classic Movies, and collected what little bounty came our way.

  Not that money was an issue. I had come into a large amount of it a few months earlier—a reward for taking down the aforementioned uber-bitch, whose deception had brought Parker and me together. But that's a story I've told before, and there's nothing worse than someone who repeats herself, so I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say that we're alive and she isn't and the reward check was enough to pay some major medical bills for Parker and his niece Haley, and to put us in business.

  Parker drew a breath to launch another protest, but I cut him off. "Besides, this is a partnership, remember? I'm not asking for your permission."

  "Then what are you asking for?"

  "Your blessing. Your well wishes. I want you to say, 'Go get 'em, Kels. And give 'em hell.'"

  "Have you been watching old movies again?"

  "What else is there to do around here?"

  PC&A's survival was more a matter of pride than finances. I had quit graduate school and relocated to Houston to make this happen and I'd be damned if I was going to let it fail. I knew next to nothing about the skip tracing business, but I've never let lack of knowledge prevent me from making a fool of myself. So I plunged into this venture with the kind of deluded optimism only a newly-in-love 25-year-old can rally, and told myself that a year from no
w we'd have more business than two people could handle.

  Maybe I was blinded by my own enthusiasm, but after being chased and shot at a few times, I knew I wouldn't be happy going back to school to finish my Masters.

  School seemed so... trivial to me now.

  And boring.

  Parker sighed. "All right, I give. Go get 'em, Kels. And give 'em hell."

  I paused. "Really?"

  "I'm a quick study, too. The faster I give in, the happier we'll both be, so what's the point of fighting over it? Just do me a favor and call me if there's even the slightest hint of trouble. Which there won't be, right?"

  "Wilky assured me it's a cake walk."

  "Uh-huh. Will you be traveling public or private?"

  "They need him in L.A. tomorrow, so Wilky chartered a transport plane. I'm meeting them at Eastman Air in an hour."

  "That should make things easier. Just watch yourself, okay?"

  "Don't worry, hot stuff, I'll be packin' heat."

  Parker groaned. "You really need to switch to game shows."

  THREE

  Eastman Air Charter was a small private airline that had seen better days.

  Boasting its own terminal in Northeast Houston, it was the hub of unfettered travel for CEOs and occasional rock stars until poor management, the country's economic implosion and spiraling fuel costs had nearly shut it down. It was subsequently sold at a loss, and judging by a sadly deteriorating infrastructure, now catered only to budget-minded clients.

  One of those clients was Wilky, an associate of Parker's I'd met a few weeks earlier at a Sunday barbecue for local court and law enforcement personnel. Parker had taken me there in hopes of scaring up some business for PC&A, and much to my surprise, I had actually enjoyed myself.

  Wilky—whose full name was Arlin Wilkinson—had hosted the party at his home, and was not the stereotypical lowlife bondsman you see in the movies. He was an articulate, well-dressed gentleman in his mid-fifties who spoke with a soft South Texas accent and seemed quite comfortable in his alligator boots.

  He now waited for me outside one of Eastman's smaller hangars, his butt propped on the left front fender of a well-maintained Lincoln Continental that looked as if it had once belonged to his grandfather. He broke into a warm smile as I parked my Honda and started toward him across the tarmac.

  "Please tell me you aren't one of those gals who gets her dander up when a fella throws a compliment her way."

  "Depends on the fella and which body parts are involved."

  Wilky chuckled. "There's that wit again. You were tossing it around quite a bit at that little shindig last month. That's why I thought of you when this job came up. Figured if anyone's a match for a smooth talking jackal, you're it."

  I stopped next to the Lincoln. "Is that the compliment?"

  "No, ma'am. What I was about to say is that Parker is one lucky son of a gun. If you weren't half my age, I might try to steal you from him. But then I've always had a thing for beautiful blondes."

  "Thanks, but how do you know I'm not the lucky one?"

  "I've seen you both in jeans."

  He took me inside the hangar where a battered old twin-engine prop plane sat facing the open door. I saw the pilot through the front windshield, fiddling with the controls as he took a swig from a Thermos that I hoped contained coffee. He was in his mid-sixties, thin, sallow-faced, and looked in desperate need of a jolt from a defibrillator.

  Was this some kind of joke?

  The plane was even older and less healthy-looking than the pilot and I wasn't thrilled by the prospect of climbing inside.

  "You want me to fly to L.A. in this? With him?"

  Wilky grinned. "Don't you worry. It might not look like much, but it's safe." He raised his voice. "Isn't that right, Hap?"

  The pilot looked up mid-sip and gave Wilky a vague smile and a thumbs up, but I couldn't be sure he knew what he was responding to.

  "Hap's gettin' close to mandatory retirement," Wilky went on, "but he's one of the best. He's been handling runs like this for years. He can do a loop-the-loop in this little bugger without breaking a sweat."

  "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Where's the prisoner?"

  "Inside, where he belongs, handcuffed to his seat. The less I see of that yappy bastard, the better." He dug into his pocket and produced a key, then took a folder from under his arm and held both out to me. "And you'd better keep him cuffed at all times, no matter what he tells you. He's all gurgle and no guts, but I wouldn't trust him for a minute."

  I took the key and folder. "Does he have a name?"

  Wilky gestured. "It's all in there. Name. Offense. Criminal history. Got a sheet longer than Tallahassee's tail."

  I flipped open the folder and read the summary. Richard Henson. Arrested for bank and insurance fraud, larceny, forgery, investment schemes and impersonating a law enforcement officer. All strictly white collar. His bail was set at two million, but he had been due in court the previous week and his last contact with his bail bond agency was three months ago. Attempts to reach him had been unsuccessful.

  "He should run for Congress," I said. "How did he wind up with you?"

  "The agency in Los Angeles got wind that he'd been spotted in Houston under the alias Eric Pritchard. We've got a cooperation agreement, so they asked me to find him and we picked him up at the Haversham Hotel, smack in the middle of another Ponzi scheme. He's insisting we have the wrong man."

  Where had I heard that before?

  "So do you?"

  "Do I what?"

  "Have the wrong man? I don't see any photos in this file."

  Wilky looked vaguely insulted, but then a memory surfaced. "Oh, that's right. You told me at the barbecue how you and Parker met."

  I wasn't sure I was the one who had told him, but that didn't much matter. I wasn't about to be party to another case of mistaken identity.

  "I understand the concern," he said, "but trust me, he's our man. And the court only gave us a one week window, so if we don't get him back to L.A. by tomorrow afternoon, a lot of money goes bye-bye."

  "Just as long as you're sure he's who you think he is."

  "I've been doing this for thirty years, darlin', and I haven't made a mistake yet."

  I considered this and nodded. "That's good enough for me."

  "Glad to hear it. And thanks again for stepping in at the last minute."

  "Any time," I said and shook his hand. "I'll call you once he's been delivered."

  He grinned again. "I wish every job was this easy." He doffed an imaginary cap and started back toward his Lincoln. "Nice to see you again, Ms. Coe. And tell that lucky sonofabitch Parker he'd better treat you right."

  "So far so good."

  When he was gone, I turned, accessed the plane again and said to Hap, "Are we set to go or should I call a tow truck?"

  He frowned at me through the windshield and cupped an ear, indicating that he couldn't hear me—just as I had suspected.

  He leaned over and opened a side window. "Happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am. You go ahead and climb on in and we'll be underway shortly."

  "You sure you wouldn't rather take a nap first?"

  If he was insulted, he didn't show it. "I'm saving that for when we're in the air. Now hurry it up. I'd like to get to L.A. sometime today."

  Considering it was barely past eleven, I didn't think that would be a problem, but I did as he asked, moving to a tiny hatch of a door that stuck when I tried to open it.

  "She needs a little persuasion," Hap said. "Just give her a good yank."

  I did and the door protested, coming open with a groan.

  What the hell had I gotten myself into?

  I was pondering this question as I ducked down and reluctantly stepped inside—

  —only to be stopped in my tracks by the site of the prisoner, who was cuffed to his armrest on the left side of the plane.

  My heart started thumping and I blinked a couple of times, convinced that I had just stepped
through a portal into the past. Because the man in that seat was not Richard Henson. That may have been what people called him, and that may have been the name he was arrested under, but it wasn't his.

  The man in that seat, staring back at me with equal amounts of surprise and confusion, was none other than Ethan Robert Rider.

  My old high school boyfriend.

  FOUR

  I've never kept in touch with the guys I dated in high school.

  Why on earth would I?

  Most of them were relentless horn dogs whose self-conscious pursuit of carnal gratification far outweighed their skills at seduction. I spent the majority of my dates fending off undisciplined tongues and roving, fumble-fingered hands.

  Not that I wasn't interested in a little fumbling myself, but I quickly discovered that looks and brains are a delicate mix, and the guy I might think was attractive from across the classroom usually lost his allure once I was trapped in the front seat of his car.

  Most attempts at conversation centered around sports or video games or what a girl might—and might not—be willing to do in exchange for burgers and a movie. And my frequent admonitions that my date should keep his paws (and lingual membrane) to himself were usually met with equal amounts of surprise and scorn.

  There were exceptions, of course. Freshman year and a boy named Brad who was dangerously smart and had the face and body of a Greek god. He had channeled his energy into studying philosophy, but was no slouch on the basketball court. At the time, I didn't understand half of what we talked about—Decartes and Kant and Sarte—but it didn't matter. I loved listening to him. And looking at him. Unfortunately, I didn't get to look or listen long, because three weeks into our budding relationship his grandmother died and the entire family moved across country to live in the mansion they had inherited.