Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) by Alana Matthews Page B
Authors: Alana Matthews
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weaved our way through the maze of trucks, all the while keeping our eyes out for the second Ukrainian, who could pop up anywhere.
After several minutes, we paused to catch our breath in front of one of the rigs, neither of us speaking, but knowing we had to find a way out of here. Fast.
Then a voice said, "Something I can help you folks find?"
We turned and saw an elderly but rugged looking guy approaching from the far end of the truck. He tugged off a pair of work gloves, revealing tattoos on his knuckles.
"We're waiting for a friend," I blurted out, unable to come up with a better explanation.
"Well, do it somewhere else. People here don't like strangers hovering around their rigs."
As the trucker reached up and opened his door, Parker glanced around and said, "Are you about to head out?"
"Yes, I am. What's it to you?"
"Just wondering if you're headed into Houston. Because, if you are, we sure could use a ride."
The trucker frowned. "I thought you were waiting for a friend?"
Parker nodded. "I'm hoping we found him."
TWENTY-NINE
At first I thought the old guy was going to tell us both to go to hell, but he must have seen the distress in my eyes.
"What kind of trouble you folks in?"
Parker nodded to me. "The kind that could get my friend Kelsey hurt, if we don't get out of here fast."
"Meaning what?"
I told him the truth. "The Ukrainian mob is after me, and they're here, right now, searching the grounds."
He started to smile, as if I'd just told him a mildly amusing joke. "The Ukrainian mob?"
"I know how it sounds, but it's a long story and I'll be happy to tell it to you if you'll get us out of here. That's all we ask."
The smile disappeared and he studied me, searching my eyes.
Then he said, "How old are you, Kelsey?"
"Almost twenty-five."
"And what's your boyfriend's name?"
"I'm Zach," Parker said, and held out a hand to shake. He kept peering over the trucker's shoulder as if expecting to see one of our pursuers appear.
The trucker shook the hand. "People call me Nash, which is short for Nashville—but that's a long story, too."
Parker nodded. "Are you gonna help us?"
Nash looked at me again. "You're lucky you remind me of my daughter when she was your age." He gestured to the open door. "Go ahead and climb on in."
THIRTY
Several hours later, Nash dropped us off outside a diner in Houston, the long ride allowing both Parker and me a chance to get more sleep.
While Parker had dozed in the passenger seat, Nash had suggested I crawl in back to his sleeper, which looked like a bunk in one of those old submarine movies my dad used to watch. It was a cramped but comfortable space with dogeared motorcycle magazines piled in a corner, and photographs taped to the walls.
Several of the photos showed Nash at a younger age, standing bare chested next to a sleek black Harley Davidson, tattoos covering his chest and arms. Some included friends and what I assumed was family—including his daughter—and it was clear to me that he was once a member of an outlaw biker gang. And still could have been, for all I knew. Which would've explained his willingness to help us without asking for any of the details I had promised him.
Or maybe he figured the less he knew, the better off he'd be.
I slept for a good three hours before the rig came to a stop and Parker's hand touched my shoulder, shaking me awake.
"Welcome to H-Town," he said.
We climbed out and thanked Nash and he warned us to watch our backs, then put the big truck in gear and pulled away. We went inside the diner, found a table, and ordered coffee and sandwiches, hoping to figure out our next move.
"We need to get you somewhere safe while this goes down," Parker said, after a sip of his coffee. "I've got an apartment in town, but Taggart knows about it, so—"
"I told you, I'm not going anywhere. That's why I'm here. We do this together."
He shook his head. "Just because you managed to dodge a few bullets doesn't make you super
After several minutes, we paused to catch our breath in front of one of the rigs, neither of us speaking, but knowing we had to find a way out of here. Fast.
Then a voice said, "Something I can help you folks find?"
We turned and saw an elderly but rugged looking guy approaching from the far end of the truck. He tugged off a pair of work gloves, revealing tattoos on his knuckles.
"We're waiting for a friend," I blurted out, unable to come up with a better explanation.
"Well, do it somewhere else. People here don't like strangers hovering around their rigs."
As the trucker reached up and opened his door, Parker glanced around and said, "Are you about to head out?"
"Yes, I am. What's it to you?"
"Just wondering if you're headed into Houston. Because, if you are, we sure could use a ride."
The trucker frowned. "I thought you were waiting for a friend?"
Parker nodded. "I'm hoping we found him."
TWENTY-NINE
At first I thought the old guy was going to tell us both to go to hell, but he must have seen the distress in my eyes.
"What kind of trouble you folks in?"
Parker nodded to me. "The kind that could get my friend Kelsey hurt, if we don't get out of here fast."
"Meaning what?"
I told him the truth. "The Ukrainian mob is after me, and they're here, right now, searching the grounds."
He started to smile, as if I'd just told him a mildly amusing joke. "The Ukrainian mob?"
"I know how it sounds, but it's a long story and I'll be happy to tell it to you if you'll get us out of here. That's all we ask."
The smile disappeared and he studied me, searching my eyes.
Then he said, "How old are you, Kelsey?"
"Almost twenty-five."
"And what's your boyfriend's name?"
"I'm Zach," Parker said, and held out a hand to shake. He kept peering over the trucker's shoulder as if expecting to see one of our pursuers appear.
The trucker shook the hand. "People call me Nash, which is short for Nashville—but that's a long story, too."
Parker nodded. "Are you gonna help us?"
Nash looked at me again. "You're lucky you remind me of my daughter when she was your age." He gestured to the open door. "Go ahead and climb on in."
THIRTY
Several hours later, Nash dropped us off outside a diner in Houston, the long ride allowing both Parker and me a chance to get more sleep.
While Parker had dozed in the passenger seat, Nash had suggested I crawl in back to his sleeper, which looked like a bunk in one of those old submarine movies my dad used to watch. It was a cramped but comfortable space with dogeared motorcycle magazines piled in a corner, and photographs taped to the walls.
Several of the photos showed Nash at a younger age, standing bare chested next to a sleek black Harley Davidson, tattoos covering his chest and arms. Some included friends and what I assumed was family—including his daughter—and it was clear to me that he was once a member of an outlaw biker gang. And still could have been, for all I knew. Which would've explained his willingness to help us without asking for any of the details I had promised him.
Or maybe he figured the less he knew, the better off he'd be.
I slept for a good three hours before the rig came to a stop and Parker's hand touched my shoulder, shaking me awake.
"Welcome to H-Town," he said.
We climbed out and thanked Nash and he warned us to watch our backs, then put the big truck in gear and pulled away. We went inside the diner, found a table, and ordered coffee and sandwiches, hoping to figure out our next move.
"We need to get you somewhere safe while this goes down," Parker said, after a sip of his coffee. "I've got an apartment in town, but Taggart knows about it, so—"
"I told you, I'm not going anywhere. That's why I'm here. We do this together."
He shook his head. "Just because you managed to dodge a few bullets doesn't make you super
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