Trace of Fever (29 page)

Not overly upset with the bloodshed, Priss said, “Oh.”

“Stay put.” He caught her chin, his hold firm. “I mean it.”

“I won’t budge an inch.”

He searched her face, and decided she meant it. But just in case, he added, “If you move, you won’t like the consequences.”

She dismissed the threat without concern. “Go. I’m fine.”

Yeah, but only because Jackson was one hell of a sniper, and he’d had a clear shot through a window. Trace’s head still reeled over how easily Priss could have been hurt. Hadn’t he told her a hundred times that he was more than capable of handling things?

And still she’d thrown herself in the way of danger.

Pushing that thought aside, Trace went about securing the scene in efficient haste. He handcuffed Belford’s unconscious body to the truck hitch and collected anything that could be used as a weapon.

All around him, abused women cowered. They stayed out of his way while watching him warily. If he’d had time to explain things to them, he would have.

Less than half a minute passed before he came back to Priss to press Belford’s gun into her hand. “You know how to use that?”

“Yep.” Distracted, she looked around at the women, and her heart showed in her eyes. Holding the gun loosely in one hand and, offering a tremulous smile, she said to the women, “It’ll be all right now. We’re here to help.”

God bless her. Trace knew he should be on his way but he couldn’t pull his gaze from her. Her beautiful hair hung tangled around her face. As she steadied herself in the torturous high-heeled shoes, a red swelling showed on her cheekbone, probably from where he’d taken her to the floor. Thanks to the dirty factory, she had a dead bug in her hair and cobwebs clinging to her dress.

Yet she was ready to take control.

“Trace,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Get a move on, will you?”

“Right.” After quick consideration, he told her, “Take them out that way. Don’t let them scatter, okay?” Trace indicated a door. “Jackson is out there so it’ll be safe enough.”

“Got it.” Glad for the instruction, Priss started to follow through, but she turned back with a frown. “Where did Alice go?”

Damn. Somehow, he’d lost track of her. Trace glanced over at Dugo’s body, and realized that when he’d collected weapons, Dugo’s had been missing.

“You’re a damned distraction, you know that?” He had to move—
now.
“Listen to me, Priss. Get them out of here, away from the building, and don’t trust anyone except Jackson. You understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Shoot if you have to.” He grabbed her by the back of the neck and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Be careful, Trace. Please.”

He would have told her that he was always careful, but he wasn’t willing to lose Murray. Gun in hand, he went in pursuit.

For once, he had to put Priss completely from his mind.

P
RISS’S HEART HAMMERED
in dread at how things had unfolded. Despite her palpating fears, she forced herself to patience as she got each and every woman out into the sunny yard. “Please trust me,” she called out to them. “I need you all to stay together, and I need you to move a safe distance away from this building.”

Under the circumstances there could be stray gunfire, and Priss didn’t want any of the women to inadvertently get in the way. She didn’t see Jackson anywhere, but she had no doubt at all that he’d keep them all safe from any direct threats.

Only problem was, if Jackson kept watch over them, he couldn’t help to keep Trace safe.

And Trace needed him more than they did.

He was alone with a madman, trying to maneuver through a web of dark and winding corridors in a collapsing factory. Murray could conceal himself around any corner and then attack when Trace came into view.

No, no, no.

Few men could boast of Trace’s skills; she had to keep reminding herself of that.

But could he be as ruthless and cold as Murray?

Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t give in to her worry. Trace had entrusted her with a job, and she would do it the best she could.

Right now, the women were rightfully panicked and so emotionally damaged that it ripped Priss’s heart to
shreds. They were a variety of ages with differing reactions, some appearing braver than others, some angry, a few crying. But none of them really knew what to think about their rescue.

With everyone safe outside, Priss put a hand to her eyes and surveyed the area. In the distance, she could hear police sirens. Thank God.

One woman stepped up. She stared at the gun Priss held. “We’re being let go?”

“Oh.” Those tears burned hotter, forcing her to blink quickly. On impulse, Priss reached out a hand to touch her arm—making sure to keep the gun behind her back. The woman was stiff, not very receptive, but she didn’t run away. “Yes, you are. I’m sorry we were unable to explain—with everything going on and the gunshots….”

The woman nodded tiredly. “The men who were shot—they were the ones responsible for…taking us?”

“I believe they were buyers.”

“One got away.”

Priss measured her reply. “That’s Murray Coburn, the one most responsible. But someone went after him.” Her stomach cramped anew thinking about what could happen. “Don’t worry. We won’t let him escape. You truly are safe now. I promise.”

“Thank you.” With a shaking hand the woman pushed dirty brown hair out of her face and looked around. “What now?”

“That building across the street. It looks abandoned.” Everything in the area was deserted, which is why it made such a great location for trafficking. “You could stay over there until the authorities arrive.” And then she’d be free to go after Trace.

“I’ll get everyone together.”

Before the woman walked away, Priss had to reassure her. “Just so you know, someone will be watching over
you. One of the good guys, I swear. He won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

“The sharpshooter.”

“Yes.” Jackson had been rather effective with his aim. “He’ll stay close until after the police arrive and take control of everything.”

Trace had never fully explained, but Priss assumed that he and Jackson would want to stay anonymous. Being drawn into a trial would only expose them. How effective could they be as undercover heroes if everyone knew about them?

Likely, Trace planned to pull back before the cops got on the scene. Though she wouldn’t take anything for granted, Priss hoped he took her with him. She didn’t relish explaining her role in all this, or dredging up stories of her mother,
or
explaining why she had hidden weapons with her.

And really, there’d be dead bodies left behind—but only those men who deserved to die.

As proof, someone started softly sobbing. Another woman crooned to her. Hurt, bound by their experience, they pulled together.

Never in her life had Priss witnessed so much misery. Her mother’s pain had been great, but tempered by time.

This pain, so fresh and raw, was nearly unbearable. “They’ll all pay,” Priss whispered, almost choking on emotion. And those damn tears leaked out to burn down her cheeks. “I swear they will.”

The women didn’t seem to hear. With a stilted walk, one woman went to another and gathered her close. She started them all across the street to meager safety.

Angrily, Priss scrubbed at her face, wiping away the tears. Later, she’d no doubt bawl her eyes out. But right
now, she had to be backup for Trace, and she had to find poor Alice.

Retracing her steps through the factory proved difficult in the mega-high heels and too-tight dress. She headed in the direction that Murray and Trace had gone, but ran into steps, heaps of crumbling bricks and broken machinery.

The dark hallways seemed to go on forever. At first, she didn’t worry about making noise. But when she heard something, a faint sound, she quieted.

With both hands she held the gun at the ready. Prickling sweat gathered at her nape, and her lungs labored on hot, dusty air. Like the steady rhythm of a base drum, her heartbeat sounded in her ears.

She’d never shot anyone before, but she’d be happy to make Murray her first.

Hearing another sound, an indistinguishable dull thud, Priss crept farther along the hallway. It opened into a yawning room cluttered with busted shelving and empty boxes. Very little light penetrated the blackened windows, leaving everything eerily dim and shadowed. Eyes wide, Priss stopped just inside the door and listened again.

The next sound she heard was definitely a grunt.

She moved through the shadows to the farthest side of the room and found Trace and Murray battling. Murray was thicker in every way. He was also bleeding out of his nose, from the corner of his mouth and from a cut on his forehead.

Murray’s gun had been knocked to the floor, and as he made a move toward it, Trace’s foot hit him in the face, sending him reeling back. He floundered into a mountain of empty, splintered wooden flats. They crashed down around him, causing a deafening racket.

His own gun drawn, Trace started toward him. He would kill Murray now.

Bile burned up the back of Priss’s throat. Her hands went cold but damp as she lifted the gun and stepped forward. “Move away from him, Trace.”

Trace froze, cursed softly—and stayed put. “Get out of here, Priss.”

“I can’t.”

Without looking at her, he said, “I won’t let you do this.”

Priss understood his predicament. He didn’t dare take his attention from Murray, but she was now on the scene, ruining his plans.

Too bad. They were her plans long before he’d ever learned of Murray.

“Move.” She swallowed hard, doing her best to fight back churning nausea. “I mean it, Trace. I might not be the best shot and I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”

He widened his stance. Tone cold and commanding, he said, “Put down the gun and walk away.”

“Sorry…no.” Her knees started to shake. A peculiar weakness overtook her, making her shake all over.

Sprawled on the floor, Murray studied her, and laughed. “Oh, God, this is rich.”

“Shut up.” She took another step forward…and stumbled.

He dared to smile at her. “Why, Priscilla?”

She shook her head and Trace, damn him, still hadn’t moved. Her palms felt slick with sweat. An unnerving chill crawled up her spine. The gun was starting to feel far too heavy.

She needed to end this!

But she couldn’t shoot Murray with Trace standing there. Never would she risk him. “Trace,” she pleaded.

“Enlighten me,” Murray insisted. He half sat up, leaning on one arm. “I mean, I know why I wanted rid of Trace. He knows too much about me for me to let him go,
but a man like him would never be content as my lackey. Eventually he would have challenged me.”

“No.” Trace shifted slightly. “You have nothing I want, Murray. From the day I met you, my only intent has been to destroy you.”

“No shit?” He wiped blood from his mouth. “I always did say you were good. But why come after me?”

“My sister was taken by traffickers.”

Priss knew it was true, and still it stunned her. Why was he sharing this now? Why couldn’t he just get out of her way?

“Huh?” With the back of his hand, Murray wiped blood from his left eye. “I had something to do with that?”

“No. Those involved with her kidnapping are all dead.”

How could Trace sound so calm, so detached?

“Then why the hell are we here?” Murray asked.

Priss shouted, “Because you’re a monster!”

Unconcerned with her loss of control, Murray snorted, “Can you be more specific?”

She meant to shout again, but the words squeezed out around a lump in her throat, barely above a whisper. “You—you killed my mother.”

His disdain couldn’t be more obvious. “I killed a lot of people,” he snapped. “For clarity, I need you to be more specific still.”

As Priss gasped in pain and started to squeeze the trigger, Trace stepped in front of Murray, blocking her.

She cried out in frustration. “Trace!”

“I’m not letting you shoot him, honey.”

“Honey? Does that mean you two are in cahoots?” Murray leaned to look around Trace. “Priscilla, have you been fucking my number-one bodyguard?”

Trace’s boot connected with Murray’s chin again.

His head snapped back and he slumped on the floor,
fuming and cursing and spitting blood. “Son-of-a-bitch.” He said, almost with admiration, “You are so fucking fast. I didn’t see that coming.”

“I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” He scoffed at them both. “She plans to do that anyway.”

Priss didn’t want to cry; she didn’t want to give Murray the satisfaction of seeing how he’d affected her. But the hurt was deep inside her, ripping her in two. He’d done so much damage, destroyed so many lives, and yet he remained cavalier about it all.

The gun grew more cumbersome, her arms weaker, her heart as heavy as lead.

“I think you broke my jaw.” Murray struggled to sit upright again. “So, Priscilla, your mother was my first?”

Priss shook her head. “I don’t know and I don’t care. You need to be dead.”

“We’ll see. Until then, at least tell me if I’m your father.”

She managed a shrug. “Don’t know, and don’t care.”

“So Helene was right? Instead of waiting, I should have killed her before we left the office.” The shock of that was still sinking in on Priss when he continued. “I guess it’s hard to pinpoint a sperm donor with so many participating.”

Priss bit her bottom lip to still the telltale reaction to his callous news; Helene hadn’t been much better than Murray, and she got what she deserved.

So why did hearing it cause her so much distress?

Ready to be done with it all, Priss lifted the gun, but as she moved, Trace did, too—and Murray escaped further repercussions for his foul mouth.

Priss didn’t know how much more she could take. “Trace,
please
get out of the way.”

“Not going to happen.” Never looking back at her, he hesitated, and said, “It’s not for you to do this, honey.”

“It’s not for you, either!”

“No.” Alice stepped out of the shadows. “Killing him will be my privilege.” Unlike Priss, she didn’t waver. She didn’t look weak or emotional. She held the gun out straight, her finger on the trigger, her normally plain face now hard with iron will.

“This is bullshit!” Murray railed.

Trace cursed—and started backing toward Priss. “Alice, you don’t want to do this.”

“I’m not her, Trace. You can’t talk your way around me. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. I’ve been waiting for someone like you, someone who wasn’t totally corrupt. This is the first chance I’ve had, and no one is going to stop me.”

Mesmerized, Priss watched as Alice smiled, a genuine smile of anticipation.

Trace backed up until Priss had to go on tiptoe to see over his shoulder. “Hear those sirens, Alice? The police are on their way. It’s over for Murray. Why don’t you give me the gun, and then we can all get out of here?”

“No.”

“Fucking police, Trace?” Murray mocked. “Really?”

He probably realized that they wouldn’t be able to hold him. Not with his connections, not with his far-reaching influence. Somehow he’d worm out of the charges; there would be a technicality, others would take the blame for him, or someone would get paid off by scumbag lawyers.

Priss held the gun tighter. She wouldn’t let that happen. This ended with Murray today—here, right now.

“You won’t be seeing the police, Murray.” Trace crowded her back, away from Murray and Alice. “You’ll be dead before they get here.”

“You’ll let me shoot him?” Priss asked.

“No.” His shoulders went rigid. “I’ll take care of it.”

Murray’s gaze darted around the room, from Priss to Trace and finally, maybe because she was so silent now, he settled on Alice. “How about we agree that no one should kill me?”

Several things happened at once.

Trace turned fast and snatched the gun out of Priss’s hand.

Before she could protest that, Murray vaulted to his feet.

And Alice, without hesitation, shot him in the middle of his chest. Once, twice, a third time. Each strike sent him back a step.

With the blast still echoing around the cold, dark room, Murray went utterly still. Eyes unseeing and mouth gaping, he wavered on his feet, and then buckled backward in an awkward heap.

Dead.

While crimson blood blossomed over Murray’s expensive dress shirt and spread out in a puddle beneath his corpulent body, the smile faded from Alice’s face.

Priss stared in shock at the carnage. It was over, and she’d had nothing at all to do with it.

That would have been devastating beyond measure, except that Alice slipped down to her knees and her sudden, wrenching sobs would shred the coldest heart.

Trace’s hand on Priss’s arm tensed with emotion. “Alice…”

“No. No, no,
no!
” Alice pounded her fist on her thigh. “It doesn’t—doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” And with that, she started to turn the gun on herself. Priss gasped, and Trace started toward her, but he wouldn’t be in time.