Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

What if Trace didn’t come back to her? She pressed her palms against her eye sockets, but still she saw her mother’s haunted face, the unrelenting fear that ate away at her peace of mind and her sanity.

  Sure, Trace had mad skills. No one could deny that. But he couldn’t dodge a sniper’s bullets, or fend off a sneak attack, and Murray was capable of anything. Every supervillain she’d ever seen in a movie crowded back into her brain. Though she tried to block the thoughts and the images, they flickered with the vividness of a colorized movie reel—ways of torturing, of disposing of bodies, of murder and mayhem and sickness.

  The fear wasn’t for herself, but for Trace.

  Instead of Jackson babysitting her, he should be used as backup. If she knew where Jackson hid himself, she’d go to him and demand he do just that.

  But she didn’t know the guy, and being blond described about a third of the drunks tripping in and out of the bar next door.

  With nothing else to do, Priss went to the couch and flopped down on her back. She covered her eyes with a forearm and concentrated on how Trace had kissed her, where he’d touched her.

  It had all been so incredibly…intense. And intimate. More intimate than anything she’d ever known.

  She wanted him. Bad. She hadn’t known such want existed, but now she’d met Trace and he’d done something to her, tainted her brain or stirred up her dormant sexuality or…something.

  She wanted more. A lot more. With Trace.

  He had to come back. He just had to.

  But if he didn’t, she’d still get to Murray—one way or another.

  “HOW’D YOU GET THE SHINER?”

  Trace shut the office door behind him and stalked over to stand by the enormous window. Heavy storm clouds had rolled in, bringing the dark of night earlier than usual. The weather matched his mood.

  He stared down at Murray in his seat. Hatred wormed through his heart, but he kept his expression temperate. “Three guys showed up at Priscilla’s apartment.”

  One of Murray’s brows climbed high. He covered his surprise quickly. “Three men you say? And all you got was a single punch in the eye?”

  Trace shook his head. “No. Priscilla did that earlier.”

  Murray lost his relaxed pose. “The hell you say.”

  “Just a disagreement.” He wanted to settle the issue of the thugs, not talk about Priss and her tendency—and talent—for violence. “Not a big deal.”

  Raising a hand, Murray stalled Trace’s effort to talk about his henchmen. “Did you strike her back?”

  Bastard. He couldn’t keep the frown off his face. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s your daughter.”

  Murray’s eyes narrowed as he studied Trace. “There is that, I suppose.”

  “And a hit from me would do her real damage. Maybe even kill her.”

  “You’re a man of control.” Murray shook his head. “You can discipline without damaging. And the truth is, an unruly woman can benefit from a slap every now and then. If nothing else, it damages her pride enough to keep her in line.”

  Maintaining his relaxed pose was impossible. Trace paced to the front of the desk and redirected Murray’s malice. “Your three buffoons barely touched me, but they’re not going to be much good to you anytime in the near future.”

  Irritation put a twitch in Murray’s jaw. “You didn’t kill them?”

  “Not without a direct order from you, no.” He waited for Murray to deny sending them, but he didn’t. “Did you want them dead? That’s why you sent them after me?”

  Instead of answering that, Murray asked, “How bad are they hurt?”

  “Some broken bones, probably a few concussions. I stuck them back in the car and last I saw, they were limping off to the hospital.”

  Murray sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. For several seconds, he looked stunned before outrage took over. Slamming his hands down on the desk, he cursed. “You won’t kill them, but you didn’t think to call me before rendering them useless?”

  Now that Murray had lost his cool, Trace regained his. Hell, he enjoyed seeing Murray riled. “I’m telling you now. Without knowing for sure if you sent them, or why, I was left to my own discretion. If you want me to bother you with every little detail that comes up, just say so.” He shrugged. “But I was under the impression that you wanted me to handle shit.”

  Murray’s face reddened with bluster. “I do, damn it.”

  “They were shit,” Trace explained. “They’ve been handled.”

  For a full minute Murray fumed in silence while Trace stood there, waiting, almost hoping the bastard would attack so that he could end this damned farce.

  Instead, Murray rocked back in his chair and guffawed. “I’ll be damned.”

  The mercurial mood swings were not a good thing. They made Murray all the more unpredictable and dangerous because you couldn’t gauge his reaction. “So I should assume this was no more than another of your tests?”

  Grinning, again dodging a direct answer, Murray pointed at Trace’s face. “You say Priscilla blackened your eye, huh?”

  Trace touched his fingertips to the bruise. He couldn’t tell Murray what had really happened, or how adept Priss had been at almost escaping. “She took offense.”

  “Looks like.”

  “She threw a damned book at me.” A book, if it hit him the right way, could have done the damage, and it was more believable than the truth.

  Grinning hugely, Murray teased, “Came on a little strong, did you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Murray roared. “God, I love it.” He hit the intercom. “Alice, get Helene in here. I have something to share with her.”

  Damn and double damn. The day had been a cluster-fuck from the get go. All he needed now was Hell’s psychotic participation.

  A minute later, Helene strode in looking like a woman on a mission. Her eyes were always cold, but now…something was different. She looked glacial with loathing.

  Had Helene begun dipping into her own pharmaceutical concoctions? Hazardous. But that would explain a few things.

  A tight skirt hugged her long thighs, emphasized by the deadly height of her heels. Beneath her blouse, Trace could easily see her long, stiff nipples.

  Excited? About what?

  “Come in, sweetheart.” Murray motioned to her. “I have something to share with you.”

  Shaking back her long hair and propping a lush hip on the corner of Murray’s desk, Helene eyed Trace. “What happened to you?”

  “You’re going to love this,” Murray told her. With grand fanfare, he announced, “Priscilla attacked him.”

  “Not an attack,” Trace corrected, aware of Hell’s heightened attention. “More a loss of control.”

  His meaty paw high on her thigh, Murray leaned closer to Hell as if to share a confidence. “She threw a book at him.”

  Like a snake preparing to strike, Hell coiled, zeroing in her anticipation of cruelty. Even her tongue flickered out, serpentlike, to dampen her lips. Breathless with malicious desire, she whispered, “I could discipline her.”

  The offer repulsed Trace.

  It had the opposite reaction with Murray. He studied her with fresh interest. “I’ll think on it.”

  Like a kid given a special gift on Christmas, Helene rejoiced. “You mean it?” Off the desk, she rushed around to Murray and bent to kiss him. “Just give me the word and I’ll handle it. I know just what to do with her—”

  “Hush.” He put a finger to her lips. Looking past her to Trace, Murray laughed. “She gets into her work, doesn’t she?”

  Trace worked his jaw, words beyond him.

  “Oh-ho.” Murray pushed Helene back and stood with a rush of glee. “What’s this, Trace? You don’t want Helene near your little protégé?”

  Helene whipped around to glare at Trace. “What does it matter to you? She’s nothing. Less than nothing!”

  “She’s my daughter,” Murray reminded Helene. “And
that’s why Trace cares. Isn’t that right, Trace?”

  He gave a halfhearted shrug.

  Body rigid, Helene conceded the possibility of that, but still hissed to Trace, “Nothing to you personally.”

  “I’m charged with protecting her.”

  Helene leaned closer to him, her dilated eyes glittering, her breath sweet. “It’s none of your damn business.”

  Aware of Murray taking it all in, Trace clasped her arm and moved her out of his line of vision. “You misunderstand, Murray. Whatever you want to do with Priscilla is your business. It’s Helene’s twisted little heart that sort of sours my stomach.” And then to Helene, “It’s kind of pathetic, the way you get your jollies, don’t you think?”

  She lashed out. “Bastard!”

  Trace caught her wrist before her palm connected with his face. In front of Murray, uncaring, he wrested her into a chair none too gently. His hands squeezed her wrists, keeping her still. She’d be bruised later, and he didn’t give a damn.

  “Don’t ever,” he warned through his teeth, “try to slap me. You won’t like the consequences.”

  Helene gasped in air, equal parts furious and aroused.

  Psychotic bitch.

  Trace stepped away from her and turned to Murray, ready to explain if necessary, only to find him smiling his Cheshire cat grin.

  To Helene, Murray said, “Trace’s right, of course.” He took his suit coat from an ornate hook on the wall. “I’ll reprimand you later for that little display of rebellion.”

  Shit. Trace didn’t want to feel guilty about Helene. He glanced at her, but the threat of punishment had only stirred her more. A flush stained her skin and her eyes were heavy, smoky with lust.

  “You ready?” Trace asked Murray. He needed some fresh air in a bad way.

  “I am.” On his way to the door, Murray paused to stand over Helene. “And you…”

  Tremulous with excitement and fear, she flattened her back in the chair. “Yes?”

  Murray cupped her face. “I think you should go see Priscilla. Take some of your drugs, the ones that help expose the truth. Ferret out her feelings—on me, on Trace, and on sexual deviance. Don’t hurt her, but otherwise…have fun. I’ll touch base with you when I finish my business for the night.”

  His legs suddenly leaden, his heart missing a beat, Trace stood there, immobilized, sick. Murray didn’t trust him—didn’t trust anyone—and so his unending suspicions would never be satisfied. Trace’s instincts screamed for him to kill them both, right now, before they could touch Priss.

  What to do?

  Helene squealed like an excited schoolgirl. Leaping from her seat, she threw herself against Murray for a long, intimate, tongue-twining kiss.

  Hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, Trace slipped his hand into his pocket. If he could use his phone without Murray noticing, he could alert Jackson to the problem.

  But Murray released Hell and, anxious to be on his way, slapped Trace on the back. “Let’s go. You can drive. I don’t feel like taking an entourage tonight.”

  Think, Trace. Get it together. Forcing concentrated thought, he said, “You don’t want backup?”

  “You are my backup.” He glanced at Trace. “Think you can handle that?”

  “As long as we aren’t ambushed by an army, yeah, I can handle it.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on. I don’t want to alert anyone with a damn parade of cars or people. And I want to show this little fuck that I don’t need a contingent of men to demolish him.”

  “All right.” It was risky. Trace knew it, so Murray had to know it, too. He was counting on the buyer coming alone, or with only a few men. But then, Murray had gotten to his position in the game by leading the front lines. He wasn’t a coward; no, he was more like a bully, always up for cruelty, especially when he could administer it himself. Maybe this was how he fed his sickness, by taking part every so often.

  They left the office with Helene rushing past them. On her way to her own office, no doubt to gather the tools of her trade, she blew a kiss to Murray, and sent a look of fierce satisfaction at Trace.

  She would demolish Priss. Murray’s order not to hurt her just meant no broken bones or scars. Anything else was fair game.

  Helene would abuse her, sexually assault her, and leave her more destroyed than Priss could ever imagine. Priss had her strengths, but she wasn’t on a par with Helene.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Jackson was on the scene, and he could handle things, Trace knew it. But he wouldn’t leave this to chance.

  If necessary, he’d kill Murray. Tonight.

  While Murray mused over what would take place between the women, Trace calculated how much time he had. Jackson was in the area, and he had dossiers on all the key players, including Helene. He’d recognize her if he saw her.

  They were still in the garage when Helene rushed down and got into her own sporty little BMW convertible. From the passenger seat, Murray watched her, smiling in indulgence, rubbing his thigh, calculating.

  Trace started the car. “You might not have a daughter left when Helene finishes with her.”

  “She knows better,” Murray murmured. “Helene is something. Pity she’s so unstable.”

  What the hell did that mean? Helene pulled out ahead of them at top speed, her tires squealing, her long hair blowing back with the top down.

  It wasn’t until they’d nearly reached their destination that Murray got a phone call, distracting him enough for Trace to send Jackson the code. He prayed he was in time, and when he got a single hum of the phone in reply, he knew Jackson was on it.

  Murray was so involved in a heated debate with someone that he paid no attention at all, either to Trace’s use of the phone in his pocket, or the single, barely detectable sound of reply.

  But Trace was a world-class multitasker. He not only got the message to Jackson, he caught every word of Murray’s conversation.

  A supply of women would be coming in very soon. Twelve of them, all young, and all American. The specifics were vague, but Trace knew they could be anywhere from sixteen years old up to thirty. They would be attractive, and right now, they’d be frightened beyond measure.

  Priss would be safe, but with this new information, the restriction in Trace’s chest didn’t ease much. He had to find out when the exchange would take place. He had to. Once the women were dispersed, finding them again would be nearly impossible.

  But for now, he had to put on the show Murray expected. If he blew it, he failed everyone, Dare and Jackson, Priss and the females who would be sold.

  In a nearly deserted part of town, where only vagrants and addicts would roam, Murray directed him into the front lot of a building that claimed to be an employment agency. The crumbling brick building, enclosed by high chain-link fencing, had been reduced to rubble in sections with only the central part of the structure still holding. Opaque windows, bars on the front door, and security cameras everywhere left no doubt that it was monitored…by someone.

  A second, more substantial fence was topped with razor wire, facing in, not out. Anyone with a good eye would wonder why an employment agency wanted to keep applicants in, rather than keep out criminal elements.

  Trace already knew the reason. The agency was a criminal operation preying on immigrants and minors of both sexes. Sometimes the victims were runaways and neglected teenagers, sadly labeled throwaways, though he could never think of them that way. Kids with their fair share of bad luck already heaped on them made easy prey.

  Trace’s muscles clenched. He’d seen too much to ever be immune to the plight of those enslaved by others.

  He’d seen hotels where repressed workers wouldn’t look him in the eye, where others spoke no English at all, making one wonder how they applied for the job, and what hopes they might have had when they’d first come to the country. He’d seen restaurants with kitchens hiding labor exploitation.

  And he’d had his own sister snatched away as punishment against him b
ecause he cared about the victims caught up in human trafficking. Hell, he cared about all victims.

  He especially cared about Priss.

  The new batch of females were likely down on their luck with no family or close friends to notice their disappearance. They had no one—but they had him.

  And he would not let them down.

  Little by little, law enforcement was catching up with the growing issue of human trafficking. Many cities now had programs to train social workers, religious outreach groups, educators and Hispanic community advocates. They learned how to spot, and where to report, signs of trafficking.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Only by ridding the world of the key players would they ever make a dent.

  “Fucking asshole.” Murray closed his phone and slapped it down on the dash.

  “Problem?” Trace asked.

  “I lost part of my cargo.”

  A vise closed around Trace’s heart. “Come again?”

  Murray stewed for a moment before taking his phone back up and stowing it in his pocket. “The idiot forgot to ventilate the trailer.” He glanced at Trace. “One of the bitches died.”

  So he’d failed after all, before he’d even had a chance to make a difference.

  “I’ll have to raise my price for the rest.” Murray opened the passenger door. “The buyer isn’t going to like it, so on top of teaching him not to negotiate an already negotiated deal, you might have to stress the importance of being a game player.”

  “No problem.” Trace could stress things all right. Gladly. And when it came time to kill Murray, he just might take his time and enjoy it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALTHOUGH HE STAYED alert and ready for anything that might happen, Jackson seemed relaxed as he sat back against a rock wall. He wore his cowboy hat low, had his boots crossed at the ankles, a knapsack rested beside him and he’d been nursing the same beer—mostly a prop—for over an hour.

  Some men got bored when on surveillance. Not Jackson. He lived for this shit. He loved it. Fine-tuning his instincts hadn’t taken as long as it might for some. By being forced into the right spot, at the right time, he’d learned that he was born to kick ass, to protect.