Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  “Names that’d scorch your pretty little ears.” He urged her forward. “Now come on.”

  He marched her right past the people, and Priss did her best not to make eye contact with anyone. One woman stopped molesting the man with her and instead glared at Jackson.

  Filled with scorn, she propped her hands on her hips and said loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear, “I thought you said sex was against your religion?”

  He tipped a make-believe hat at her. “Yeah, but see, she converted me.”

  Priss wanted to kill him. She held his big cowboy hat in front of her thighs until they’d passed the people, and then she held it over her behind.

  “Not sure the hat is big enough for that.”

  Steam came out her ears. “You—”

  “Just saying you have curves, honey.” Jackson laughed as he moved her around ahead of him. “How ’bout I’ll be your cloak?”

  He’d already seen every inch of her, so Priss agreed with that solution. But damned if she’d thank him.

  He paused at a door to unlock it, stepped in to turn on lights and survey the room, then drew her in. “Have a seat.” He locked everything back up again. “I’ll grab you a blanket or something.”

  For that, she did thank him. Watching him walk away, she noted his long-legged stride, the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. His blond hair was a little too long, sun-streaked and wind-blown, and…appealing.

  Was Trace’s sister sweet on him? Given all she’d heard, Priss had to think so.

  He returned with a flannel shirt, a blanket and a pair of cotton boxers. “Not exactly haute couture, but it’ll get you more covered than you are now. Those shorts have an open fly, though, so button ’em up.”

  Priss took the clothes, and when he just stood there, she shoved him in the chest. “Go away.”

  Amused once again, he touched a bruise on his forehead. “Yes, ma’am.” On his way to the kitchenette, he asked, “Something to eat or drink?”

  The way he acted, this could have been a routine social gathering. He was even more cavalier than Trace, and definitely as cocky.

  She sighed. “Both.” Eating would give them both something to do.

  “Coming right up.”

  Priss pulled on the shorts first. They were loose in the waist, but snug in the butt. “So tell me, what’s with the cowboy gear? I heard you were like a beach bum or something.”

  He stiffened, then looked over his shoulder at her. “The clothes are cover.” When she squawked, he lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. It’s, uh, hard not looking.”

  “You’re a pig!”

  “Nah. It’s just that I admire the female form.”

  “That’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard!” It could have come straight from one of the cheap pornos.

  “I’ll have you know I’m sincere, and I have plenty of artwork around my place that proves it.”

  “Bunch of nudie posters?” Priss guessed.

  “No, smart-ass. Real art.” He kept his back to her, but his ears lifted with his grin. “But, yeah, nudes.”

  “Figures.” She pulled on the flannel and wrapped it around herself. She wasn’t really cold, but her skin prickled. Probably nerves. She had just escaped…something.

  “Gotta tell you, sweet, a photo of you fresh from the shower would go real nice.”

  Priss snorted. “If it’s a photo you want, you should ask Trace.” She was still rankled over that. “He’s holding on to one.”

  “No shit?” Jackson half turned.

  Now that she’d donned the clothes he gave her, she didn’t mind his attention. “Undercover, you said? As a cowboy in Ohio?”

  “Whatever. It was workin’ just fine.” He went back to the fridge. “Who told you I look like a beach bum?”

  He sounded irritated, but so what? His endless good humor was beginning to rub her the wrong way. “Molly.”

  “Ahh. Nice gal.”

  She looked at his bronzed shoulders and the deep grove of his spine down his back. “You gotta admit, you have the tan for it.”

  “Most of it is natural coloring. Everyone in my family is dark.” He ran a hand over his head. “Despite the blond hair.”

  “So you’re not a sunbather?”

  “Never said that.” He cleared his throat. “You know Alani?”

  “I know you two are sweet on each other.”

  “What?” Again he whipped around to see her, and almost dropped a package of lunch meat. “Where’d you hear that?”

  She sat on his couch and tucked the blanket around her. Outside, the rain started in earnest. If it had come a few minutes earlier, she might have been spared the audience during her arrival. Of course, she’d now be wet and miserable, so…

  “Stop daydreaming.”

  “Oh.” She looked away from the window. “I was in the car with Trace and heard his side of the conversation with you. Sounded clear enough to me.”

  “Apparently not, cuz I’m not sweet on her. What kind of dumb-ass thing is that to say? I like her, sure, even though she’s not the easiest lady to be around.”

  “No?”

  Jackson didn’t seem to hear her. He continued on as he pulled food from the tiny fridge and piled it on the counter. “She has her reasons for being prickly, and I know it.”

  “Those reasons are?”

  “And there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want her. She’s about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sweet about anything.” He scoffed. “That sounds like some adolescent bullshit or something.”

  “You have a very limited vocabulary.”

  “My balls still hurt. It’s affecting my brain.”

  “Your brain is located a little low, isn’t it?”

  He paused, then laughed. Shaking a loaf of bread at her, he said, “Good one. I’ll have to try to remember this sharp wit of yours.”

  “If you want sharp wit, you need to meet Chris.”

  “Met him. Like him.” He stuck his head back in the fridge and came out with cheese. “And yeah, he’s funny, too.”

  “So what exactly do you plan to do with all that food?” He now had two or three types of lunch meat and two cheeses set out, along with a variety of condiments, pickles, lettuce and half of a tomato.

  “I’m a man of many talents, baby.” He gave a bow. “So I’m fixing us some dinner. Don’t know about you, but skin-of-my-teeth escapes always make me hungry.”

  Priss thought about it, then pushed up from the couch. “I’m hungry, too. And that was rather skin-of-our-teeth, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her a once-over. “You’re handling it pretty well.”

  Inside, she shook horribly. But she’d lived her life hiding from others, so she wasn’t about to bare her emotions for someone she barely knew. “Should I be crying?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” He popped a slice of cheese into his mouth. “Crying women make me horny.”

  Priss rolled her eyes and leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Guess because I like playing the macho role.” Jackson turned back to the counter. “And speaking of that—back at your place, it was close but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”

  She believed him. “I suppose you’d have handled things, however necessary.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “And that, I assume, is why you’re working with Dare and Trace.” She took the bread from him. “The more I learn of this elite organization—” an organization that could rescue, or kill, as the need demanded “—the more I like it.”

  “That’s good.” Jackson took out a knife to slice the tomato. “Because I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AS THEY WENT AROUND to the side to enter a dank, dark section of the building, foul odors assaulted Trace’s nose. It was the smell of age, mold and…fear. “I take it this isn’t where people apply for a job.�
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  Murray snickered. “We’re sure as hell not going to march in the front door.” He pressed up too close to Trace’s back. “Most think this section is condemned. No one comes in here.”

  “I can see why.” Like an old factory, the brick interior walls led through hallway after hallway, all narrow, all dirty and crumbling and dark. After some maneuvering they reached a room where large, idle machinery, now in disrepair, sat in a twisted heap of metal.

  More than half the bulbs were missing from overhead light fixtures, and drafts through broken windows sent shadows moving and dancing, stretching out over the concrete floor.

  Trace stopped to listen.

  “I don’t like this,” Murray complained. “Maybe I needed more guards after all.”

  “You don’t need anyone besides me.”

  “Damn you, you are so cocksure of yourself.” His gaze darted around the room. “I like that.”

  Keeping watch for anything that moved, breathed or seemed out of place, Trace stepped ahead of Murray. “Stay put a minute.”

  Few ever dared give Murray orders, but all he said was, “Sensing a trap?”

  “Just uneasy with the setup. It’s too dark and there are too many points of egress.”

  “Got your gun?”

  “I’m not an idiot.” Trace continued on with his easy stride along the perimeter of the room.

  Sounding irritated, Murray said, “Think you ought to get it out and ready?”

  “It’s ready. I’m ready.” And talking was a distraction. “Wait here.” He heard a click and looked back to see that Murray had not only armed himself, but had his gun at the ready.

  Would he shoot Trace in the back? Doubtful. The threat Trace felt didn’t come from Murray. Not right now.

  At the far end of the room, behind rusted metal shelving, Trace’s keen gaze detected a shadow that didn’t belong. One shadow, one man.

  Very manageable.

  “Enough of this bullshit. I see you, and I have no patience for games.”

  A hulk of a man, head clean-shaven, fully armed, emerged from the shadows. “Not a game.” Like Trace, he left his gun in the holster. “Just ensuring the safety of this meeting.”

  Trace gave the behemoth a quick glance, noting the tense way he held himself, the steroid muscles and nervous eye movements. He dismissed him. “You’re not the guy we’re here to talk to. Where is he?”

  “Mr. Belford had the suspicion that he could be in danger for negotiating the price.”

  “The price is set, and there are no negotiations. A smart businessman should know that.”

  “Can you guarantee me he’ll be safe?”

  Trace let his grin come slowly. “No.”

  Startled, the big man finally reached for his gun, but Trace didn’t give him a chance to get it. In one fluid move, his bowie knife left the sheath, flew from his hand and embedded in the shoulder of Belford’s bodyguard. The thug yelled and dropped his gun, and seconds later Trace had him in a stranglehold, one arm tight around his thick throat, his fist on the hilt of the knife. He twisted just enough to wring another howl from his target.

  “Where’s your boss?” When the man hesitated, Trace applied pressure to the knife.

  “Gawd, enough! Okay, okay. He’s tucked away safe in another room.”

  Chickenshit move—but with rightful concern. “Which way?”

  “South corridor. Four rooms down.”

  In the darkness, with so many separate cubbyhole rooms to choose from, Belford might have slipped out one of the many broken windows before they found him. The yard was as disjointed as the interior, with plenty of avenues of escape.

  “How were you to alert him?” No way in hell would a cell phone work in the bowels of the towering brick factory.

  “Walkie-talkie, on my belt.”

  Trace looked to Murray. He’d put away his piece and now stood with arms crossed, expression studious. “Call him.”

  Nodding, Trace squeezed his arm closer around the man’s throat. “Tell him it’s all good. Get him here.” When the big guy started to move, Trace warned, “Slowly.”

  With appropriate caution, the man withdrew the walkie-talkie and pressed a button. “All secure, Boss.”

  Through the scratchy receiver, Belford said, “Deal is set?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Showing too much anxiety, the man said, “It’s fine.”

  “You’re saying they agreed to my price?”

  Near the man’s ear, Trace whispered, “Tell him we’re willing to talk about it.” Claiming the terms were agreed upon without further negotiation would be absurd—and a clear tip-off that things weren’t right.

  After more discussion, arrangements were made. With Belford on his way, Trace said to the guy, “Time to sleep.”

  Alarm racked the big man before Trace tightened his arm brutally, squeezing until he went limp. He was a heavy load, and once he passed out, Trace let him drop without much concern for how he landed on the concrete floor. As he went down, Trace grabbed the hilt of his knife. It came free as if slipping from butter.

  He wiped it off on the front of the man’s dress shirt.

  Blood oozed from the wound to form a puddle on the floor. Trace wasted no time securing his victim’s feet together and his arms behind his back with nylon restraints. He shoved the body back, ensuring Belford wouldn’t see it as he entered the room.

  Murray joined Trace. “Nice work.”

  Trace came back to his feet and looked toward the south corridor.

  “He could bleed to death,” Murray mused.

  “Do you care? Because I don’t.”

  “No skin off my nose. Good riddance to them both.” Murray spat on the downed fellow, then looked around the room and made a sound of disgust. “Hard to believe the bastard keeps the women in this hellhole.”

  Trace couldn’t stop himself from an expression of disbelief. Murray had just given away valuable info. But more startling than that was the idea that he cared how the women were treated.

  Imagining them, frightened, mistreated, being kept in the cold, raw room filled Trace with disgust and brought up even more disturbing, dangerous images of his sister in a similar situation. His fists tightened enough to crack his knuckles.

  A chill emanated from the concrete floors and the rough brick walls hung with cracked cement, cobwebs and worse. The windows were either blackened with smoke, or jagged death traps of broken glass.

  Going for a tone of impartiality, Trace said, “I suppose it’s as good as any other prison.”

  “Maybe. But what’s the point of me giving him quality merchandise if he’s only going to foul it up in this place? A smart businessman would secure cleaner, and more secure, accommodations.”

  That Murray referred to women as articles of trade always rankled Trace. But he agreed with the security issue. He nodded toward the windows. “It’d take twenty-four-hour surveillance to keep anyone from making a run for it.”

  “He’s not that dumb. He stores them in the windowless basement. This room is like day care in comparison.”

  Another piece of information. Trace hid his rage beneath curiosity. “You’ve seen the basement?”

  Murray lifted one massive shoulder. “In years past, I used it a few times myself. But not since I’ve…refined my business.”

  A tendril of something dark and sinister slithered down Trace’s spine. Had Priss’s mother been kept here? Had she been one of Murray’s first victims? When possible, he’d check to see how long the factory had been shut down.

  “Here he comes.” Trace nodded toward the empty corridor.

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Just wait.”

  Seconds later, a shadow elongated and morphed into the shape of a man.

  Trace took the lead, stepping in front of Murray and asking, “Mr. Belford?”

  “Yes.” Beady eyes darted around the room. “Where’s Dugo?”

  Assuming it was Dugo now passed out on the floor, out of sight, Trace to
ok a few more steps forward. “Don’t worry about that right now.” He caught Belford’s arm. “I’m sure you understand if we utilize some security precautions.”

  Belford tried to take a hasty step back. “What do you mean?”

  “Simple pat down, that’s all.” Trace kept his hold tight. “Gotta make sure you’re not carrying.”

  “Oh.” His gaze moved past Trace to Murray. “I understand. Of course.”

  Trace went through the motions, but Belford had no more than a wallet, cell phone and the required walkie-talkie on his person.

  To further alarm the prick, Trace relieved him of all three, moving them well out of his reach.

  Murray smiled. “Come, Belford. Join us.”

  More skittish by the moment, Belford stepped forward—and saw Dugo bleeding on the floor. “Dear God, you’ve murdered him!”

  “He’s alive,” Trace told him. And then, because he had to know, he asked, “Anyone else in the building?”

  “No.” Belford shook his head in dismay. “No one.”

  “Be damn sure you tell me the truth. Because if I find out otherwise—”

  “I believe,” Murray said, “that my man wants to know if you currently have any women occupying the basement.”

  Belford shook his head again. “No. It’s…well, it’s set up for the cargo I’ll get from you. That is, if—if we still have a deal?”

  “We do,” Murray told him. “At the original price we agreed upon.”

  “Oh, but I thought…” Gulping, he glanced at Dugo. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  When Dugo stirred, Trace shut down Belford’s hopes, saying, “He’s not going to save you, so forget it.”

  “Right.” Running a hand over his head, then over his gut, Belford cleared his throat. “Well, if everything is settled, then…”

  Trace saw the gleam in Murray’s eyes. Belford might not understand it, but Trace knew exactly what that look meant: bloodshed, abuse, devastation.

  For once, he didn’t mind. If anyone needed a little devastation it was Belford.

  Casually, Trace moved into position behind him. A worm like Belford didn’t deserve a direct face-off.

  When Murray nodded, Belford tried to bolt. Trace halted him with a shattering punch to his kidneys and Belford, after bowing forward, collapsed in on himself to join his man on the floor.