Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  And Alice. Somehow, difficult as the prospect might be, she wanted to help her, too.

  Murray started a conversation on his power and connections that sounded more like a veiled threat than anything else. Priss pretended to listen, but instead she kept stealing glances at Trace. Because he looked alert and tense, but not really worried, Priss decided that she wouldn’t worry, either.

  He constantly scanned the area. Murray probably thought the diligence was part of Trace’s normal vigilance, but Priss wondered if he watched for something specific.

  Like maybe Jackson. Or the police.

  “Planning to shoot someone?” Trace suddenly asked.

  Priss didn’t understand until she realized that Murray had pulled a gun and had it resting across his knee—aimed at her.

  Her breath strangled in her throat.

  With his usual smarmy smile, Murray shrugged. “Only if necessary.”

  TRACE LET HIS INSTINCTS kick in. He kept things cool, detached, as he finished the ride to the factory.

  Fulfilling her role, Priss gaped at the gun. “Oh, my. Is this trip dangerous?”

  As if he bought her acting, Murray laughed. “Yes, child.” And then, with ominous overtones: “More dangerous for some than others.”

  “Then I’m very glad you’re prepared.”

  “Is that right?” Murray grinned. “What about you, Trace? Are you glad?”

  Maybe Murray was onto him, or maybe he just wanted to be rid of Priss. Either way, Trace wouldn’t make it easy for him. “It’s unnecessary, because I can handle things, but I understand your caution.”

  Proving he didn’t see Priss as a threat, Murray looked out the side window. “Yes. I thought you might.”

  Trace considered things, and decided that Murray wouldn’t shoot Priss in his own car. Too many complications waited down that road: DNA evidence, false registration on the vehicle, even the clean up.

  No, if Murray truly felt susceptible and chose to shoot anyone, he’d shoot Trace first. And knowing that, accepting that—at least for right now—Priss was safe enough, made it possible for him to keep up appearances.

  Beside him, Alice closed her eyes and fisted her hands. She looked ready to come unhinged at any moment. Murray had bullied her one time too many, leaving her fragile and emotionally drained. Trace wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  He glanced back at Priss and, though she smiled, he saw a taut expression on her face.

  No fear or panic for her. When most would be falling apart, Priss reacted as he did—with cold anger.

  Damn it, he did not want to admire that about her. He was trained, and she was not.

  But in this situation, fear and panic could do her in. Rage, on the other hand, just might see her through this as long as she could keep her wits. His money was on Priss. With any luck, she’d follow his lead and they’d come out of this unscathed.

  “We should be there in a few minutes.” Trace glanced around the area again. Jackson had confirmed the code and would be within range, but he wasn’t visible. A good thing, that.

  Ohio lacked a human-trafficking task force but, to put a dent in the crime, county police were working with the federal law-enforcement agency, state and local police, and several social organizations. Through higher political contacts, Trace had an in with the county executive. That meant, with Jackson’s coordination of everything, the right people should show up at the right time to shut down Murray’s operation, ferret out all the involved parties, and keep Jackson and Trace clear of it.

  There was no one on the street and very little traffic when they reached the factory a few minutes later. This time, several cars were parked in the secured lot and, off to the side by the loading docks, an old semi idled.

  Trace knew what that semi meant, and judging by Alice’s face, so did she. Priss hadn’t yet noticed, and Trace prayed that she wouldn’t.

  “You get out first, Trace. Take Alice with you. Priscilla and I will follow.”

  While watching for a trap, Trace opened his seat belt. He touched Alice’s arm to get her moving. “Ready?”

  Tears swam in her eyes but she nodded and left the car.

  Near the hood, Trace moved in front of her just in case anyone decided to take a shot. They waited for Murray and Priss to join them.

  Though he wasn’t overt about it, Murray kept the gun on Priss as they exited through her door. Priss held something in her hand. It looked like a pink cell phone, but Trace knew better. Damn it, if she tried anything at all, it would precipitously set the chaos into motion.

  While Murray held her close and said something low into her ear, Trace caught her eye and ever so slightly shook his head to warn her off.

  She winked at him in return.

  Having witnessed the exchange, Alice muttered, “Oh, God.”

  “Quiet.” Trace moved forward, anxious to divert Murray away from Priss. “Why don’t I go in first, just in case it’s a trap?”

  Alice grabbed his arm in silent protest.

  Snickering, Murray said, “I don’t think so. You’ll stay where I can see you.” He slanted his gaze to Priss. “For everyone’s safety.”

  Priss finally noticed the big idling truck, and her green eyes lit with fire. For a second there, she stared and looked ready to self-combust. But she shook off the emotion. “If it’s truly dangerous, then I think you’re right. I’d rather Trace say close. He is your bodyguard, right?”

  Murray smiled at her. “Exactly.” He gestured with the gun toward the door near the semi.

  As Trace led the way, he marveled that Murray—who was usually so astute—could believe Priss was that vacuous.

  “Still no need for your gun?” Murray asked him.

  “Not yet, no.” He glanced back at Murray with a partial truth. “I’m fast. If I need to take a shot, it’ll be accurate.”

  “So goddamned confident.” He chuckled and prodded Priss ahead of him. “Have you ever known anyone that cocky?”

  Priss giggled. “I’m guessing you’re every bit as sure of yourself.”

  “True. With good reason.”

  Trace was barely in the door when Dugo, shoulder wrapped and forehead badly bruised, stepped into view. He saw no one else.

  Alice and Priss crowded in behind him, but Trace didn’t budge. Not yet.

  “How’s the shoulder, Dugo? I hope you got that looked at.”

  Dugo pointed a meaty finger at him. “You shut up.”

  Trace looked beyond him as Mr. Belford presented himself. He was barely upright, still in obvious pain. Shaking his head, Trace said, “Jesus, man, you look like you should be home in bed.”

  “I was,” Belford complained. “But plans got changed.”

  Ah, the phone call he’d overheard. Trace nodded. “And you wisely chose to man up and drag your sorry ass here?”

  Disgruntled with the insults, but unwilling to push it, Belford gave the slightest of shrugs. “Something like that, yes.”

  Murray forced his way in, shoving Priss and Alice aside. “The truck came in early. No choice.”

  Limping, Belford moved to lean on a wall. His face was so badly battered that he was almost unrecognizable.

  Priss, always on game, asked, “Whatever happened to you? Were you in a car wreck?”

  Alice groaned. She hovered close by Trace’s back, no doubt sensing he could, and would, protect her from Murray. Or at the very least, she found him to be less of a threat.

  Murray laughed. He looked at Priss, and laughed some more, almost bending double with hilarity.

  Frowning, Priss put her hands on her hips. “What is so funny?”

  Still amused, Murray wiped his eyes. “I’d say you’re priceless, but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate, would it?” His gaze skipped over to Belford’s. “What do you think?”

  That bastard straightened with new awareness, his swollen eyes directed on Priss. In the killer dress and fetish heels, her long reddish hair hanging loose, she looked like a walking w
et dream.

  Trace had no doubt that Belford would be interested.

  Bent like an old man, Belford pushed away from the wall and moved closer to size her up with his leering gaze. “A bonus?”

  “Ah, no. Never that.” Murray gripped Priss’s bare arm. “But I’m sure we can work out something.”

  Priss reacted as any young lady would when sensing imminent peril. Eyes wide and body stiffening, she leaned away from Murray as far as she could. Her voice sounded appropriately high when she asked, “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

  Murray jerked her closer again, almost tumbling her off her shoes. “I’ve decided, Priscilla, that you should see the…extent of my business.”

  “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with him?” She pointed at Belford.

  Trace watched her—and even though it amazed him, he knew that she wasn’t truly afraid. Again, that damned admiration hit him.

  Unbelievable.

  As Murray led her toward the loading dock and the back of the semi, Belford followed, all but drooling on himself as he eyed Priss’s ass in the snug dress.

  The idiot couldn’t know how he tempted fate.

  “Get a move on,” Dugo said.

  Unnerving him with a slow smile, Trace said, “You first.”

  He could tell that Dugo didn’t want to, but he also knew that Trace wouldn’t give him any choice. Until the bosses said otherwise, Dugo wouldn’t risk a conflict.

  He locked his jaw and fell into line.

  Trace took up the rear. Was Jackson in place? Damn, he hoped so.

  At the back of the locked semi trailer, Murray paused. “Priscilla, dear, I’ve given this some thought, and before we further our relationship, I’ve decided that it’d be wise for me to do a DNA test myself to ensure that you’re truly my daughter.”

  Hearing that, Belford stopped short in disbelief. Dugo almost plowed into him.

  “Daughter?” they asked in unison. Their gazes went from Priss to Murray and back again.

  Priss nodded fearfully. “I understand. Of course, I’d be happy to do whatever you need me to.”

  “Lovely Priscilla.” Murray cupped her cheek, smoothed back her hair. “I certainly don’t need your cooperation, but I thank you all the same. The thing is, until I have confirmation, I’ll need you…contained.”

  She quailed. “Contained?”

  “Kept safe,” he clarified, when she knew her safety was the last thing on his mind.

  “Oh, but…” She looked around at all the male faces, including Trace. “But…I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t have you gossiping about me. I can’t risk you talking to the wrong people.”

  “I wouldn’t!”

  “My patience is running thin. You’ll do as I say.” Murray fisted his hand in her hair and turned them both. He called out to the driver of the semi, saying, “Come open the trailer.”

  Nothing happened.

  Louder, Murray ordered, “Open the damn trailer.”

  Knowing what he’d see, Trace went to the edge of the loading dock and peered out. He whistled, and ducked his head back in. “I don’t think the driver can do that.”

  “Why not?” Murray pulled Priss forward by her hair. She flinched, but didn’t lose her cool.

  “Given the unnatural bend in his neck, my guess is that he’s dead.”

  Murray expanded with fury. Teeth clenched, he waved his gun at Dugo. “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Not us!” Belford went red-faced with anger. “We got here just before you.”

  Dugo did a fast turn, searching the interior around them. When he saw no other threats, he directed his rage at Murray. “It’s your man who’s dead. What did you do?”

  Murray’s eye twitched. In a voice more fearsome for the quietness of it, he ordered Dugo, “Open it.”

  Gaze alert, Dugo inched over to the trailer. Using his uninjured arm, he worked up the heavy latch and swung the first door open. With haste, he retreated again.

  Inside the dark trailer, bodies stirred.

  While Priss stood there shaking with barely contained rage, and Alice looking stoic, fifteen women hesitantly peered out. Wincing at the light, emaciated, dirty, bruised and disoriented, they climbed from the trailer. Two younger women, maybe even underage, clung to others who tried to shield them protectively.

  Red-hot fury expanded in Trace’s heart. God, that any of them should have suffered this…

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye he saw Dugo pull his gun. Trace had it under control; he was ready and would have shot down Dugo before he could get his finger in the trigger.

  But for the first time, Priss panicked.

  She yelled, “No!” and at the same time, jerked her elbow back hard into Murray’s big gut.

  What the hell? Already on the move, Trace wondered if Priss thought she could block bullets.

  She did manage to free herself from Murray, but also gained Dugo’s attention.

  “Stupid bitch!” Murray railed as he ducked behind empty shelving and debris and, jumping the gun to protect his own ass at all costs, started firing.

  Trace thought only of protecting Priss. He tackled her to the floor, rolled to put her up against the wall and hopefully out of range. Even with her resisting, he kept her shielded with his body as he fired off two shots, one at Murray to keep that bastard cowering, and then one at Dugo.

  He winged him, but didn’t get in a killing shot.

  Before Dugo could aim again, a bullet hit him square in the chest. The force of the shot sent him reeling back into the brick wall. He looked down at the blood on his chest, then at Trace. He sputtered and dropped.

  The just-freed women screamed and hunkered down by the back of the semi.

  For an injured man, Belford still moved fast. He grabbed one of the women and used her as a shield. She screamed—until his gun levered under her chin. “Shut up.”

  “Bad plan,” Trace told him. “Let her go.”

  Instead, Belford roared toward Murray, “What the fuck is this?”

  Hidden from sight, Murray said, “Obviously, I’ve been betrayed, you ass.” And then to Belford, he said, “Kill them! Both of them.”

  In his surprise, Belford shifted just enough.

  Trace shot him in the knee, and then the shoulder. With a roar of pain, he passed out and dropped the gun. It skittered across the floor.

  Sobbing, close to hysteria, the woman scrambled toward the others.

  Murray, the lunatic, laughed loudly, even as his retreating footsteps echoed around the cavernous room.

  Damn it. Trace sat up, but kept Priss behind him while he assessed the room.

  Against his back, she asked, “That was Jackson who shot Dugo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t kill him?” she asked of Belford.

  “No.” The beating had nearly done him in, but two immobilizing shots had really put Belford down. “Dead, he’s useless. Alive, he can help flush out the rest of the rats.”

  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 w
ay 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PRISS’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.”