Trace of Fever

by Lori Foster

  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 w
as 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.

  Priss caught his hand, at the same time, saying, “Thank you, Alice. Everything will be okay now.”

  Alice kept the gun to her temple. She gulped hard, hiccuped on her tears. “What are you talking about? Nothing will ever be okay again.”

  “It will.” Priss did her best to sound confident. “Trace will help you. Whatever happened—”

  “He stole me.” Alice looked at her with empty eyes. “He took me from my home, from my family….” She choked on the words, her eyes liquid with tears that spilled over and left trails down her cheeks. “He told me if I tried to leave he’d steal my little sister, too, and then he’d rape me. He said he didn’t want to. Even when he made me be naked around him, he said that I repulsed him, but that he’d rape me anyway if I gave him trouble.”

  Bastard! Priss didn’t look at Murray’s body. His death had been too easy, but he was dead, and that’s what mattered most. “He was a monster, Alice, but not anymore. Thanks to you, he’ll never hurt anyone ever again.” Priss inched toward her. Trace didn’t want to let her go. He was worried, and she understood, but she had to do this. “Your family must be frantic. I know they would love to see you again.”

  “It’s been over a year. A year of them not knowing. A year of me locked away, forced to do his business. Forced to silence, living in fear and—” she swallowed audibly “—nothing is the same anymore. I’m not the same.”

  “That’s okay, Alice.” Priss kept moving toward her, step by step. “You still love them, and they still love you. They’ll be so relieved to have you back.”

  Alice squeezed her eyes shut. “Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve let
happen to all those poor women….”

  “What you were forced to do.”

  She nodded slowly. “I never had another chance, not once. I couldn’t stop things. If it had only been my life…”

  What? She would have willingly died? Maybe.

  “But rape? Being sold?” Alice shivered. “What he threatened, what he did to others, would be worse than death.”

  Trace reached her in two long strides to gently, and cautiously, wrested the gun from Alice’s hand.

  She didn’t fight him.

  He turned to Priss. “We need to get out of here.”

  Nodding, Priss knelt down beside Alice, their shoulders bumping. “He raped my mother, and then shared her with his friends. She escaped him, but she never really recovered. I used to think he’d ruined my life, too.”

  Face downcast, Alice swallowed hard and nodded in understanding.

  “But he didn’t.” She took Alice’s hand. “He can’t hurt me, and he can’t hurt you, unless we let him. He made you a victim, Alice, but you didn’t stay a victim. And thanks to you, no other woman will have to fear him.”

  Voice faint with fear, Alice whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

  Trace said, “You come with me. Now.”

  His control, his certainty, seemed to revive Alice. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve always trusted you, Trace. I knew you were different.”

  Though emotion weighed heavy on Priss, she smiled. “Me, too.” She stood by Trace’s side, put a hand on his shoulder. “Murray was the only one dumb enough to believe that Trace was like him.”

  Trace reached out his hand to Alice.

  After a deep breath, she dried her face, gave one last look at Murray’s unseeing corpse and accepted his help.

  WELL AWAY FROM THE SCENE, Trace put Alice in a cab. He leaned in the back door, speaking close to her ear. “You’re going straight to the address I gave you, Alice, understand? I have someone there waiting for you. If you need anything, you have a number to call.”

  She nodded.

  That didn’t quite satisfy him. He needed to know that she’d be okay. “Tell me you understand.”