Trace of Fever
Page 100
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 f**k 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 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.
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.”
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.
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 f**k 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 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.
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.”
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.
