Trace of Fever
Page 101
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.”
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.”
