Trace of Fever
Page 102
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 was 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 f**king 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 f**king 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.
“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 was 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 f**king 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 f**king 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.
