Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [124]
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