Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [127]
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 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.