Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [69]
She stiffened with alarm. “What are you going to do?”
He gave her a small push even as he started toward the car. “Do as I say, Priss.”
Three big bruisers stepped out of the car. The driver sent a smarmy smile toward Trace.
Jackson should already be in place. Trace hoped he had the good sense to stay put because he wouldn’t need his help, but later, Priss just might.
PRISS GOT TO THE TOP of the rickety steps and rushed to the front door of the apartment. Though she scanned the area, every nook and cranny that led to the apartment access, there was no one else on the landing, and no one near the stairs.
For the moment, she felt safe enough.
She wasn’t a dummy; she wouldn’t take unnecessary chances that would divide Trace’s concentration. Not with one man against three.
Impressive as Trace might be, those odds sucked.
After she unlocked the front door and tossed the heavy bags onto the couch, she darted to the railing to observe the confrontation taking place.
The three hulks facing off with Trace looked like professional assholes. Black T-shirts, black slacks, dark sunglasses.
Could they be more clichéd?
Oh, God, oh, God. Trying to read Trace’s body language, Priss gripped the railing and held her breath. The men awaited his approach as if they’d come there specifically for him.
Murray’s men? Another test—or something else?
Trace looked…well, he looked relaxed. Maybe even amused.
Stride casual, he continued to advance on the men without a single obvious concern.
Other people were in the lot, out in front of the bar next door, driving by on the street—but no one paid any attention to them.
With less than four feet separating them, Trace stopped. His voice was firm, clear, reaching Priss where she waited safely out of reach of harm.
“Who are you?”
The man who’d taken the lead spit near Trace’s shoe. “None of your fucking business.”
“I’m not asking again.”
The guy laughed and reached for…a gun!
Priss gasped at the same time the guy said, “Screw yo—”
His reply ended when Trace put his boot to the idiot’s jaw. Shattered sunglasses went flying and the man’s head snapped around. He lurched back to slam into the side of the car. The gun slipped from his hand.
Trace kicked again, and the fellow slid down into a heap on the ground.
It happened so fast that Priss was left with her mouth hanging open and her eyes flared wide. For a very brief time, the other two men had the same reaction.
Seconds later they shook off their surprise.
One of them pulled another gun while the third attacked Trace. Though she wasn’t a girlie-girl by any stretch, and she was never given to drama, Priss barely swallowed back a scream.
She started to race down the steps, determined to find a way to help, but in seconds she saw that Trace had the upper hand. Again.
Dumbfounded, she watched the battle unfold, and she watched Trace dominate.
Oh, he got hit. Several times, in fact.
But nothing seemed to damage him, or slow him down.
After taking a blow to the chin that he barely registered, he retaliated with a hard knee to his combatant’s groin, bending the other man double. A punch finished him off and his sunglasses hit the pavement, too.
Two guns and two pairs of sunglasses now littered the ground around them.
The third man launched himself onto Trace’s back, attempting to choke him from behind. He found himself flipped onto his back, and his head made solid contact with the parking lot.
To Priss’s amazement, Trace wasn’t done. He went to one knee, caught the man by the shirt front and, after flipping those sunglasses away, pounded his face with heavy fists. When Trace finished, the hapless fool was bloody, battered and out for the count.
The brutality of it didn’t faze her. Given their initial hostility—both in tone and manner—she understood what those men had intended, just as she understood why Trace reacted as he did.
It was the effortless way Trace handled them all that blew her away. The brutes got their asses handed to them, and then some.
Only fallen, groaning bodies