Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [78]
But Murray released Hell and, anxious to be on his way, slapped Trace on the back. “Let’s go. You can drive. I don’t feel like taking an entourage tonight.”
Think, Trace. Get it together. Forcing concentrated thought, he said, “You don’t want backup?”
“You are my backup.” He glanced at Trace. “Think you can handle that?”
“As long as we aren’t ambushed by an army, yeah, I can handle it.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. I don’t want to alert anyone with a damn parade of cars or people. And I want to show this little fuck that I don’t need a contingent of men to demolish him.”
“All right.” It was risky. Trace knew it, so Murray had to know it, too. He was counting on the buyer coming alone, or with only a few men. But then, Murray had gotten to his position in the game by leading the front lines. He wasn’t a coward; no, he was more like a bully, always up for cruelty, especially when he could administer it himself. Maybe this was how he fed his sickness, by taking part every so often.
They left the office with Helene rushing past them. On her way to her own office, no doubt to gather the tools of her trade, she blew a kiss to Murray, and sent a look of fierce satisfaction at Trace.
She would demolish Priss. Murray’s order not to hurt her just meant no broken bones or scars. Anything else was fair game.
Helene would abuse her, sexually assault her, and leave her more destroyed than Priss could ever imagine. Priss had her strengths, but she wasn’t on a par with Helene.
He couldn’t let that happen. Jackson was on the scene, and he could handle things, Trace knew it. But he wouldn’t leave this to chance.
If necessary, he’d kill Murray. Tonight.
While Murray mused over what would take place between the women, Trace calculated how much time he had. Jackson was in the area, and he had dossiers on all the key players, including Helene. He’d recognize her if he saw her.
They were still in the garage when Helene rushed down and got into her own sporty little BMW convertible. From the passenger seat, Murray watched her, smiling in indulgence, rubbing his thigh, calculating.
Trace started the car. “You might not have a daughter left when Helene finishes with her.”
“She knows better,” Murray murmured. “Helene is something. Pity she’s so unstable.”
What the hell did that mean? Helene pulled out ahead of them at top speed, her tires squealing, her long hair blowing back with the top down.
It wasn’t until they’d nearly reached their destination that Murray got a phone call, distracting him enough for Trace to send Jackson the code. He prayed he was in time, and when he got a single hum of the phone in reply, he knew Jackson was on it.
Murray was so involved in a heated debate with someone that he paid no attention at all, either to Trace’s use of the phone in his pocket, or the single, barely detectable sound of reply.
But Trace was a world-class multitasker. He not only got the message to Jackson, he caught every word of Murray’s conversation.
A supply of women would be coming in very soon. Twelve of them, all young, and all American. The specifics were vague, but Trace knew they could be anywhere from sixteen years old up to thirty. They would be attractive, and right now, they’d be frightened beyond measure.
Priss would be safe, but with this new information, the restriction in Trace’s chest didn’t ease much. He had to find out when the exchange would take place. He had to. Once the women were dispersed, finding them again would be nearly impossible.
But for now, he had to put on the show Murray expected. If he blew it, he failed everyone, Dare and Jackson, Priss and the females who would be sold.
In a nearly deserted part of town, where only vagrants and addicts would roam, Murray directed him into the front lot of a building that claimed to be an employment agency. The crumbling brick building, enclosed by high chain-link fencing, had been reduced to rubble in sections with only the central part of the structure still holding. Opaque windows, bars on the front door, and security