Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [86]
Keeping watch for anything that moved, breathed or seemed out of place, Trace stepped ahead of Murray. “Stay put a minute.”
Few ever dared give Murray orders, but all he said was, “Sensing a trap?”
“Just uneasy with the setup. It’s too dark and there are too many points of egress.”
“Got your gun?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Trace continued on with his easy stride along the perimeter of the room.
Sounding irritated, Murray said, “Think you ought to get it out and ready?”
“It’s ready. I’m ready.” And talking was a distraction. “Wait here.” He heard a click and looked back to see that Murray had not only armed himself, but had his gun at the ready.
Would he shoot Trace in the back? Doubtful. The threat Trace felt didn’t come from Murray. Not right now.
At the far end of the room, behind rusted metal shelving, Trace’s keen gaze detected a shadow that didn’t belong. One shadow, one man.
Very manageable.
“Enough of this bullshit. I see you, and I have no patience for games.”
A hulk of a man, head clean-shaven, fully armed, emerged from the shadows. “Not a game.” Like Trace, he left his gun in the holster. “Just ensuring the safety of this meeting.”
Trace gave the behemoth a quick glance, noting the tense way he held himself, the steroid muscles and nervous eye movements. He dismissed him. “You’re not the guy we’re here to talk to. Where is he?”
“Mr. Belford had the suspicion that he could be in danger for negotiating the price.”
“The price is set, and there are no negotiations. A smart businessman should know that.”
“Can you guarantee me he’ll be safe?”
Trace let his grin come slowly. “No.”
Startled, the big man finally reached for his gun, but Trace didn’t give him a chance to get it. In one fluid move, his bowie knife left the sheath, flew from his hand and embedded in the shoulder of Belford’s bodyguard. The thug yelled and dropped his gun, and seconds later Trace had him in a stranglehold, one arm tight around his thick throat, his fist on the hilt of the knife. He twisted just enough to wring another howl from his target.
“Where’s your boss?” When the man hesitated, Trace applied pressure to the knife.
“Gawd, enough! Okay, okay. He’s tucked away safe in another room.”
Chickenshit move—but with rightful concern. “Which way?”
“South corridor. Four rooms down.”
In the darkness, with so many separate cubbyhole rooms to choose from, Belford might have slipped out one of the many broken windows before they found him. The yard was as disjointed as the interior, with plenty of avenues of escape.
“How were you to alert him?” No way in hell would a cell phone work in the bowels of the towering brick factory.
“Walkie-talkie, on my belt.”
Trace looked to Murray. He’d put away his piece and now stood with arms crossed, expression studious. “Call him.”
Nodding, Trace squeezed his arm closer around the man’s throat. “Tell him it’s all good. Get him here.” When the big guy started to move, Trace warned, “Slowly.”
With appropriate caution, the man withdrew the walkie-talkie and pressed a button. “All secure, Boss.”
Through the scratchy receiver, Belford said, “Deal is set?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Showing too much anxiety, the man said, “It’s fine.”
“You’re saying they agreed to my price?”
Near the man’s ear, Trace whispered, “Tell him we’re willing to talk about it.” Claiming the terms were agreed upon without further negotiation would be absurd—and a clear tip-off that things weren’t right.
After more discussion, arrangements were made. With Belford on his way, Trace said to the guy, “Time to sleep.”
Alarm racked the big man before Trace tightened his arm brutally, squeezing until he went limp. He was a heavy load, and once he passed out, Trace let him drop without much concern for how he landed on the concrete floor. As he went down, Trace grabbed the hilt of his knife. It came free as if slipping from butter.
He wiped it off on the front of the man’s dress shirt.
Blood oozed from the wound to form a puddle on the floor. Trace wasted no time securing his victim