Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [87]
Murray joined Trace. “Nice work.”
Trace came back to his feet and looked toward the south corridor.
“He could bleed to death,” Murray mused.
“Do you care? Because I don’t.”
“No skin off my nose. Good riddance to them both.” Murray spat on the downed fellow, then looked around the room and made a sound of disgust. “Hard to believe the bastard keeps the women in this hellhole.”
Trace couldn’t stop himself from an expression of disbelief. Murray had just given away valuable info. But more startling than that was the idea that he cared how the women were treated.
Imagining them, frightened, mistreated, being kept in the cold, raw room filled Trace with disgust and brought up even more disturbing, dangerous images of his sister in a similar situation. His fists tightened enough to crack his knuckles.
A chill emanated from the concrete floors and the rough brick walls hung with cracked cement, cobwebs and worse. The windows were either blackened with smoke, or jagged death traps of broken glass.
Going for a tone of impartiality, Trace said, “I suppose it’s as good as any other prison.”
“Maybe. But what’s the point of me giving him quality merchandise if he’s only going to foul it up in this place? A smart businessman would secure cleaner, and more secure, accommodations.”
That Murray referred to women as articles of trade always rankled Trace. But he agreed with the security issue. He nodded toward the windows. “It’d take twenty-four-hour surveillance to keep anyone from making a run for it.”
“He’s not that dumb. He stores them in the windowless basement. This room is like day care in comparison.”
Another piece of information. Trace hid his rage beneath curiosity. “You’ve seen the basement?”
Murray lifted one massive shoulder. “In years past, I used it a few times myself. But not since I’ve…refined my business.”
A tendril of something dark and sinister slithered down Trace’s spine. Had Priss’s mother been kept here? Had she been one of Murray’s first victims? When possible, he’d check to see how long the factory had been shut down.
“Here he comes.” Trace nodded toward the empty corridor.
“I don’t see anyone.”
“Just wait.”
Seconds later, a shadow elongated and morphed into the shape of a man.
Trace took the lead, stepping in front of Murray and asking, “Mr. Belford?”
“Yes.” Beady eyes darted around the room. “Where’s Dugo?”
Assuming it was Dugo now passed out on the floor, out of sight, Trace took a few more steps forward. “Don’t worry about that right now.” He caught Belford’s arm. “I’m sure you understand if we utilize some security precautions.”
Belford tried to take a hasty step back. “What do you mean?”
“Simple pat down, that’s all.” Trace kept his hold tight. “Gotta make sure you’re not carrying.”
“Oh.” His gaze moved past Trace to Murray. “I understand. Of course.”
Trace went through the motions, but Belford had no more than a wallet, cell phone and the required walkie-talkie on his person.
To further alarm the prick, Trace relieved him of all three, moving them well out of his reach.
Murray smiled. “Come, Belford. Join us.”
More skittish by the moment, Belford stepped forward—and saw Dugo bleeding on the floor. “Dear God, you’ve murdered him!”
“He’s alive,” Trace told him. And then, because he had to know, he asked, “Anyone else in the building?”
“No.” Belford shook his head in dismay. “No one.”
“Be damn sure you tell me the truth. Because if I find out otherwise—”
“I believe,” Murray said, “that my man wants to know if you currently have any women occupying the basement.”
Belford shook his head again. “No. It’s…well, it’s set up for the cargo I’ll get from you. That is, if—if we still have a deal?”
“We do,” Murray told him. “At the original price we agreed upon.”
“Oh, but I thought…” Gulping, he glanced at Dugo. “Yes, that’s fine.”
When Dugo stirred, Trace shut down Belford’s hopes, saying, “He’s not going to save you, so forget it.”