Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [88]
“Right.” Running a hand over his head, then over his gut, Belford cleared his throat. “Well, if everything is settled, then…”
Trace saw the gleam in Murray’s eyes. Belford might not understand it, but Trace knew exactly what that look meant: bloodshed, abuse, devastation.
For once, he didn’t mind. If anyone needed a little devastation it was Belford.
Casually, Trace moved into position behind him. A worm like Belford didn’t deserve a direct face-off.
When Murray nodded, Belford tried to bolt. Trace halted him with a shattering punch to his kidneys and Belford, after bowing forward, collapsed in on himself to join his man on the floor.
Without looking away from Belford, Trace asked Murray, “How bad do you want it?”
“I’ll tell you when to stop.”
With Belford’s face still twisted in pain, Trace lifted him up by his shirtfront, popping several buttons in the process, and went to work. He used his fists, his elbows, his knees and his feet. With every blow, he thought of what this man had conspired to do against women. What he would do if Trace didn’t stop him.
Murray’s time would come, but for now, he could dish out partial retribution to one of the players. Not a perfect solution, but it’d do for now.
As he worked over Belford, Murray talked to him, taunting him every so often, conveying little details of their arrangement.
Trace made a mental note of every word said while again pretending to be a robot on autopilot to fulfill Murray’s vicious request.
Five minutes later, with Trace not even breathing hard and a few of Belford’s teeth on the floor mixing with blood and at least one bone broken, Murray lifted a hand to call a halt.
Trace stepped back and Belford, barely conscious, slumped to his ass on the cold floor, hanging his bruised and bleeding head.
Murray moved to stand over him. “Understand, please, this was a lesson in honor. We made a deal and, for me, once a deal is set, there is no further negotiation.”
Belford managed a weak nod of assent.
“I figured you’d get the point. Now.” Murray chuckled and slapped Trace on the back. “Good work.”
Flexing his knuckles, bile burning his throat, Trace thought of Priss. He thought of her jibes and her scent and her headstrong manner, and was rewarded with a cleansing breath of fresh air.
He needed her now more than ever; though he was beginning to think he’d needed her, her specifically, for a very long time.
“We’re through here?”
“Nah.” Murray nodded toward Dugo. “Kill him.”
That wasn’t part of the plan, but Trace wouldn’t balk over taking out a participant in the human-trafficking racket. In the end, he hoped to kill them all.
He withdrew his gun and took aim.
Murray touched his wrist. “On second thought, Belford might need him to get home. You’re so thorough that he’s in worse shape than Dugo.”
Trace dropped the hand holding the gun. His temper prickled. “Another fucking test?”
Murray laughed. “And as always, you passed with gusto.” He nudged Belford with the toe of his custom-made shoe. “You’ll take the women, all of them, at the agreed-upon price and, in the end, when you make your profit, you’ll realize how valuable this exchange has been.”
Belford made a sound of agreement.
Squatting down by him, Murray said, “Unfortunately, I’m one girl short of our agreement. Consider it a toll for making me come here and explain myself. Got it?”
Again Belford struggled to give reply.
“Great. Show up with the money, don’t ever try my patience again, and we can put this unpleasantness behind us.” And with that, Murray regained his feet and started out.
Trace backed out behind him; the men were fallen, but they weren’t entirely incapacitated, and he didn’t take chances.
Outside, Murray stretched. “That was entertaining. Two fights in one night, against how many men now?”
“Four.” He opened Murray’s door for him. “I’m not counting Belford.”
That made Murray laugh, and on the drive back to the office, he engaged in small talk, almost as if the extreme violence of the past hour hadn’t taken place. It was another indication of his sickness.
Another reason to