Trace of Fever
Page 69

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’s feet together and his arms behind his back with nylon restraints. He shoved the body back, ensuring Belford wouldn’t see it as he entered the room.
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.”