Trace of Fever (20 page)

“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 cameras everywhere left no doubt that it was monitored…by someone.

A second, more substantial fence was topped with razor wire, facing in, not out. Anyone with a good eye would wonder why an employment agency wanted to keep applicants in, rather than keep out criminal elements.

Trace already knew the reason. The agency was a criminal operation preying on immigrants and minors of both sexes. Sometimes the victims were runaways and neglected teenagers, sadly labeled throwaways, though he could never think of them that way. Kids with their fair share of bad luck already heaped on them made easy prey.

Trace’s muscles clenched. He’d seen too much to ever be immune to the plight of those enslaved by others.

He’d seen hotels where repressed workers wouldn’t look him in the eye, where others spoke no English at all, making one wonder how they applied for the job, and what hopes they might have had when they’d first come to the country. He’d seen restaurants with kitchens hiding labor exploitation.

And he’d had his own sister snatched away as punishment against him because he cared about the victims caught up in human trafficking. Hell, he cared about all victims.

He especially cared about Priss.

The new batch of females were likely down on their luck with no family or close friends to notice their disappearance. They had no one—but they had him.

And he would not let them down.

Little by little, law enforcement was catching up with the growing issue of human trafficking. Many cities now
had programs to train social workers, religious outreach groups, educators and Hispanic community advocates. They learned how to spot, and where to report, signs of trafficking.

But it wasn’t enough.

Only by ridding the world of the key players would they ever make a dent.

“Fucking asshole.” Murray closed his phone and slapped it down on the dash.

“Problem?” Trace asked.

“I lost part of my cargo.”

A vise closed around Trace’s heart. “Come again?”

Murray stewed for a moment before taking his phone back up and stowing it in his pocket. “The idiot forgot to ventilate the trailer.” He glanced at Trace. “One of the bitches died.”

So he’d failed after all, before he’d even had a chance to make a difference.

“I’ll have to raise my price for the rest.” Murray opened the passenger door. “The buyer isn’t going to like it, so on top of teaching him not to negotiate an already negotiated deal, you might have to stress the importance of being a game player.”

“No problem.” Trace could stress things all right. Gladly. And when it came time to kill Murray, he just might take his time and enjoy it.

A
LTHOUGH HE STAYED
alert and ready for anything that might happen, Jackson seemed relaxed as he sat back against a rock wall. He wore his cowboy hat low, had his boots crossed at the ankles, a knapsack rested beside him and he’d been nursing the same beer—mostly a prop—for over an hour.

Some men got bored when on surveillance. Not Jackson. He lived for this shit. He loved it. Fine-tuning his instincts hadn’t taken as long as it might for some. By being forced into the right spot, at the right time, he’d learned that he was born to kick ass, to protect.

To operate outside the law.

Yeah, that was the best part. Dare and Trace had connections that would make the president of the U.S. of A. jealous. Senators, wealthy businessmen, foreign dignitaries, hell, they probably knew the prez himself.

Those types of connections provided clearance to do what had to be done when legal venues stifled progress. They were good men, walking the edge of honor, never teetering too far to the dark side, but accomplishing what others couldn’t.

And they’d made him a part of it. Jackson grinned and pretended to slug back another big drink. Life was awesome.

As he ruminated, a hot little number sidled up and tried to get his attention. Jackson winked at her, giving her the illusion of drunken interest, but truthfully, she wasn’t his
type and even if she was, he was on call. “Some other time, sweetheart.”

She pouted, but he looked away to again scan the area. Suddenly, out of nowhere, something felt…wrong. Static. Charged.

Out of balance.

Instincts could be a bitch, but he never dismissed them.

“’Scuse me,” he told the little honey as he picked up his bag and pushed away from the wall to stagger over a few feet, taking in the apartment from a different angle.

Everything looked as it should, not that appearances mattered. Not ever.

He found a railing to droop against, finished off the beer and pitched it toward a trash can.

He missed. On purpose.

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the lighted window of the dive where they’d tucked Priscilla Patterson. Jackson had thoroughly studied her dossier. Cute girl. Big tits. Lousy background.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Trace had a thing for her.

Thinking of Trace ramped up Jackson’s acuity, mostly because thoughts of the brother dredged up thoughts of the sister. And the sister…Alani burned his ass more often than not. Yeah, she’d been through hell and then some. Luckily Alani was a fighter, not nearly the wilting flower her brother assumed her to be.

If she didn’t dislike him so much, Jackson had a feeling they could really set the sheets on fire. He could make her forget anything and anyone from her past.

Strolling again, he moved to the side to see the other window in the apartment. No one paid him any mind, but that didn’t keep him from playing up the drunken
bit. Deliberately, he tripped over his own feet and almost pitched face-first into the gravel lot.

Two women giggled at him; one was a cutie, the other an older gal desperately hanging on to her youth. He grinned at them both.

Alani wouldn’t be caught dead in that type of cheap bar. Everything about the girl screamed privilege and refinement. Her long, fair hair and big golden-brown eyes were a combination guaranteed to make most men notice. Add to that a kickin’ body and a smile that could perk up the most flaccid dicks…well, she certainly had his attention. More often than not, he had only to think of her and he’d get half wood.

She’d recently turned twenty-three. So damn young. And fresh.

And ripe.

Thanks to Trace’s endless wealth and influence, youth hadn’t factored in when Alani decided she wanted her own business. To give the girl the props due her, Jackson admitted that she’d managed the business well.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled, sending alarm down his spine. Without turning to look behind him, he opened his senses.

Yeah, something was going down.

He heard the screech of tires at the same time that his phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew it, saw the code from Trace, and threw off the facade of a drunk with ease.

On his way to the side of the building housing Priscilla, he kept watch to ensure no one noticed him. Then, from deep shadows and out of view of curious gazes, Jackson removed the cowboy hat to slip on a blackout mask. If anyone did see him, they wouldn’t be able to identify him later.

He adjusted his hat over the mask and glanced back at the parking lot.

None other than Helene Schumer parked a classy BMW. All long legs, long hair and kick-ass attitude, she stepped out and started toward the apartment only to draw up short. She looked back at her car, realized that with the top down, she couldn’t deter would-be car thieves, and moved back to it to close it up.

That was all the opportunity Jackson needed.

He took off in a ground-eating stride, pushed by urgency and honed by skill. He’d get to Priscilla first, and God-willing, the girl wouldn’t prove any trouble.

P
RISS TIPPED HER FACE
back, letting the water run over her naked body but being careful to keep her hair, now piled on top of her head, dry. She didn’t want to ruin her new hairdo. The warm shower helped to soothe her, but not enough. Thanks to Trace, she was still primed and restless.

Giving up, she turned off the shower—and heard something, a faint, intrusive noise that didn’t belong in the quiet apartment.

Her heart jammed up into her throat, almost choking her.
Oh, my God.
Someone was in the bathroom with her, and her senses told her that it wasn’t Trace.

She couldn’t see through the opaque shower curtain, so she strained her ears. When she heard nothing else, her anxiety amplified. Whoever had just intruded, he was good. Very good.

Slowly, so as not to give herself away, she reached for the full squeeze bottle of shampoo and got a good grip. Too afraid to breathe, she prepared herself.

She whipped back the shower curtain in a rush, and before her stood a tall, muscular
masked
person. Startling
green eyes shone through the mask—and dipped to look over her body with what appeared to be appreciation.

Swallowing back the terror, Priss squeezed the bottle hard and sprayed shampoo into those prying eyes. As he reacted with a disturbingly quiet flinch, she used the bottle like a club, whacking him in the temple, back up across his chin and lifting it for another blow, intent on breaking his nose.

He didn’t make a sound, but he did bend and toss her over his hard shoulder.

His hands landed on her wet, naked butt.

When she started to scream, he whipped her around fast enough to steal all the oxygen from her lungs. He slammed her up against the wall, further knocking the breath from her. His eyes irritated by the shampoo, red now took dominance in the color of them. Even so, his gaze fried her as a hard hand clamped over her mouth.

Nose to nose with her, he started to say something, but on an adrenaline rush, Priss brought her knee up hard into his groin.

His gaze went blank before he whispered faintly, “I’m Jackson…” and then he slumped against her with a muffled groan.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
In an equally soft whisper, Priss said, “Why?”

Through his teeth, he gritted out, “Company.”

“Oh, God!”
Her rescuer was big, solid and thanks to her, weak-kneed with pain. Trying to push around him, Priss reached for the doorknob so she could retrieve clothes, but Jackson had recovered enough to grab her back.

He shoved a towel at her. Still in a barely audible voice, he said, “No time.”

“But…” She was
naked.

Taut, pissed off and vibrating urgency, he gave a
cursory glance over her body and then at the ceiling. “Out the window. Fast.” The window?
In a towel?

A knock sounded on her front door.

Priss froze, but Jackson, after swiping his eyes with her washcloth to remove most of the shampoo, bent to offer his cupped hands as a boost. “Sorry, sweet. No time for modesty. We gotta go
now
unless you want me to kill someone in front of you, and that might put Trace in a bad way with Murray—”

“Oh… Shut up!” No way would the towel stay in place for her climb out such a small window. And she really didn’t have any other choice.

Rushing, Priss tossed the towel over the bottom of the windowsill. She wrapped her fingers over the ledge and stepped into Jackson’s hands.

Her belly—and more feminine parts—were on a level with his face.

She could feel her skin burning, especially as she propelled forward with her backside in the air a few seconds before she got her hip braced on the window ledge. She pulled her legs through and, after seeing that no one was around outside to witness her disgrace, got ready to drop out.

The front door squeaked as it opened.

Wasting no more time, Priss hopped down as silently as she could to the metal landing. As she moved aside, she wrapped the towel around herself and tucked in the end—not that it did much for her modesty at this point.

Far quicker than she had managed, and with a great deal more grace despite his size, Jackson dropped down next to her. He said right into her ear, “I’m going to lift you down to the ground. You’ll have to drop a few feet.”

Priss nodded—and he immediately caught her under
the arms. As if she weighed nothing at all, he lowered her over the railing.

She lost the damn towel.

Like a bird with a broken wing, it took a spinning dive to land in a heap below her, which left her dangling naked.

Outside.

With a big guy looking down at her.

Jackson never changed expressions. “Ready?”

This is too unbearable.
“Do it, damn you.”

He let her drop and she landed hard, first on her feet, then her knees, then her naked butt. “Ouch.”

She was still crouched down, trying to assess whether she was hurt or not, when Jackson landed beside her. He whipped off his T-shirt and stuffed her into it, all the while looking up at the bathroom window.

Priss looked up, too, and saw that he’d had the foresight to close it.

She tugged the shirt down as far as it’d go. It smelled of him, nice, hot, manly. But he wasn’t Trace and she didn’t care how manly he might be. She was so mortified she didn’t know if she’d ever recover.

“This way.” Catching her elbow, he forced her to her feet again and headed toward the back of the building, but he balked when he saw the littered debris on the ground. Beer bottles, rusted cans, sticks and other unidentifiable items would lacerate her bare feet.

He looked down at her. Priss shook her head and started to back step, but he said, “Sorry,” then tossed her over his hard shoulder again.

He jogged to his car, jostling her all the way so that her big boobs repeatedly bounced against his shoulder. One big, hot hand held on to the backs of her thighs, the other just above her behind.

When he dumped her into the front seat of a vehicle
parked in the shadows, she was so grateful that she felt like crying. She didn’t though. Instead, she scrambled over to the passenger seat and readjusted the damn T-shirt.

He was behind the wheel in a heartbeat and, without turning on his headlights, rolled the car forward slowly, his gaze going back and forth from the rearview mirror—no doubt watching for the intruder—and the narrow alley in front of him.

“Put on your seat belt.”

Priss couldn’t draw a deep breath. She couldn’t think beyond knowing that this man had just seen her naked in ways she’d never even imagined, in a variety of poses, all because someone had broken into the apartment with the intent of hurting her or…or
something.

She put on the belt.

After removing a ludicrous cowboy hat, he peeled off the blackout mask and dropped it on the seat between them.

“Who was it?” Priss felt him glance her way, but she couldn’t bear to look at him yet. Arms wrapped around herself, knees pressed tightly together, she kept her gaze straight ahead to stare out the windshield.

“Helene.”

“But…the door was locked. How did she get in?”

“You kidding? That barracuda has a bag of tricks that’d put Houdini to shame. She wants in, she’s getting in, with or without an invite.”

Overwhelmed at the idea of what Helene had likely planned, Priss covered her face.

Sounding more curious than concerned, Jackson asked, “You gonna cry?”

“No.” She shook her head, resolute. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t be that obtuse. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Ah, yeah, gotcha. Modesty issue, huh?” He drove in
a deceptively relaxed way. “Look, yours isn’t the first tail I’ve ever seen, okay?”

Fury stole Priss’s breath. She reacted without thinking, slugging him hard in the shoulder.

“Ow!” He grabbed her wrist and tossed her hand back at her. “I was trying to
comfort
you, woman.”

“Comfort!” He couldn’t be serious. No man could be that dense. “You’re a…a Neanderthal!”

“Am not.”

Flattened by his careless attitude, Priss stared at him in disbelief. He was a gorgeous guy, but still a jerk. Shaggy blond hair, darker and more unkempt than Trace’s, piercing green eyes, a strong jaw and…she peeked at his naked chest… Built.

Her chin lifted. “Where in the world did they even find you?” It had to be under a rock. Or deep in a cave.

He glared at her. “
They
who?”

“Trace and Dare.”

Giving her a cautious frown, Jackson rubbed at one bloodshot, swollen eye. “That’s top secret.”

That’s top secret,
she mouthed, making fun of him, lashing out in her embarrassment.

He went rigid with affront. “Goddamn it, woman, you blinded me, nutted me, and damn near clubbed me to death. Now you have to ridicule me, too?”

He dared to complain to her? “You snuck into my bathroom. You saw me
naked!
”