Ice had been watching the man, waiting for the right time to approach. When the party started, he thought perhaps the cops would enter the picture. So he waited for them to bust the party and take care of the problem for him. But that hadn’t happened. It was seven in the morning now, and Ice had come back to survey the damage and take care of the guy himself.

His eyes roamed the room, and then he found him. The guy was in the corner, arms wrapped around Ice’s “loner,” a San Quentin quail, the one girl he had procured on this trip for the partner. The sight obliterated his calm and made him so angry, if he’d had a bat in his hands, he’d have been hitting home runs on people’s heads.

Ice trafficked in girls but, like a drug dealer, didn’t want employees sampling the product. The girl was meant for the man who paid all the bills, and this jerk should never have gotten involved with the merchandise.

He walked to the corner and stood looking down at the pair for a minute, hands on hips, trying to decide how best to handle the situation.

He’d met the girl four days ago. It had been easy to gain her trust and voluntary compliance. Though in his early forties and far from being a teen, Ice was youthful-looking, and he knew it. With sharp blue eyes, sandy-blond hair he liked to wear long, and sculpted features, he’d been told by more than one female that he looked like a young Brad Pitt, only better.

And he used it.

He’d seen this girl at the mall by herself, looking lonely and more than a little angry. Those were the easiest to score. He’d started with a nonthreatening smile. Before long he was buying her a soda and listening compassionately to her pour out her teenage angst and fury at her mother, who still treated her like a baby. Dad had left and was married to a wicked stepmother. She hated them all. Ice had heard so many similar stories over the years. Listening was important—listening and gaining trust. With this cute little brunette, a charming dimple in her chin, all it took was that afternoon chat, and she was in his van with him, ready to leave it all behind.

He’d delivered her to the middleman, who should have been long gone to Arizona with his cargo. Ice knew telephone poles and storefronts all over were being plastered with pictures of the girl, “Have you see her?” posters. He didn’t want to leave without her; that would be leaving money. To Ice, the girls were simply a commodity, a product he provided to clamoring clients. This young one was particularly suited for Ice’s partner. She was so anxious to get away, she’d complied, no force needed.