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 ass**le.” 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ALTHOUGH 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.