Gray Dog eyed the yuppie man, who stepped gingerly into his domain—neatly trimmed hair, boring tie. The expensive cologne that cut through the stench of cigarettes and stale beer belied the cheap suit. Gray Dog might prefer leather and chains, but he knew an off-the-rack suit when he saw one.

He had to give the guy credit. Walking into a biker bar took a lot of guts. The Demon Devils had a reputation—and it wasn’t a good one. As he watched the man walk the gauntlet between bikers, Gray Dog grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped the top.

“Have a seat,” he said. Most of the time, a prospect tended the bar, but when his arthritis wasn’t acting up, he liked to play bartender. He held up the bottle. “Beer?”

“No, thank you,” the man said as he sat on a stool.

Gray Dog shrugged and took a long drink. He downed half of it, burped then wiped the moisture off his mustache and beard.

The man took a thick envelope out of his inner suit pocket and laid it down on the countertop. “I’ve scraped up the money to buy a partnership into your organization.”

Gray Dog chuckled. “Organization? I like that. Unfortunately for you, I don’t need a partner.” He tapped the envelope. “This simply buys you into my distribution.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be the one providing you the girls.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Gray Dog said, his words cold and precise. “Your ability to get us merchandise would be valuable, but I don’t need you. I have the perfect place to get all the girls I need.”

“Us?”

Gray Dog waved his hand. “You’ll learn, bit by bit.”

The man pursed his lips. “All right. Just so that we’re clear—any girl I find and you sell, I get a percentage. Correct?”

“There’s a little more to it than that, of course. The girls have to be loners—no family, no friends. No one to come looking. They can’t see your face. They must be sedated until they reach their destination—and the Master has final approval.”

“The Master?”

Gray Dog shrugged. “Just don’t call him narcissistic to his face.”

“Whatever. I simply want the money. I don’t really care what you call one other.”

Tilting the half-full bottle in salute, Gray Dog replied, “Then we have an agreement. You toe the line then everything is kosher. You fuck up one time, I’ll kill you myself. Clear?”

Gray Dog held out his hand. The man’s gaze flicked down at it. Gray Dog sensed the man thinking that he may have made a deal with Satan incarnate.

“Crystal,” the man said and accepted the handshake.