Say the Word(70)

My stomach turned and a wave of nausea washed over me. I clenched my shaking hands into fists and tried to slow my racing heartbeat, watching as the Neanderthal turned, grabbed the smaller man by his shirtfront, and abruptly shoved him backwards, pinning him against the brick wall with brute force.

“Man! What was that for?” Smash-Nose yelped in pain. “I didn’t say nothin’ to—”

“Don’t talk about the shipments outside,” the Neanderthal growled. “You know what Boss says.”

“Who’s gonna hear me?” Smash-Nose goaded. I was beginning to think he had a death wish, given the fact that he was still pinned against building. “We’re practically inside.”

The Neanderthal tossed his cigarette into a nearby puddle with one hand and used the other to shake Smash-Nose roughly. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.” With those friendly parting words, he released his companion, yanked open the metal door, and disappeared back inside the warehouse.

“Fuck you,” Smash-Nose sneered quietly, after the door had closed and the Neanderthal could no longer hear him. Grumbling under his breath, he took final puff of his cigarette, stubbed it out beneath the heel of his boot, and vanished inside. When I heard the soft boom of the metal door as it rejoined its frame, I let out the breath I’d been holding since the men came outside.

GHB.

Shipments.

Santos.

I remembered enough from the date-rape pamphlets I’d received on my college campus to know that GHB was a drug — specifically, one of the most popular “roofies” on the market for sexual predators. Colorless, odorless, and practically tasteless, it was perfect for slipping into an unwitting girl’s drink at a party. I’d learned even more about it when I wrote a column last year about Manhattan’s most desirable drugs, as I’d spent two full weeks researching different substances and their effects — I had little doubt I was on a DEA watch-list somewhere, thanks to my browsing history.

In small doses, GHB was practically harmless. Some called it “Liquid X” because of its ecstasy-like qualities in lowering inhibitions and revving up one’s libido. It relaxed you, slowing your heart and breathing rates, and supposedly making you more sociable. In large doses, however, GHB could be fatal, sending its users into such a deep state of unconscious they could simply slip into a coma and never wake. Its other side effects — dizziness, disorientation, and amnesia — only added to its allure as a date-rape drug.

It wasn’t a huge mental leap to forge the connection between Santos’ presence at the warehouse and the delivery of the drugs. After all, he worked Vice. As a part of the narcotics unit, he’d have plenty of access to confiscated drugs leftover from raids across the city or, at the very least, know how to track down dealers who could provide him with the supplies he needed. Whatever his motive — money, power, or pure malice — Santos was involved.

This was it — my smoking gun.

If they were moving large quantities of GHB in and out of that warehouse, there was really only one purpose — and Smash-Nose had practically spelled it out for me.

We’ll have to find more… creative… methods of controlling the next arrivals.

They were drugging girls, I was certain of it now. Subduing them to be sold or traded or forced into sexual servitude.

Young, defenseless, kidnapped girls.

Girls like Vera.

I clutched my stomach with one hand and held my ponytail away from my face with the other as I succumbed to the nausea, vomiting up my lunch onto the pavement by my feet.





Chapter Twenty-Two





Then


I brushed the tears from my eyes when Jamie began to stir awake.

“Hey,” he croaked, cracking one eye open. I scooted my chair a little closer to his bedside and grabbed hold of his hand.

“Hi.” I tried out a smile. “Good nap?”

Jamie stared at me carefully as he struggled to sit up in bed. I was instantly on my feet, my hands supporting his underarms and helping to lift him upright. Once he was settled against his pillows, I sat back in my chair and forced a cheery smile. He was looking back at me with sadness in his eyes, even as a small grin touched his lips.

“You know, don’t you?” he whispered.

He could read me so well. My eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jamie scoffed. “Maybe because I didn’t want you to look at me with the exact expression you’ve got on your face right now?”

“Jamie—”

“And maybe because things are finally good for you. You’ve got someone who loves you — which, let’s face it, is a miracle in itself. You’re applying to college. You’re happy. I won’t apologize for not wanting to ruin that.”

“James Arthur—”

“And also maybe a little bit because if I told you, it would be real.” Jamie’s voice broke on the last word, but his smile didn’t waver. “I really didn’t want it to be real, this time.”

My tears spilled over and I clutched his hand tighter. “How long have you known?”

“A few weeks.”

I pressed my eyes closed. With a cancer as aggressive as Jamie’s, weeks could make a world of difference. I always tried my best to watch for changes, to be on guard for signs that it had returned, but Jamie was rarely honest about his pain levels — ever one to put on a brave face or to “handle things like a man,” as he was fond of saying. But for the last week or so, he’d been sleeping more and more. Avoiding my eyes when I asked if he was experiencing any symptoms. Snapping at me to mind my own business which, frankly, was just not like the brother I knew and loved.