Corrupted Queen - Nicole Fox Page 0,90

with a potential investor at somewhere called “the Docks Bar and Grill,” the kind of place where they serve fishbowl cocktails on Friday nights to a crowd of rowdy Wall Street types.

But no, Gabriel is here, and he’s barking orders to his men as another SUV pulls up behind and unloads more of them. He has at least eight men with him, which seems like a lot for a business transaction. Whoever he’s meeting, he doesn’t trust them.

I pull out the parabolic microphone and shove the headphones over my ears, turning the mic on. Debbie said the range is about three hundred feet, but it will pick up all noise within that range, so I will need to listen carefully.

“I want you to keep our exit clear,” Gabriel instructs one of his men. His voice comes through loud and crisp. “Make sure none of them get behind us.”

The man nods and leaves. I zoom the camera in on Gabriel’s face, watching as unease flickers across his features when he thinks nobody is watching. He is trying not to let the stress show. Why should he be so worried? This only inflames my curiosity more.

Finally, two other vehicles arrive and park across from Gabriel’s, suited men spilling out onto the cement. I look between them, immediately picking out the boss. He is wearing a flashy cobalt suit, and his gold watch winks in the sunlight. He saunters over to Gabriel, pulling off his aviator sunglasses, and offering a dazzling, too-white smile. The man is in his mid-thirties, with tanned skin and sharp brown eyes. His face is clean-shaven, black hair slicked back from his forehead. He would be handsome if not for a pink, puckered scar cutting a diagonal swathe across his face, from lip to eyebrow.

I snap a photo, listening as the two men greet each other.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Gabriel,” the man says in a thick accent. Spanish, or South American, maybe? His voice is cool, calm, like a slow-flowing river winding down a mountain.

Gabriel takes his hand and shakes it. “You too, Miguel.”

“I hear our goods have been selling well.” Miguel gestures to the ship. “I am pleased that already, you are prepared to restock your inventory.”

Gabriel frowns. “I hardly think it necessary for you to come out and personally supervise the shipments.”

“The Cartel likes to keep a close eye on its interests,” Miguel says, straightening his suit as though fluffing his feathers. “And the trade of purple heroin in New York City is slowly becoming the jewel in our crown. Soon we can expand the enterprise.” He grins. “Expand the profits.”

I don’t believe it. There’s my evidence right there, the nail in Gabriel’s coffin. I don’t know who this Miguel guy is, but he represents the supplier of purple heroin. And Gabriel is, without a doubt, the distributor. Then the Irish have been dealing it. And now Gabriel and this mysterious Cartel are setting their sights on untapped markets, drawing more poor souls down into the muck of their filthy enterprise.

All of the puzzle pieces click into place to form a horrible picture, one that it is now my duty to reveal to the city.

The crane squeals to life, roaring through my headphones in a barrage of shrieking metal and ear-splitting beeps. I have to suppress a cry of pain as I rip the headphones from my ears. Shit. With the crane running, there’s no way I can hear the rest of the meeting.

Gabriel and Miguel are still talking, and it looks tense. I glower at the lumbering metal cockblock and snap some photos of the pair instead.

I suppose I heard enough—enough to know that Gabriel is not the man I thought him to be. I knew he was dangerous and violent and involved in all sorts of criminal activities, but I at least thought he had honor. The man I cared about would not continue piping a toxic substance like purple heroin into the city.

I feel woozy as I continue spying on the meeting. I suspected Gabriel’s involvement, even had enough evidence to confirm it, but for some reason I didn’t truly believe it until seeing him here today, shaking hands with this slick stranger who smiles too much. And now I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. I want to grieve the life I nearly had with Gabriel, the love we nearly cultivated together. Our family.

But I have work to do. And so I shove all my emotions to