David slowly nodded his head. “It’s a compelling proposition, but I’m not interested in getting involved with illegal organ trafficking, regardless of what you’re willing to pay.”
“Maybe you should take some time and think about it.”
“Won’t make a difference.”
“Then perhaps you should consider this. If you refuse my offer, your immediate supervisor—Dr. Roy Fitch—will be informed that you’ve been stealing vials of fentanyl from the laboratory’s drug cabinet. You have sole possession of the key, control of the logbook, and I have a recorded conversation where you say, and I quote, ‘Ampules of IV narcotics are the enriched uranium of the drug trade. If I formed an alliance with one of our street-corner entrepreneurs, you and I would be looking at mansions in Scarsdale by year’s end.’ ”
“How did you—?” Adrenaline surged through David, ratcheting his muscles into steel cords, curling his hands into fists. “That’s taken out of context, and you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter. If even a whiff of controversy finds you, you’ll lose that coveted residency position you recently landed. And if that’s not sufficient motivation, we always have these.” Mr. White pulled an envelope out of his jacket and offered it to David.
David slipped out of his mittens and grabbed it. The envelope was thick, the contents stiff and unbending. He opened it. Photos. Hundreds of them.
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