Fact: While identities and specifics have been altered, all details concerning organ trafficking presented in this blog series are drawn from actual events and realities.
The urge to expose the rot I've witnessed grows stronger each day. I've considered leaking the truth to crusading journalists like Greenwald or Scahill, but engineering some grand exposé feels too manipulative. Webb was my next thought until I stumbled on Emma Thorne, an indie journalist out of Virginia who recently published two incendiary names from Epstein's black book. Her exposé whipped the social media hive into a frenzy for several days before an alleged cyber attack on the U.S. Treasury consumed the internet's attention. Thorne's story evaporated like rain in the desert. But my revelations won't be ignored so easily. If I come forward, the shockwaves will reshape the world regardless of any distractions or cover-ups. My decision could put me in the same category as Princip or Snowden. Infamy or justice—I wonder which fate awaits me?
Following our vague text exchange, Emma waits for my call. I've deliberated over who to expose and who to protect, even rehearsing my words, though where to begin eludes me. On the surface, my family enjoys a sterling reputation. My father, Dov Baker, a renowned surgeon, sits on the national transplant board, having saved countless lives. Donors and politicians alike revere him as a pillar of our community. My brother, Levi, runs the family's shipping business in Red Hook. Most of our container ships ferry dubious cargo to South America and the Caribbean. Levi's an iron-fisted tyrant who likes to think he’s feared by all in Brooklyn, playfully referred to as the “Cunt” for good reason. His temper arises from a long-standing beef with our father. As for me… I'm the one who tidies up the messy details, smoothing over any problems to keep operations running silently. My polished veneer neatly masks the ugliness that lurks.
Beneath the surface, our family runs a highly lucrative black market organ trade operation. We harvest kidneys and livers from over two dozen hospitals, funeral homes, and crematoriums up and down the East Coast. Our military connections in Cyprus and Israel supply corneas. Northern India provides embryos and plasma through our black-market brokers. Nowadays, hospitals and transplant centers bank hefty profits on organ transplants, some even paying dividends to shareholders. Entire industries benefit—life support suppliers, transporters, lawyers, doctors, nurses, social workers—all with a vested interest in keeping the billion-dollar-a-year transplant business booming. For the right price, we'll shuttle organs anywhere in the world. No waiting line can stop you when wealth whispers the password. In fact, Steve Jobs funded my Crete honeymoon after I sourced his new liver. Morality blurs when it's your loved one dying on the table.
*
New York's cold sinks deep, gnawing your bones till warmth is all you crave. The icy air prods you to question each choice that led you here. Some say it steels your mettle.
Maybe.
I take one last drag before flicking the roach. Pop a mint to cloak the smell. Pat my pocket for the keys. Unclip my .38 snub from my ankle and stash it in the glovebox by the Glock. No weapons are allowed on the 11th floor of the Park Slope Apartments, for good reason.
Stepping into the night, I inhale a lungful of freezing air. Tap the fob to lock up before entering the dilapidated complex. My breath plumes ahead as I steel myself for what comes next. The frigid wind numbs my doubts about spilling long-buried secrets.
Slipping inside, I steer clear of the urine-soaked elevator, wary of running into unwanted surprises unarmed. I spark a smoke to steel my nerves against the grime. The stairs themselves are no picnic, cluttered with broken bottles and ashes. But the gatekeepers—they never patrol here.
"Sup Aaron."
"Hey man, love that jacket." Too many know my name in this cesspool. I offer tight nods but don't slow my ascent. For whatever reason, I can't find it in me to be cruel, not today. I climb. Halfway up, the memory of the morning's argument with my wife surges through my mind, a testament to the profound sway our emotions hold over us. With each step I ascend, the weight of family and responsibility gradually dissolves into the distance.
I justify my vices and betrayals with the same old excuses—childhood trauma. Real as that pain may be, I should've sought help years ago. Rounding the sixth floor, I take a swig from my flask, savoring the burn. Almost there. I shutter my conscience and continue upwards, craving temporary escape in a familiar ritual of debauchery. Her embrace promises what family and faith cannot.
I rap hard on the eleventh-floor door, exhaling a plume of smoke directly into the corner camera. As the buzzer goes off, unlocking the door, a heated argument breaks out between two addicts on the tenth floor. Leo stands guard by the exit, his 300-pound frame crammed into his uniform. His imposing size seems to scream "security." But looks deceive— despite appearances, a larger guard does not guarantee greater safety. Leo's sluggish movements and labored breathing reveal his limitations. When faced with real danger, his weaknesses would quickly appear.
"What's good, Aaron?" Leo asks.
I just nod, no time for chitchat. Leo pats me down per protocol while I crush my cigarette on the lid of his pizza box. My eyes fixate on the door at the far end of the hall.
"Full house tonight," Leo says.
"Let me guess Judge Marion, Officers McKelly and Banks, plus the super Stu." You can bet some pro rounder off the strip has those old-timers under his spell, making bank on their dime. I kept it pushing.
Four apartments occupied this floor, paired off discreetly at either end and connected by concealed passageways. Two host high-stakes poker games, while the others serve more sensual aims. Everyone is recorded, despite claims otherwise. This enterprise is Detective Ryan and Detective Sullivan's baby. NYPD’s finest. It’s a good thing I know which rooms are bugged. Besides, I've got enough dirt to bury this place. I leave Leo and head for the vixen's den, pulse accelerating with each step.
I arrive at Natalie's door, ajar. Da fuck? Muffled voices inside. Pushing open the door, I find Detective Sullivan with an open bottle in hand, leaning against the kitchen counter.
"Well, if it isn't loverboy gracing us with his presence," he sneers. I hate that he knows about Natalie and me.
"Everything good here, Nat?"
"Oh yeah, we were just chatting," she says, clearly bothered.
I widen the door pointedly. "Well, you can fuck off now and stop wasting my time."
Sullivan grins, resenting his inability to intimidate me.
"Be nice, Aaron. Karma, you know." I slam the door right after he slinks out. The nerve of him encroaching on my time with Natalie. But I don't dare make a scene that could further expose our affair.
"Sorry about him. Are you okay?" I ask her. She nods, seemingly relieved to be alone with me now. I know she shares more with him than she should. But right now, I push that suspicion aside, hungry to drown in her affections, however fleeting they may be. I enter and shed my coat as Natalie comes over to greet me with a peck on the cheek.
"What was that about anyway?" I ask, noticing the disarray.
"Benny and Judge Marion went at it hard until dawn," she explains while hanging up my coat. "Benny took him for everything."
"Let me guess, now the Judge is threatening Sullivan to tighten up security."
"Yeah, demanding they relocate even. Sullivan and the Madam are discussing options." I shake my head. Judge Marion talked a big game, but the esteemed Supreme Court justice was a careless player outside the courtroom. His ego made him an easy mark for a shark like Benny, who took the honorable Judge to the cleaners. Most of the players were on a reckless tilt, burying themselves deeper in the hole with each shuffle. Anyway, I came for Natalie alone—the rest meant nothing.
"Forget them. Let's make the most of our time before more drama unfolds. Where are the girls?" I ask, sinking into the couch. Natalie tiptoes to the kitchen and returns with chilled gin and tonics.
"A high roller's in town. They're both with Angela." I slip off my shoes, letting the outside world fade away. Here in Natalie's apartment, I inhabit an alternate reality.
"What are these?" I picked up a Polaroid from the coffee table depicting an unknown girl provocatively sucking her finger. “This looks like Sue?”
"The new girl fancies herself a photographer," Natalie explains, handing me a drink. More intimate Polaroids lay scattered on the table. I flip through them—obscure, erotic moments captured on film. My mother often said pictures reveal mere costumes, not truth.
"She seems fun," Natalie adds. "And so cute. You'll like her."
I meet Natalie's hazel eyes. "I like you." She leans in and kisses me. Baggy sweats hang off her irresistible curves.
"Holy shit." I grab a photo to show Natalie, watching her reaction closely. She recognizes the subject but hesitates.
"Incredible, look at him," I say. The blurry shot unmistakably captures a certain detective's anatomy mid-act.
"You can't tell who it is," Natalie protests weakly.
"Look at the little star tattoo on his thumb." I can't help but laugh. Natalie grabs for the photo, but I hold it just out of reach. "This will set you free, my dear." She frowns.
"And then what? I'll come live with you. Let's be real, Aaron. What does it matter?"
I've racked my brain trying to find a way to whisk Natalie away from this cesspool. She means more to me than she probably should, and I can't stand those pricks controlling and using her. She's trapped in their web, compromised in ways I can't fully grasp. This place peddles nothing but sex and death. As much as she needs to escape, Natalie clings to the fragile security of this gilded cage.
She smiles impishly and leads me to the bedroom, our haven from the chaos outside.
For now, we will indulge.
*
"Did you know you can always see your nose, but your brain tunes it out?"
"No way… that's so freaky!" She laughs, music to my ears. Natalie lights up around me, her joy untethered and real.
"Great, now it's all I can think about," she jokes. We gaze at each other, the air between us simmering. I roll Natalie on top of me, and she responds by straddling my lap. Our locked eyes blaze with desire, charging the space between our bodies.
I smooth back her hair, damp with sweat, and pull her close. Our chemistry overwhelms us. An irresistible force drawing us into its vortex again and again. For these stolen moments, the world beyond ceases to exist. There's only Natalie and I, lost in each other.
*
We share a cigarette in bed. As I slipped on my pants, I watched the neighbor slowly dance with her husband through the window. It was a tender moment that felt real and sweet.
The smoky whisper of Billie Holiday's 'Moonglow' drifted from Natalie's phone, carried along by the saxophone's sorrowful sighing. She joined me at the window as we stood listening, gazing out at the old couple sway. The scene stirred memories of my wife and son that surfaced unexpectedly. A loud knock at the door jarred me back.
We dressed quickly and walked to the living room, where Natalie peered through the peephole. She looked at me with concern. I had a look—it was Sullivan. I knew he'd be back, unwilling to let things go.
Natalie locked the chain and cracked open the door.
"What's up?" she asked.
Sullivan was drunk and always dangerous. "I need to talk to Aaron."
"Okay, wait until our time is over. You know the rules," Natalie replied firmly.
“Fuck you, I create the rules. You understand me?” Sullivan's tone turned threatening. "Open this door before I break it down." Natalie glanced worriedly at me. I knew how this would unfold. She unhooked the chain. Sullivan stumbled in aggressively, gun on his hip. He got in my face.
"You think you're bulletproof? That's a dangerous attitude to have, my friend."
I kept my voice steady. Why are you here so late, Sullivan? Are you avoiding another fight with your wife?"
Sullivan's lips curled into a sneer. "Pretty ironic for you to judge someone's home life."
"That's enough!" Natalie shouted, her eyes flashing. I stood paralyzed, caught off guard by her abrupt fury. Sullivan's accusation winded me, landing like a punch to the gut.
"Maybe you should ask dear old dad for advice," Sullivan continued. "After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the rotten tree."
Red crept into my vision. I trembled with rage. Sullivan crossed his arms smugly.
"I kid. It’s just rumors, right? We’re just talkin’ shit."
Sullivan and I locked eyes as the room held its breath. Natalie placed a cautioning hand on my shoulder. I focused on slowing my hammering heart. Sullivan just wanted a reaction. And I gave it to him.
Sullivan miscalculated, closing the gap between us. I read his body language—he planned to strike first. Reacting swiftly, I sidestepped left, seized his arm, and spun him around to disarm him. With his own weapon now at his head, I had gained the upper hand, outmatching him physically.
“Even the darkest secrets find a whisper," Sullivan said through gritted teeth. His words pierced me. The damaging rumor compelled me to the reporter initially. Natalie's screams faded behind the pounding in my ears. Securing position was all that mattered at this moment. Reaction then action—it was pure instinct now.
"I'm going to fuck you," Sullivan threatened.
"Get the door," I told Natalie.
She opened it. I shoved Sullivan with force, his chin cracking the floor. Natalie slammed the door shut behind him.
"Come on!" she urged. We sprinted to her bedroom and threw open the closet. A hidden door opened to stairs leading down. I kissed her, then hurried through the den below, ignoring the glass and bodies littering the floor. I ran out of the apartment on the tenth and took the stairs—risky, but it gave me a head start. Flying down two at a time, I stumbled but kept my balance. Anyone in my path got knocked aside.
Reaching the first floor, I raced down the hall and dove through the window, dropping six feet outside. I'd parked strategically on this side, planning for this. I jumped in my car, revved the engine, and sped away. Circling the parking lot, I saw the front door burst open. Sullivan and his goons spilled out red-faced and swearing as their glares combed over the premises.
I quickly dialed. It barely finished the first ring before Emma picked up.
“Aaron?”
I gasped for breath, my mind spiraling out of control.
“Aaron. Are you ready to talk?”
