Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

had dropped out of university. Gail had stayed on in Mexico, and I knew I had to get to Murat directly, because he was the one who took her there. This opportunity, as far as I was concerned, could not be wasted. Tears came to my eyes as I remembered my sister’s beautiful face, the face I had known since my father laid her in my arms the day she was born. I knew then I would love her more than anyone else in the world. At the time I didn’t know that our connection would be more of a protective bond. I knew too many youngsters who had become addicted to hard drugs. I knew that the drugs made them feel as though insects crawled inside their skin, and, under the influence of the drugs, they clawed at their skin, causing life-long scars.

My beautiful younger sister… Are you still pretty or have you fallen further into drugs? You have all the reasons to surrender to the false pretense of calmness the drugs give the brain. Restfulness for a moment, scars forever. Who else but me knew of the difficulties you’ve had to endure? I felt them on my own skin as well. I turned the light on in the car and glanced in the rearview mirror. Unwanted tears rolled down my face, smearing my makeup. In the dimness of the car, I looked distorted and scary. ‘Scarred forever…’ As if the term ‘eternity’ existed with addicts… ‘Forever’ was a pipe dream for when they manage to rid themselves of the addiction. I cleaned up my makeup and looked at myself. Through my eyes I could see my lost sister. Do you think you could get clean, baby sister? Would you even want to? It wouldn’t change the fact that I would try and save her. I had let her down so many times. This time had to be different.

I decided it would be better if I reapplied my makeup. As I finished up my eyes, which looked like hers, I promised that I would never give up my search for her and would never give up fighting for her life so that she could come back to me.

When my eyes stopped brimming over with tears, I promised myself that I wouldn’t care which of my friends on this journey will need to pay with their lives. I was going to get her out of there.

Guy Niava,

Miami November 11, 2015, 11:00 p.m.

The alley seemed part of the back of the restaurants which surrounded it, and so in the dark it looked like a parking lot for trash cans. The alley ended in an unappealing iron door. Above it, barely lit up, were the letters ‘PC’ in peeling silver letters that sat on a black sign that had known better times. ‘PC’ sounded almost like a joke, like an entrance to a computer repair shop. In reality it was more like a pornographic Matrix. I pulled out my cell phone, turned on the location setting and sent my landmark to whoever needed to have it.

The answer came back immediately, “Eight minutes away.” I wasn’t surprised he was so close. The preparations to meet up with him were made while I was packing my bag. I glanced at my watch. The time was exactly three minutes past eleven.

I pressed down on the handle and pulled open the heavy door. A rhythmic wave of music surrounded me, in the same uncomfortable way the humidity had hit me beforehand. The place was a dark open space, apart from a spotlight that lit up the stage. Onstage was a beautiful girl with raven colored hair, dancing tiredly around a pole in the center. Her minimal clothing sparkled against her dark skin. About ten men were sprinkled around the tables, each with a drink set before him, eyes fixed on the stage. From time to time, a few bills were thrown at the dancers, which were collected at the end of each dance. As opposed to the men, who avoided any eye contact with each other, two people sat at the bar in deep, intimate conversation, ignoring what was happening on stage. A single waitress, clad in a transparent leotard, walked amongst them.

Although the action in these kinds of clubs starts after midnight, I had expected more people. This had its pros and cons. On one hand it would be easier to find out who were the real stars, and on the other, they may not have yet arrived. And who has all the information, if not the stars of the show?

The answer was the waitresses. The older ones, the ones who didn’t up and quit every other day, because they can’t afford to lose their job, and because they have become an asset to the owners.

I smiled at the waitress who approached me. She returned the smile, which showed her beauty but also showed the wrinkles of fatigue and age.

“What’s your name?” I enquired.

“Serina,” she answered and then asked, “What would you like to order?”

“Whiskey, straight up. Would you like to join me for a drink, Serina?” I asked as I slipped another note in her hand. “I have a question and I think you may have the answer.”

She took the note and answered, “Gladly, a few minutes break won’t hurt me.”

I handed her another note and smiled, “And I need the companionship.”

About five minutes later, she was sitting next to me with a thick glass in her hand. The bluish light flashed upon her face, making her look old and young by turn. She said, “Which of the girls would you like to ask about?”

“I understand that you know all of them.”

“With my seniority here, yes. I know them all.” She took a long drink and coughed a bit, “Are you looking for someone who is still performing or has already left?” And then she added, for seemingly no reason, “Lately quite a few girls have left. A lot of Black girls have