by Mike Gomes
Smuggling Blood
The Fighting Mantis #3
Mike Gomes
Smuggling Blood
The Fighting Mantis #3
Copyright © 2020 Mike Gomes
Published by Hudson Indie Ink
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smuggling Blood/Mike Gomes – 1st ed.
ISBN-13 - 978-1-913904-42-5
Contents
About the Author
Also by Mike Gomes
Other Authors at Hudson Indie Ink
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Mike Gomes is an Amazon #1 best selling author who loves writing fast paced, action packed novels for Adults. The desire to create fun, page turning books that lets readers slip away into another world is what drives him to write. Mike lives with his wife and four children in Massachusetts.
To get in touch with Mike, you can check out his website www.mikegomeswrites.com
Also by Mike Gomes
The Fixer Series
The Fixer
While Collar
9MM
Piranha
Holiday
Down Under
Gods Executioner
Combat Zone
Alone
4th and Goal
The Fighting Mantis
The Mantis
Broken Hearts
Smuggling Blood
The System Series
The System
Peace, Love and Death
Old Man River
The Young Adventurers’ Club
The Young Adventurers’ Club
Vertra’s Revenge
Another Day
Other Authors at Hudson Indie Ink
Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy
Stephanie Hudson
Sloane Murphy
Xen Randell
C. L. Monaghan
Sci-fi/Fantasy
Brandon Ellis
Devin Hanson
Crime/Action
Blake Hudson
Mike Gomes
Contemporary Romance
Gemma Weir
Elodie Colt
Ann B. Harrison
One
"Legal is somewhat of an ambiguous term," said the slender Indian gentleman, standing five-foot six-inches tall and wearing a white, button down, short sleeve dress shirt, and khaki pants. Sandals adorned his feet, as the man stood in front of a young woman with her arms folded on the other side of the desk.
"How ambiguous can a word like legal be?" asked the woman with the dark hair and an English accent. Her pale white skin laid in contrast to the others in the city of New Delhi, having her be obvious to everybody that was around her. But still, she sat in the man's office, confronting him, on the work that he did.
"Mrs. Jameson, let me try to make one thing clear to you. Here in India, my actions may not technically be legal, but they provide a service," Raj Patel explained as he pulled back his chair and stood up in front of the woman. Moving over to the window, he placed one hand upon the middle of it where the top and bottom half met, and let his eyes gaze outside onto one of the courtways of New Delhi. "You see, blood is a commodity here. It's just the same as gold or silver. It gets traded and it gets sold. That's the work that I'm in. Not much different than a gold miner."
"I would venture to say it's a lot different. Selling blood and selling gold are two drastically different things. One of those two items gives life, and if it's restricted, the person can die."
"Wouldn't you say the same is true for money? It's not that different than gold. If people don't get money from the gold, because they can't get it out of the ground, they too die." Patel turned back to the woman. "Ma'am, if you don't have an interest in my business, then you may leave. I force nobody to work with me, whether it be a donor or others who come here looking to purchase my product."
"It's just that my employer really doesn't like the idea of dealing on the black market for this sort of thing." Mrs. Jameson crossed her legs, showing her knee to the man who was accustomed to women wearing their clothing down to their ankles. "If we were to be caught, then who knows what could happen. We provide a service to people's homes and we try to help them."
"I feel the same way, ma'am. I'm here to help people. I'm a trained physician from the United States. I went to the NYU School of Medicine and got my degree. I took an oath to care for people and do no harm. And this, I see as helping people, helping them tremendously with what they need."
"But you do it for a price, isn't that true?" Mrs. Jameson asked, showing the slightest trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
"That's true, ma'am. But the way I see it, if there is some profit to be had, there's no harm in that. It simply means I can keep getting more blood, and being able to pass it on to those in need." Patel turned back to the desk and moved to sit on the corner. "I don't deny that I make a good living at this. And I don't deny that there are people that have felt like they've been mistreated. When it comes to giving blood for the purpose of making money off of it, people get uncomfortable and they become... upset that they have to pay for the item."
"Seems to me like your business is booming and you don't have any problems whatsoever. It took me three months just to get a meeting with you."
"That is true, ma'am. Business has been good. My Mercedes behind this building is proof of that. I consider myself a philanthropist in many ways, but I also do not deny myself and my family the gift of a good home and a good life. I think what I do for other people is provide them with having life."
Mrs. Jameson smiled at him, pulling up the briefcase that sat at her side and opened it. Opening up the top she moved through, removing one file and placing it on top of the briefcase that now lay in her lap. "I have roughly twenty people that could use your service. Middle class folks that will be able to afford to pay you."
"And why don't they just go to the normal hospitals?" Patel asked, knowing the answer before he asked the question.
"Dr. Patel you know as well as I do that the hospitals can't meet the need. The rule of thumb's always been that you need to hold 1% of needed blood in stock at all times. India runs at a deficit, especially here around New Delhi. For a country that exceeds a billion pe
ople, it's amazing that we can't get 1% to give their blood consistently."
"Be careful, my dear. These are my people that you speak of. They are good people but many of them are suffering and can't care for themselves. If you have a need for a blood transfusion and you go into a hospital and you're poor, you're more than likely going to die. The lack of money put the people in a state, not only can they not afford good care but their housing, their diets, their life is all at a lower level, also contributing to their disease and pain," Patel explained. "I know that most of the blood that I move goes to the middle class, the functioning urban elite. It never makes it into the hands of the poor. But all that being said, the poor people are trying to earn a living, they get money from my service when they donate their blood."
"How much do they get paid?" Mrs. Jameson asked, curious.
"I'm not accustomed to giving out the secrets of the trade, but I will typically pay someone ten dollars in American money if they are able to give me a liter of blood. Taking the time to do pints is useless. It's a liter that's the most active and the most used, and it's what my clients want.
"And you told me that you sell a liter for fifty dollars to those who inquire about it?" she asked. "A forty-dollar profit is a pretty tidy sum.
"It is. And more than half of that I pour back into the business. I give it to my employees. I need people to be able to draw the blood. And I also need people to be able to store the blood and maintain it. I need a lab where I can test to see what type of blood it is, is it A, B, O, who knows until I have my lab men do the work. That's why my product comes as a positive to most people who are after it.
"I'll agree with you there. I've talked to individuals who said they'll do a direct transfusion into my patient and they never even look to see what the blood type might be."
"They're charlatans, my dear. I'm honest in saying that the nicest guy doesn't always get the job done. More than once I've had someone screaming in my face lacing me with profanity and treating me like I am subhuman. But it's not my job to be their best friend." Dr. Patel stood up and moved over towards the door. "I think the old adage that nice guys finish last is true. And that it sometimes takes a man with courage and conviction, and maybe even a little bit of aggression, to get the job done. I could give you a list of names a mile long of people that have survived because of the blood that I've gotten to them."
Shifting around in her seat she felt a slight discomfort as he moved behind her. The blood smuggling trade in New Delhi was famous for violence and aggression toward outsiders. "So how can we make a deal, sir?"
"Well, I would like to put your mind at ease, ma'am." Dr. Patel opened the door. “I'd like you to come with me, we can go down into the back area and I can show you the production facility, and maybe ease some of this tension that you worry that your people may not get the right blood at the right time."
Mrs. Jameson stood up moving to the door and nodded her head. Moving through the doorway, Patel took the lead walking her down the corridor to the back of the building that opened up into a wide expanse that covered the footprint of the building, forty-five feet wide and sixty feet long. A station was set up with multiple desks, that had obviously been used as a school desk, with a single chair next to each. Each one sat five-feet apart, and were lined up in rows just as they would have been with school children filling them. At each table, sat a person with a blood drawing line entered into their arm, with the slow moving of blood out into a liter bag. Along the wall sat several others waiting for their opportunity to be treated, already with blood lines into their arms.
"I can see your business is booming," Mrs. Jameson noted. "Is it like this all day long?"
"All day long and all night long. There are a lot of poor people in New Delhi, and the idea that I can take their blood and give them a good pay makes them ecstatic. Some of my donors come in two or three times a week. There are others that want to come in more often but we tell them that they can't, they're just too weak to give more than they already have."
"Is it just blood that you work in?" she asked.
"Are you asking me about plasma?" Dr. Patel returned her question with a question.
"I am. There are many people that can use that as well," she answered. "If you were involved with the plasma trade, I have several people who would like to meet with you and talk about what you have to offer. Our small clinic could really use the help."
"Plasma is a tricky thing. It's more than just putting the needle into someone's arm and drawing the blood. There's a process that goes with it. It takes more time, more manpower, and more technology." Patel folded his arms in front of him. "It's an item that comes with a premium price tag."
"And what that price might be?" Mrs. Jameson gave a wide smile in attempt to gently flirt with him.
"One-hundred dollars, American." He smiled. "I don't accept rupees. I only accept American dollars and euro."
"I understand. And is it safe to assume that it's paid for cash on delivery?" she asked.
"Payment is upfront before I get the materials." He turned away from her. "The reason I do that is because I've been burned in the past. People will show up and want the blood, and give a story and a song, but they won't have payment for me. I don't wish to be put in that position again, and you are given a modicum of protection because if I fail you or take your money from you, you'll never return. I'd rather be honest with people and have return customers than be dishonest and only see you once."
"I do have to ask you, Dr. Patel, just for my own state of mind, are all these people voluntary? The people along the wall waiting, they've already had the line put into their arm, are they voluntary?" Mrs. Jameson tried to create contact with the doctor as he looked over the room like a general looking over his troops.
"They are voluntary. The folks you see in here, many of them have had the blood line in them for weeks now. This is the family's source of income, so they don't even bother to have them take it out. It stops them from being stuck another time when they come here. We simply lock off the line for them, tape it close to their arm, and when they come back, we reconnect," he explained. "It saves us some money each time from having to use new equipment. And for the patient, they feel happier about being able to get in and out of here faster."
"What about the sanitary conditions? Are you able to flush out the lines and make sure that they're okay, free from debris, and free from anything else that might harm the patient?"
"Our people clean it. As you can see, I have four people working the room. Each one goes between each of the people, making sure that they're okay. At the end, we provide them with a small drink that has some sugar within it to help them bounce back from having that amount of blood drawn. We've had few mistakes here, few times that anybody has had any really negative effects."
"Dr. Patel, if you don't mind me saying, there are rumors about your operation. There are rumors that you have places that are essentially blood farms. Where people don't leave, that they stay there permanently. I have even heard rumors that some of them become addicted to drugs, and that you draw their blood in exchange for a small amount of drugs each day. They're basically held captive and they can't escape." She dared to step out of her comfort zone and confront the doctor with something that she felt could be a hazard to her patients.
“Ma'am, that is an insult to me. If you choose not to do business with me, and you feel like I'm doing something wrong, then please, by all means, find somebody else to get your blood from. But may I suggest that you not look down upon others as you sit here in my building, looking to buy bootleg blood on a black market. If I was able to hand you the needed blood right now, you'd be ready to smuggle it back to your hospital. Blood smugglers are nothing new, ma'am. This is an old trade."
"I've heard the stories, sir, and how there are women in China that send vials of blood over to Hong Kong to find out if it's a male or a female child she's having. I understand that they had their own issues with plasma back in the nineties and
a blood trade going on. But this is a different time. It's twenty years later, and there are still a lot of questions here in New Delhi."
"As I said, ma'am, you can make your choice of what you want to do. Nobody is going to force you into anything, and if you feel like my business doesn't meet your lofty standards, then simply, please, walk away." Dr. Patel pointed to the door behind her. "But if you're ready to make a deal and have a discussion, I'm here. And look around, does it look like anybody here is on drugs? Does it look like anybody is suffering? Or have you seen people freely walking in and out of the door after they give their blood, with cash in hand that's there to take care of their family. I'm a giver of life, in more than one way."
"I guess I wasn't thinking of it that way, and I do need to make an order. If at all possible, we'd like to get a hundred liters of all various different types of blood. If they can be equaled out so we have a balanced amount for each type, that would be greatly appreciated."
A large smile crossed his face, Patel extended his arm to shake the woman's hand. "That's going to be five-thousand dollars, up front. Thank you."
Two
Pink painted toenails dug their way down into the white sand beach of Bora Bora. The French Polynesian Island that sat safely and comfortably in the South Pacific Northwest of Tahiti. The mountains seemed to burst up straight out of the ground, having elevations lurching forward despite the fact that the beach was so close. A consistent and cool reminder that the island had been formed by volcanic action before mankind creating the Northwest territory in French Polynesia.
