Page 52 of The Man with a Treasure

I reached under his pillow to grab the picture I knew would be there. It was always there, no matter what country we were in. The photograph my mother gave her angel was now worn, but you could easily see Isabella at the age of eighteen. The age when she had been abducted and sold.

Scarlett was now twenty-five or twenty-six. We would never truly know, due to the circumstances when she was born, but if she looked anything like her mother, we would know it from this picture Angelo studied like the Bible. That photo had some sort of divine power that possessed his spirit and guided him. Even when exhausted, he demanded his body continue the search. Country to country, state to state, that divine power pointed him.

Trying to learn the ins and outs of the sexual slave trade was a rat race with no prize. My father and his, when they had searched for Isabella, found the internet already expanding the epidemic. By the time Angelo and I entered the dark world, it was a pandemic, leaving us trying to find a rare pearl in an ocean of them. So many children, women, and men being sold, traded, exploited, and tormented.

Scarlett, being the result of a revenge plot gone wrong—an unexpected child of a trader—was a blessing and a curse. She wasn’t being traded or moved about, and wasn’t on the market for purchase, either. How can you buy what’s not for sale? I’ll tell you. Raise the bid.

Everything has a price if you offer enough.

So, after many attempts to infiltrate organizations and failing, Angelo and I worked even harder on disguising our accents, then put the word out that we wanted a certain ‘type’.

Isabella had once told us her daughter, at a young age, was the spitting image of her. Isabella had given us enough information that, if the father of her child kept his same MO, we could generally guess in what condition we would find Scarlett—no education, no exposure to TV or modern technology, kept under lock and key, somewhere in the mountains, with English speaking men who occasionally had visitors of different nationalities.

On one trip home for my mother’s birthday, we played recordings for Isabella. She eventually picked out the American dialect of the English language. It lacked a southern drawl, so we made our way north. It made sense because Isabella spoke of snow. Then we said a prayer, came up with fake personas, and offered a million dollars to anyone willing to sell what we wanted; a mid-twenties, unworldly, white female with long black hair, full-flared lips, and big blue eyes. She was to be medium height. The more naïve and sheltered, the better.

When that offer started to get us traction, Angelo made an unusual call.

“Isabella.”

She gasped and whispered, “Angel.”

“Is it safe to talk?”

Angelo was calling her on a safe phone, but was asking if anyone was listening.

“Yes. Speak freely.”

“Your father has put a million dollars into our account, but I think I need more. I know he is sick, but could you get me five-hundred-thousand more?”

“Are you in trouble?”

Listening in on the call, I smiled at her sounding so motherly.

“No,” answered Angelo. “But if I throw around large chunks of money, I think this headway will really set fire.”

His practically sounding American had Isabella sharing her regret. “I miss my old Angel.” She heard the change. One I had been witnessing. Angelo had hardened. Sometimes, I even worried about him. How much more could he take?

“Isabella.” Angelo reverted back to our beautiful language that I missed speaking daily. “My intuition says this money is crucial.”

I heard her sigh. “Of course. The money is yours to do with as you wish, but I worry for you.”

Angelo closed his eyes. “I hope for your father’s health to improve. Thank you for the needed funds. I will contact Mr. Rossi soon.”

Offering hundred-thousand-dollar bonuses to anyone who helped us find the perfect young woman was a game-changer. We were shown many young women, none of whom were Scarlett. I knew it as soon as Angelo laid eyes on each one of them.

The tragic part of all this, beyond not finding who we were searching for, was how many women we had to leave behind and not rescue. We were so close. We knew it. If we started a killing rampage, traffickers finally crawling out from underneath rocks wanting a million tax-free dollars would stop being so willing to find us our girl.

In Montana, we eventually were guided to a tavern that resembled what Americans referred to as a hole in the wall. I felt those places looked to be more like pitifully decorated portable toilets, but who was I to judge.

Walking into the hygiene-concerning establishment, I mumbled about the smoke and grease smell ruining my suit, but Angelo told me to, “Shut it.”

Rude.

Sliding into a booth that I’m quite confident someone had used as an ass-wipe, I grumbled again. I was confident my dress slacks would never be the same.

A man who had not visited a barber in, oh, possibly his whole life, was already sitting across from us. He grimaced. “Your bodyguard seems to find my bar offensive?”

And your breath, since you’re asking.