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.
Angelo’s jaw twitched. “Let’s see how offensive being fired is.” He gave me a glare that also warned, ‘shut it’.
I would’ve had a rebuttal, but I was too busy avoiding the sloshing beer mug being set in front of me by some woman who appeared to blend perfectly with the questionable environment.
Surprised to find cocktail napkins on the table, since cleanliness was clearly not a priority for the employees nor owner, I grabbed one and dabbed the table to avoid the now wet table from soiling my jacket and lap. “Forgive my rudeness, I am just hungry and believe my expensive rental car may now need an alignment due to all the potholes I hit on the dirt road that led us here,” I set the drenched napkin aside at the end of the table where I was positive it would stay, “to your fine establishment.”
The tattooed and leathered, foul man chuckled through his missing teeth. “Can’t help about the holes but can get you a Special.” He waved his hand in the air to a lovely—scary—barmaid, unleashing a horrid wave of odor that seemed to come from his armpit. “I see why no one thinks you two are cops.”
“Cops?” I laughed. “Would a cop ask you for your best bottle of red wine?”
The man lifted an unmanicured brow. “No. They prefer to blend. Not stick out like a sore thumb.”
Eying his thumb gripping his cloudy beer mug, I said, “That’s the thing about rich men. They do not need to blend.” I pushed away the beer with floating debris.
“Speaking of money, let me see some cash.”
Angelo, with a gesture, told me to reveal the envelopes. I set them on the table in front of the man. “The one on top is for your troubles. The thicker one below is for you if you come through.” The fucker actually palmed both. “And the Magnum I am palming under the table is for the two different men in this bar that have been watching us the whole time. They will ruin your chance for easy cash.”
Angelo growled at the man, “Are you trying to fuck me over?”
A black tooth was exposed as the man smiled, lifting his palms. “I was just going to open them and inspect. Cool?”
That was a lie, but Angelo let him have it. “Sorry. Been a long day.”
“No problem. I’ve got the girl out back.”
That was another lie, and a disheartening one. Angelo and I had already inspected the surroundings when we arrived, and all that was ‘out back’ was a field where he could shoot us and keep the money. Damnit. A dead-end.
As the man examined the cash, he asked, “How long have you been searching?”
Angelo, also well aware this was a fruitless attempt, exhaled, “Too long.” I had to fight a cringe as he took a swig of the beer, then ran a hand over the short beard he’d grown, looking as if thinking, before telling him, “All I want is a raw wildcat. Ya know? A woman that would rock my world with her lack of knowledge and discipline.”
Although I knew it was all an act, Angelo sounded so convincing I almost believed him myself. He was on to something. That gut of his was talking, and he was listening.
I watched as he reached for the money, claiming, “Any girl you have ‘out back’ is not the one I am looking for.” He left the man the thin top envelope. “For your time.”
The man didn’t try to keep both envelopes but studied Angelo. “Wild, you say, huh?”