“Hazey babe. Drinks tonight? First round’s on me.” Despite the new harassment rules instituted in the office, Frank still felt the need to lay on the charm to every pretty girl who sat by him.

“Sorry Frank. Going to the airport early. Have to finish my coffee exposé by Monday.”

Hazel was working on a fresh piece for the paper about child labor in Rwandan coffee co-ops. She was heading back to Rwanda tomorrow to tidy up some details and show the article to her sources before it was published. It wasn’t the sexiest piece she’s written, but it was enough to get the word around about the exploitation of child labor. After all, this was why she became a reporter. To help the helpless. To shine a light of truth and goodness on all things evil. To change the world.

Her main source in Rwanda- and the main feature of the story- was the Rukundo family. The parents were a sad sight. They knew what they were putting their kids through- 12 hour days, burning sunlight, little to no rest- but they had no other choice. The farm is where they made money, and the only way they made money. They didn’t know anything else. Besides, it was common for most families to get their kids working young. Didn’t you have a job when you were younger, they asked her. Delivering mail, selling lemonade? It’s the same thing, they said. It helps them learn the virtue of hard work.

Nevertheless, the parents wanted to change Rwanda. It was time for country leaders to see the white light of justice and help families out that need it, instead of collecting bribes from the businessmen. If Hazel had a story for the political corruption, her child labor exposé would come full circle. But for now, she had a small piece of the puzzle to get her moving forward to changing the world. One story at a time.

Hazel got off the plane and rode a taxi straight to the Rukundos. It was a tiring 30 minute drive, made tolerable by the beautiful landscapes surrounding the roads. The sun was bright. The skies were clear. It called for rain later, but she would be on a plane back to Manchester before then. The brightness of the day reminded her of her duty to the world, of the light she had inside herself.

“It’s very beautiful. I hope the leaders can see this and take action for our people. Thank you very much for your good kindness. May the Lord be good to you.”

Mrs. Rukundo nodded in agreement. “What if they come after you? Will you be safe?”

“Nonsense, she has God watching over her. God will lead her to safety. Always. Thank you.”

Hazel blushed and looked away. As she glanced around the room, she noticed a picture on the wall that she never noticed in the few times she had been there before.

“Who is this? I know you have three sons working out there on the farm. And the baby is almost a year old. But who is the fifth one?” There was a girl who looked to be around 13, at least a few years older than the oldest boy.

“Maré, our oldest,” Mrs. Rukundo replied.

“Where is she now? I don’t think you’ve mentioned her before.” Hazel’s interest was suddenly piqued.

“Berlin. Working, just like the others.” The Rukundos were noticeably tight-lipped about it.

Berlin? Next to the picture was a postcard of the German city with the title “Kurfürstendamm.” Hazel was confused. Why didn’t they talk about her before? Suddenly she realized what working meant. Her eyes almost popped out of her head, but she tried to keep it cool.

“So, have you heard from her recently? How is she doing?”

“Good.” Mr. Rukundo was curt. “Now if you will excuse us it is time to bathe the baby. Thank you for the story. It is beautiful. You can leave now. May God bless you.”

“But your daughter. The work. Can I talk with her? How do you communicate?”

“It’s forbidden. We receive money every Friday. That’s it. You must go now. No questions about this.”

“Is there no one around here that knows how to communicate with them? I won’t be nosy, I swear. I just want to know a little more.”

“There is a guy. He has agency. I will give you his info but you cannot tell him I sent you. We have another girl growing up. We cannot take risk. Please. Take this and go.”

Mr. Rukundo handed Hazel a business card with no name on it, just an address. She tried to thank them but the door was already shut in her face. She hopped in the same taxi that took her to their house, and told the driver the next address.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“No miss, we just provide clean and safe journey across water to Europe. There they work. I provide safe passage, nothing else. Parents pay me for the traveling, then daughter pays them when they start work. I don’t skimmy off the top. I don’t do funny business with the girls. I get them across water safe. After they cross other side, I no longer responsible for them. My operation is professional. Lawful business. Best in Rwanda.”

Hazel was speechless. Did he just call his human trafficking agency a professional and lawful business? She had dealt with bad guys before so she knew not to provoke them. But this, this was a little out of her comfort zone. She had to be careful.

“You want to contact the girls? No. Not allowed. When they cross river, we stop contact. When next ship goes in, we start contact. That’s it. The guys up there, very protective of the girls. They see camera or news reporter, they kill you.”

Hazel’s mind was racing. She had to think of something so she could get in touch with Maré or one of the other girls. This would be an even bigger story than child-labor, one that would shock her readers and inspire them to take action.

“How do they send money back?”

“Western Union. No banks.”

Hazel nodded. It was something. But there had to be dozens, maybe hundreds of Western Union branches in Berlin. She needed more.

“Can they send anything else back? Clothes, jewelry?”

“Maybe, but only if the guys allow it. Sometimes they send knickknacks or small stuff in envelopes. Tourist stuff.”

Hazel remembered the postcard at the Rukundo’s of Kurfürstendamm. She will have to try her luck with the Western Unions in that area on a Friday and hope one of the girls shows up. With that information in hand, she politely left.

By 9am on the following Friday, Hazel was cramped in a small, cheap rental car on a side street next to the closest Western Union in Kurfürstendamm. If this was where Maré bought the postcard, it also could be where she sends her weekly income. Hazel would sit and watch all day if she had to, just so she could get a chance to talk with Maré. She sat there for about six hours when suddenly a thought hit her. It takes 2 or 3 days for Western Union to send money cross borders. That would mean Maré sends it out Tuesday or Wednesday, and her parents would receive it on Friday. Hazel was staking out on the wrong day.

She cursed and banged her hands on the steering wheel. This is going to cut in to her working time too much, she thought. The paper released the child-labor piece already and it gained good traction. But she needed something bigger to reel in, and quickly. There was so much change that needed to happen in the world, and she felt like each moment she wasn’t coming up with a story was a moment wasted. She was just about to lower her head onto the steering wheel when she noticed a big man with neck tattoos walk in to the Western Union with a skinny, young, black girl following him.

Jackpot, she whispered.

She couldn’t approach the girl with the bodyguard by her at all times. But she needed to get word to her somehow. She had to think on her feet. She quickly wrote a note on a piece of scrap paper ripped out of her notepad and folded it up. She got out of the car and waited for them a few feet outside the branch door. She expected the bodyguard to lead the way out, and she was correct. He came out first, reaching back to hold the door open for the girl. He quickly made his way to the front. Now, thought Hazel. She pretended to fumble for something in her purse as she drifted over to the girl’s side and bumped into her. She slipped the note in the pocket of the girl’s jeans.

“Sorry. Excuse me.”

The bodyguard looked back with a snarl on his face, but Hazel was already walking away as fast as she could. Now all she could do was wait.

But waiting was not what Hazel did best. After walking away from the scene, she watched them from afar. They got in a nice SUV and drove off, heading south. Hazel raced back to her car and tried to follow them. She caught up with them on the highway, a few cars in between her and the worst type of person she could imagine. They only drove for about 5 minutes when they turned into a nice suburban neighborhood. As the SUV pulled up to what looked like a mansion, Hazel stayed put a block away and watched.

She waited there for about a half hour, thinking about how much she wanted to kill the guys responsible for all this. Preying on young girls so they can get rich. Letting other guys prey on the girls so they can get rich. Where did their decency go? Did they ever have it? Guys like these can’t be changed. But they can be stopped. And the world would be much better off without them in it.

“It’s nice to have a friend, someone to talk to.” Hazel and Maré had been exchanging letters for the past two weeks. They each leave letters in a bush on the side lawn at the mansion. “Sometimes I can take a smoke break and go outside on the porch. It’s the only free time I have to myself.”

“The other girls are nice, but they aren’t around too much. They are older than me. They stay with their clients for a long time. We call those clients ‘whales.’ It’s our goal to land a whale, they tell us.”

Maré had given Hazel a wealth of information about the sex trade and how it works. She even got the names of some of the “whales” involved. But she was still missing one key piece of information. She knew the names of some of the guys who managed the girls and the mansions across town. But they were low-level fish. Who was the main boss? Who controlled it all? Finally, after a few days of prying, Maré revealed a little of what she knew.

“There’s an Asian-looking woman who comes by sometimes. Maybe Pacific Islander. Everyone seems to gravitate toward her. Who is she? I don’t know. Could be Chinese or Korean maybe. She has a scar down the left side of face, and the guys call her Amy. I don’t know her last name or anything else.”

Hazel felt chills descend her body. There was only one person she knew who had a scar like that with the name Amy.

Her sister.