Prism (Story of CI Book 1)

by Rachel Moschell

  Well, Wara was pretty sure Nazaret’s brother was confused about the definition of “bad guy.”

  Alejo sighed and pressed his lips together. “I’m not a Muslim anymore,” he finally said. Wara glanced at him, blinking away the confusion. Alejo looked away at the wooden truck slats. “I was, but now I’ve decided to follow Jesus”

  Wara didn’t think she could have been more shocked if he had proposed marriage right then and there. This guy was a nutcase!

  “How can you follow Jesus and…go around killing people?” she demanded. She tried to scoff, but the effort just hurt her nose. She settled for scowling at him.

  Alejo turned towards her sharply. “We don’t just go around killing people. I have high-level training from Hezbollah’s militant wing, and I take advantage of that to get rid of the guys who hurt the poor and oppressed. I do things that I know are wrong, but it’s worse, Wara, to just sit around and do nothing while you watch innocent people suffer. We’re not terrorists.”

  Wara wasn’t convinced. “So you follow Jesus by killing people.”

  Alejo cut her off. “A couple weeks ago, my good friend Gabriel was robbed and they slit his throat. A few seconds later, a Pakistani man came along and found him lying there. He could have just left him alone—it was really inconvenient for him to help. But he did help him and he saved Gabriel’s life, like in the story Jesus told about the Samaritan.” Alejo played absently with the fringe on a canvas bag of oranges that was part of the truck’s cargo. “What if that Pakistani guy had come along while Gabriel was still being attacked? Should he, or the Good Samaritan, have just politely stepped aside and waited until the thieves finished, before stepping up to see if the victim was still alive and they could help? Or if they were stronger than the thieves and had a gun, should they have saved the man from being robbed and nearly killed in the first place?”

  Wara frowned, remembering Gabriel with the friendly green eyes who had taken her down to the creek and how he had one hand to his throat as he watched them about to kill Wara.

  “Jesus said to love your enemies,” she finally managed. No matter how much using violence seemed to be justified, the results could never be worth it, could they? What about Noah?

  “I know.” Alejo was still frowning darkly. “But he also said he came to set the captives free, and to show love to everyone. As horrible as it is, sometimes those two commands just can’t both happen at the same time.”

  Alejo was morosely silent for a moment, and Wara squinted up into the streaked sky. They were driving under the leafy branches of clustered palm trees now, and the sunlight flashed onto her face, then disappeared behind the temporary shade of their latticed leaves.

  He could have killed me, but instead he saved my life, Wara realized. She would like to think Alejo was just insane, but some of what he said made sense. She just lay there, squinting against the bright sky, trying not to think about how much everything hurt.

  “What about you?” she finally asked to break the unpleasant silence. “You were in charge. Aren’t you going to get in big trouble for this?” She tried to meet his eyes, hoping he would see that she was grateful, despite the possible broken nose, several unwanted kisses, and the fact that he was the one who had nearly killed her on the bus in the first place. But Wara found Alejo staring off at the pile of blue canvas orange sacks, looking much more serious than she had hoped.

  “Actually we are in big trouble,” he answered a little mechanically, eyes not meeting hers. “I’m going to keep you safe, I swear it. But first there’s something I have to do. I think that…I’m pretty sure that…”Alejo stopped and swallowed hard. “In punishment for me betraying the group, I think they’re going to try to kill my family.”

  Wara suddenly couldn’t breathe. “What?” she croaked. A wave of ice engulfed her.

  His family.

  The Martirs.

  “I know they’re going to look for them.” Alejo shook his head bitterly. “I was a leader; I know everything. There’s no way the Khan isn’t going to be furious. He saw me as family and I betrayed him.”

  “Nazaret?” Wara whispered. A shiver ran from her toes to her scalp. “They would hurt them? What are we going to do?”

  “If we can warn them first, they can run.” Alejo’s voice was flat and a sheen of sweat painted his forehead. Wara was horrified.

  “But…how much time do we have?”

  “When you heard us talking in Pashto, Ishmael was telling us to kill you right away and throw your body in the waterfall that’s about a half-hour walk into the forest. The body would have drifted down into the main river, which runs through the canyon near the bus…accident. I told them I’d meet them down in Coroico. I say we have two more hours before they start to wonder, three before they realize what I’ve done.”

  Alejo rested his arms on his knees and hid his face. “Oh God,” Wara heard him whisper raggedly, shoulders slumped with despair. “What have I done?”

  16

  canary yellow

  “BAJAMOS!” ALEJO’S NO-NONSENSE VOICE boomed as he banged on the side of the truck through the slats a few minutes later. Whoever was driving must have heard his announcement that the people in the back wanted off, because the truck’s gears shifted down and the heavy vehicle scraped to a stop.

  Wara’s head hurt even more now, thanks to the shocking news about the Martirs. The rusty back gate of the truck clanged open revealing a young guy with a Che Guevara baseball hat and greasy black ponytail waiting for them to get out. Alejo hauled Wara to her feet, and for a moment everything shimmered violet and green. Her legs weren’t feeling so weak anymore, and she took a few shaky steps across the filthy truck bed, avoiding the giant sacks stuffed full of tropical fruit. Alejo passed the driver a red hundred boliviano note, then lowered Wara onto the ground and jumped out behind her. Wara heard the truck grind into gear and chug away behind them.

  “I can walk now.” Wara realized Alejo’s arm was around her waist. She shrugged away from him and began to pick her way carefully through the tangled mass of plants.

  “Ya,” Alejo said. The Spanish equivalent of “fine.” Wara glanced at him and saw he was still sweating bullets, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Could it really be possible that his family could die because he had become part of this group? She wrinkled her nose painfully.

  “Where are we going now?” she whispered, not sure if there might be bad guys lurking about in the wild. Alejo seemed startled by her sudden question, but he didn’t slow his stride.

  “There’s an airplane here. We can take it to get to Cochabamba and warn my family.”

  Wara struggled not to stumble at the reminder that someone could hurt the Martirs. “Is there a pilot?”

  “I can fly it.” Alejo’s answer was clipped but not impatient. Wara frowned and shifted her gaze over to him, not sure what to think. Alejo apparently read her thoughts because his mouth twisted wryly and he said, “I fly the plane for work, Wara. This is the only airplane that brings tourists in and out of Coroico, so we make good money. It’s not because I’m plotting to fly the thing into a building like 9/11.”

  Before she could answer him, they came into a little clearing holding a squatty adobe house half-shaded by a thick mass of arching orange trees. A battered blue motorcycle leaned against a sleek banana plant, and a gaggle of scraggly chickens pecked lazily in the powdery dirt. There appeared to be a larger clearing beyond the house, and sure enough, a straw-colored airplane was sheltered under a structure made of corrugated tin sheets. And in the distance, a spacious, cleared area with dirt tracks down the center: a runway.

  Alejo hollered out a greeting in Spanish and a stout, balding guy wearing a stained white undershirt swaggered out from behind a sheet fluttering over the house’s open door. “Alejo!” The man’s ample face instantly spread into a grin. He covered the distance between himself and his visitors quickly, clasping Alejo’s hand firmly in his own beefy one. There was a tattoo of a mermaid with red scale
s and a set of panpipes on his upper arm.

  Wara knew she should be wondering who this guy was, but thinking about the Martirs made her feel dizzy. Her face still hurt. A lot.

  “Che, how’s it goin’?” The guy with the mermaid tattoo slapped Alejo on the shoulder. “You gonna take Helda up?” He turned to greet the girl at Alejo’s side but stopped short of the kiss on the cheek when he saw the condition of Wara’s face. The balding man took her hand carefully instead and held it, frowning back at Alejo in concern.

  “Che, what have you been doing to this woman? I hope it wasn’t you, eh?” He was trying to joke, but the alarm in the guy’s eyes said he suspected it was indeed Alejo who was responsible for the condition of Wara’s nose.

  She suddenly felt ashamed, standing there with bare, filthy feet and dried blood caked on her tank top. Alejo laid a hand on her shoulder, and she cringed, stepping away.

  “Boris, I’m taking her to the doctor.” Alejo saw her glaring at him and smiled tightly. “Since I’m going into Cochabamba anyway on business.”

  “Well, good.” The fat, mermaid tattoo guy named Boris nodded, shooting another worried glance at Wara. “Don’t forget. You’ll bring me back Helda tomorrow? Maybe bring some tourists back?”

  “Sure, if we’re lucky. But now I’ve gotta fly like a bat outta hell. Do you think we could get her up in five minutes?”

  “Why not?” Boris shrugged and his belly jiggled under the white undershirt. “On the way back we can have a beer. I won’t tell the Khan. Just sign the log please, and I’ll get her ready.”

  Boris winked and pulled a tattered notebook sporting the fading image of the Incredible Hulk out of his back pocket. Alejo pulled the lid off a ballpoint pen with his teeth, scribbled something in the notebook, and flipped the pen and notebook back towards Boris. The portly airplane owner whipped around with amazing agility and started towards the airplane, shouting instructions into a small black radio he had somehow produced and now held up to his mouth.

  “Boris!” Alejo yelled after him. Boris turned around distractedly as he dictated what appeared to be flight coordinates to someone across the radio waves. “Let your daughter lend some clothes to this poor girl.” Wara wanted to sink into the ground as Alejo motioned towards her with a sheepish grin. “C’mon! I’ll bring her something new back from the market in Cochabamba when I come.”

  Boris must have nodded his approval, because Wara heard Alejo holler “gracias”, then motioned her forward towards the ramshackle house. He yanked the blue-checked sheet draped over the doorway aside so Wara could enter the house. She clenched her fists as she squeezed past Alejo’s sweat-soaked t-shirt.

  The room just inside the door was cramped, graced with a burnt orange couch with torn upholstery and a few armchairs. An antique wooden shelf holding a murky fish tank and an army of porcelain clowns and teddy bears was stuffed in a corner. With the low glass coffee table in the middle of the room there was barely space to turn around. A wicker ceiling fan swirled above, lop-sided and losing the battle to cool the room from the tropical heat.

  A chubby teenage girl with deep red lip liner and a black Brittany Spears tank top with rhinestones stuck her head out of the doorway of one of the back rooms. “Hey, Alexis,” Alejo greeted the girl. “What’s up? Say, your dad said I could ask you a big favor. My friend here would like to borrow some of your clothes. I told your dad I’d bring you something new back from the market in Cochabamba.”

  Alexis kissed Alejo on the cheek but looked skeptical about his offer. She raised one plucked eyebrow and took in Wara’s bloody face and disgusting appearance. “My dad said that?” Wara squared her jaw, determined to get through this, to get to the Martirs and make sure they were safe.

  Alejo tried his most convincing smile. “C’mon, I bet I’ve got good taste.”

  “Fine, no problem, Alejo.” Alexis shook her head and rolled her eyes. She took one last glance at Wara but didn’t seem to be concerned as she sauntered into the back room. Apparently Boris’ little adobe house was the kind of place bloodied strangers could show up and no one would blink an eye. Wara was feeling weak again and wished she could sink down into the faded orange sofa. A sudden thought halted her midstride towards the couch.

  “I know the numbers of all your family’s cell phones. We can call them. Good old Alexis must have a phone we can use, right?”

  “Nope,” Alejo shook his head firmly. “I’m not about to use the cell phones here---could be tracked afterwards. My sat phone stayed with Stalin, since he had it on him when I went into the tent to…talk with you right before the Khan showed up.”

  “What about internet?” Wara was feeling desperate, like she was trying to run through quicksand, not able to move a single step forward. There had to be some way to warn Nazaret’s family, before Alejo and Wara could make it to Cochabamba in the plane outside.

  “Yeah, there’s internet.”

  “Well, I can catch your sister on Facebook. She’s online like all the time. She’s got to be online right now.”

  “My sister still uses that? Aren’t there social networking pages that are a little more…modern?”

  “Yeah, well. Some of us still use it.”

  Alejo led Wara into the first side room, where, sure enough, there was a very sleek, cobalt-colored computer sitting atop a battered bamboo desk. “Don’t we have to ask?” Wara looked up at him. Alejo was opening a little black fridge in the corner of the office. He pulled out a bottle of very cold water, twisted off the lid and handed it to Wara.

  “Here. Drink this. Nope, me and my friends kind of half live here.” Alejo was already flipping on switches and in a few seconds Wara was sitting before a picture of Alexis in a canary yellow bikini, along with several swarthy teenage boys, next to one of the cascading waterfalls just outside of Coroico.

  Nice.

  She gulped half the water bottle, then signed into Facebook while Alejo drank the rest.

  “Yes! I knew it!” she hissed triumphantly. The little green icon blinked back at her, telling her Nazaret was signed in, as usual. That girl was always on Facebook.

  Alexis came in, winked at Alejo and tried to strike a sultry pose. “Bring me a pair of really tight jeans, ok Alejo? You’d better take a good look so you can remember my size.” She unceremoniously dumped a pile of clothes on the desk, posed again, then scoffed and stalked away when Alejo didn’t even look at her. Wara was typing furiously.

  “Nazaret, are you there?? Please, let me know if you are there, quickly. It’s urgente!”

  Ten eternal seconds passed, and then the reply message blinked, “Wara??? Are you ok?”

  By now, Nazaret must have heard about the accident. Eduardo and the Australians must have told the Martirs that she and Noah had been on the bus. But there was no time for beating around the bush.

  “I’m ok. You could never guess who is here with me right now. I am here with your brother. Alejandro.”

  More time clicked by, and Wara couldn’t even begin to imagine the look on her friend’s face. Finally a single word came back from Nazaret. “What?????”

  “There’s no time to explain it to you right now, but I’m here with your brother, and he was involved with some people….anyway, he knows you are in trouble. Some really bad people are going to come looking for your family to KILL you. You have to run. Now!”

  “Tell them to go to the Hostel Salta,” Alejo whispered, leaning over Wara and gripping the edge of the desk.

  “Alejo says to go to the Hostel Salta NOW!” Wara’s fingers flew across the keys.

  “Do they remember where it is?”

  “You know where it is, right?” Apparently the Martir family had experience with the place, maybe knew the owners.

  A pause. “Yes, I remember.” Wara could almost see tears slipping down Nazaret’s cheeks.

  “They need to register as the Rojas family,” Alejo told her. “Well meet them there.” As Wara typed, she heard the airplane being fired up outside and wished sh
e was already in it, soaring towards Cochabamba. “They have to turn their cell phones off and leave them behind or they will be tracked,” Alejo whispered lowly, and she passed along the instructions.

  “Tell my brother I love him.” Wara glanced down and saw that Nazaret had left one final message, and that she was gone. For once, her status was listed as Offline. It looked very final.

  Alejo was staring at what his sister had typed. He slid his hands over to the keyboard and nudged Wara’s out of the way. “I’m erasing this conversation,” he said. “They’re going to come here when they realize I’m gone.” One last click of the keyboard, and then Alejo scooped up the clothes Alexis had left and laid them on Wara’s lap. “Put these on in here,” he instructed. “I’m going to help Boris ready the plane.”

  Wordlessly, Wara gripped the pile of clothes and forced herself to rise from the computer chair as Alejo closed the door behind him. The windows in the small room were covered by rickety bamboo blinds. Alexis had been so kind as to donate a pair of gray jogging pants that had sparkly pink lips on the rear and said Diva. The shirt was orange with a koala, or wombat, or some such thing cheerily stuffing a stalk of bamboo into its mouth. Wara managed to put everything on and slipped into a pair of white rubber flip flops with large silver jewels lining the straps.

  This is a lot of bling.

  Underneath the jewels, her smudged toes wiggled back at her, adorned with a myriad of henna flowers. Wara clamped one hand on the bamboo desk unsteadily as her memory flashed back to the pickup truck and Noah sitting at her side, just about to see her henna tattoos when Lázaro began to speak.

  Go outside, she ordered herself, gritting her teeth. Get on the plane and find the Martirs.

  Just find them.

  17

  brick red

  THE WHITE TOYOTA COROLLA TAXI SQUEEZED into a spot along the curb, directly in front of an elderly man with his wooden cart full of sea green Chinese fingernail clippers and long tubes of Colgate toothpaste. Alejo paid the taxi driver in a hurry, then nearly took out the corner of the elderly man’s decrepit cart as he yanked open the back door on Wara’s side and tried to help her out. She stared at his outstretched hand as if it were a poisonous millipede and he staggered back, nearly tripping on the cart’s metal wheel.