Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,42

a hand to cut her off.

“Let me think,” he ordered crossly. Wara bit her lip and sank down onto the sleeping back, hooking her hands around her raised knees.

A few loud shouts rang out in the clearing, and Alejo muttered a very bad word. Animated conversation drew nearer outside the tent. “You didn’t have to come back here, sir,” someone said cheerfully. “We have everything under control—no worries.” A pause while a lower voice rumbled something. Then, “Yeah, she’s in there. Alejo’s been keeping her. Of course we understand that. He just wanted to wait until the Paraguayans were gone, not make a show of it.”

Alejo swore, glanced at the tightly-closed tent door, and then swore again. He pressed one hand against his temple, and then fixed his eyes on Wara, taking a deep breath.

“I hope you can forgive me for this,” he muttered, then swung down to yank her to her feet, pulling her against his chest. Panicked, Wara tried to pull away, but Alejo’s fingers dug into both of her wrists. When he let go, she couldn’t bring her arms around from behind her back. Something thin and biting dug into her flesh, pricking her hands. Alejo had bound her wrists together.

She barely had time to register this fact before Alejo threw an arm around her and dragged her tighter against his chest. Her rib cage slammed into his and he hooked a leg around the back of hers, preventing her escape. Before she knew it, he was kissing her, the scarce stubble of his chin like sandpaper against her cheek. Appalled, Wara struggled against him, trying to free one of her legs to kick him hard. It was no use; she was caught like a worm on a hook.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, and sunlight flooded the tent as someone flapped open the door. Alejo took his time finishing the kiss, then finally let Wara draw back and turn towards the door. Her vision swam as she took in the familiar figures of Stalin and Gabriel, along with two new faces watching them from just inside the tent. A shower of sparks shot through her skull as Alejo grabbed her hair and tilted her face upward towards his. His eyes were glinting with a thousand specks of green fire, and she felt her face burn, absolutely humiliated. Alejo winked at her, then turned towards the guys at the door.

“What is it?” he grinned. “We’re a little busy right now. I told the guys I’d be right back, Ishmael.” Wara shivered at his mocking tone. Alejo released her hair and she turned to see the newcomers, face still flaming.

Standing next to Stalin stood a tanned figure, jaw hanging open as he gaped at her and Alejo.

It was Lázaro.

14

beet red

SHARP PURPLE STARS EXPLOEDED IN FRONT of Wara’s eyes. This could not be happening.

“Lázaro?” She struggled to push away from Alejo, all the while unable to take her gaze off Lázaro in the doorway. He was wearing the same kind of Irish cap he had always worn, along with a casual sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. His eyes were hidden behind the same sunglasses he had been wearing in the truck in Coroico.

Wara gasped loudly. Lázaro ripped the sunglasses from his eyes and gaped at Alejo. “Wara?” Lázaro said dumbly, gaze dashing back and forth between Wara and Alejo. “You’re the one they found…?”

Wara’s eyes were torn away from Lázaro as Alejo’s hand forced her head against his chest. She tried to pull away angrily, then froze, weak-kneed, as she heard him unsheathe the hunting knife from his belt and saw its blade out of the corner of her eye. Remembering her position as captive, Wara let herself hang limply against Alejo as one of his hands continued digging into her cheek. With the other, he pulled at the plastic ties around her wrists and cut her hands free.

Through his t-shirt, Wara could hear the steady, slow tempo of Alejo’s heart, totally composed, completely devoid of the fear that caused her own heart to race. She hated him for it.

By now, the bridge of Lázaro’s nose had turned beet red, and his fists clenched at his sides. “That’s my girlfriend, you idiot!” he growled.

Alejo started with surprise and a moment of silence rang over the tent. “Your ex-girlfriend, isn’t it?” he finally said coolly. “This is the missionary you used to go out with? Well you should thank me then for doing you a favor. Her boyfriend is dead, along with