Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,47

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