Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,50

she heard the airplane being fired up outside and wished she 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.

Wara frowned at him and eased herself out of the taxi, obviously in pain and very angry. They both headed for the steps of the Hostal Salta.

The place was just as Alejo remembered it, back when his dad’s friend from church used to run it. Three unlit stars sagged on a brick red wall splattered with graffiti. The hostel was six skinny floors, straight up, smack dab in the center of the market.

It was now sundown, and despite the chill, Alejo felt feverish.

If something happened to his family, he would never forgive himself.

Inside, Wara veered off towards the sofas in the waiting area, just like he’d instructed her in the taxi. They needed to not call attention to themselves, and walking into a hotel with a swollen, purple nose was a good way to make someone remember you.

Alejo signed the check-in papers and got the key, making animated conversation about the latest soccer game with the kid at the counter, all the while dying inside. “Got the keys, honey,” he called to Wara, throwing her one of his best grins. “Ready to go upstairs?”

The guy behind the counter must think he was the cheapest guy in the world, bringing his date to a dive like this. But cheap hostels didn’t ask for copies of your ID.

Alejo slung an arm around Wara’s shoulder and pulled her into his side as they made for the stairs, hoping it looked romantic instead of like he was trying to hide her. Wara panted right behind him up three flights of stairs. He had gotten them the room right next to Pablo Martir. Alias Pablo Rojas.

His family had made it here.

And he was going to have to face them.

Alejo stopped in front of room 303 and rapped on the door, blinking away a bead of sweat that ran through his lashes and into his eye. A hurried grinding noise sounded inside as the door quivered. “Si?”

Wara whispered loudly