Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,54

needed to talk with his father about a plan to save their lives.

It was a heavy first conversation, all in all, after fourteen years.

Noly and Nazaret still couldn’t speak, and the two of them made their way unsteadily towards the black door that led back to their room. Nathaniel followed them slowly, eyes dark, glancing back at his long-lost brother with a mixture of morbid curiosity and fear. He gently closed the rusting door with a slight clang behind him.

Alejo opened his mouth to speak as Pablo abruptly pushed one of the wrought-iron chairs across the concrete with his foot, causing a high-pitched scraping sound.

“Please sit down.” Alejo’s father motioned towards the chair, directly across the table from himself, with his chin. Alejo sat down in the chair, hiding his uneasiness.

“Are your brothers, sisters, and your mother safe downstairs?” Pablo asked first. His voice was even and low, but Alejo noticed a bead of sweat riding his father’s forehead.

“For now. I have to get all of you out of here as soon as possible. It’s…not safe for you here anymore, and you’ll all have to…leave the country.” Alejo winced as he heard his own words, suddenly realizing how crazy they sounded.

I haven’t seen them in years, and now I show up and tell them they have to leave the only country they’ve ever known. Now.

“You need to explain this to me again,” Pablo sighed seriously. “You were involved with a Muslim organization that you have become uninvolved with, and because of that they are after us, to kill us?”

Alejo nodded, miserable. “Yep, they as in some pretty well-trained, smart guys. If I don’t get you into hiding, they will find you.”

Now a little of his father’s composure crumpled and he swallowed hard before getting out the next question. “You…killed Noah? The bus…you… did that?”

Had he not believed it before?

Bile rushed into Alejo’s stomach and he curled his fingers around the chair’s sharp armrests with an iron grip to avoid once again emptying his stomach. He had never seen the man, but Noah had been one of his sister’s best friends. In the taxi, Wara had told him how Noah had been in charge of getting his sister home safely every night they worked until late at a café in downtown Cochabamba.

“Franco Salazar was on the bus, heading back to La Paz,” Alejo managed. “He was an evil man, and the bomb was meant for him.”

Alejo’s father’s face looked very pained, and he searched his son’s eyes carefully. Alejo felt sick, not at all ready to get into a discussion of the past with his father. His father’s face, however, was unreadable.

“Did you only come back to warn us because we are your family?”

Alejo nearly shot out of his chair. “No! I told you, I’m not a Muslim anymore, and I have left the organization! I knew I needed to leave for a while, when I realized that I believe what Jesus taught, not Islam. But I found out that if I left, they would come after you!”

Rambling and stammering, Alejo’s statement about believing Jesus obviously came as another shock to his father.

Surely the last thing that makes any sense right now is to hear that his son has just left Islam, after committing murder, and is now declaring himself to be a follower of Jesus.

Alejo groaned and leaned back heavily in his chair. “I didn’t want anything to happen to you,” he ground out flatly, “but they were about to slit Wara’s throat. I had to leave with her.”

“Thank God you did…” Pablo muttered, appearing to be still trying to take it all in. “So, you kill people as part of your job, but you decided to help Wara. And now you left that job…”

“Dad.” Alejo cut him off, his whole body tense. “I can’t talk about all this now. I just can’t. I feel bad—it’s been a long time, and I just show up and ruin your lives. For that, you don’t know how sorry I am. Now, unfortunately, we’ve got to talk about getting you all out of here. I have more than enough money, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Pablo seemed hurt by Alejo’s tone, and he stared at his son, maybe trying to find the skinny fourteen year old boy who had left his house in anger. Alejo shifted his eyes uncomfortably, refused to let his gaze ride to the floor.

“Son,” Pastor Martir finally said, voice breaking a little, “where have you been? Your mother thought