Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,55

you must be dead. Or working for drug dealers, in prison…”

“Well,” Alejo clipped, stomach tight, “as you can see, everything is so much better than you imagined.” He immediately regretted his sarcastic words as his father looked away.

“Dad,” Alejo said with a sigh, “there’s nothing I can do to make this reunion a happy one for you.”

His father looked dazed, then asked, “So this was all about Franco Salazar?”

Alejo felt his heart leap into his chest, and the acid that rushed into his stomach told him that there was no way he could talk about this with his father, not now. “I told you, Dad, I just can’t talk about it,” he insisted, eyes dark. Pablo Martir’s face looked so pained that Alejo tried to soften his tone, ignoring the nausea. “Maybe someday we can talk. But not today. Right now the only thing that is important is getting you all out of here, so you can live.”

The strong shoulders of Alejo’s father finally slanted as he crumpled back into the chair, desolate.

Alejo’s footsteps dragged as he trudged down the narrow stairs, leaving his father alone on the hostel roof. Seeing his parents again still had the sheen of unreality. A dark, nightmare-ish unreality, in light of the situation he had put his entire family in.

His mother was right. He was still confused about half of the kids downstairs, which face went with what name. He didn’t know them. But they were his brothers and sisters, for goodness sake!

Alejo loosed a heavy sigh and waited outside the hostel room door, fighting the urge to find cigarettes and do some serious smoking. He’d quit years ago, after finding that wheezing while trying to outrun danger and bullets could be pretty inconvenient.

And now, suddenly, that life was over. He, Alejo Martir, was no longer employed by the Prism, and he might never see his team, who were like brothers, again. And if he did ever see their faces, it could be behind the muzzle of a gun.

Alejo blinked, startled, as the wooden door jerked open and he found himself facing Nazaret. “You shouldn’t have opened to me,” he scolded softly. “Ask first. You didn’t know who I was.”

Nazaret’s round face waned exhausted. She met his eyes sadly, shattering him with a million memories of blanket forts under the dining room table and licking popsicles on the front porch. “I still don’t know who you are,” she said, then left him standing at the door and returned to flop onto an unmade bed. Alejo carefully closed the door then turned to his youngest siblings, trying a reassuring smile.

“Your dad will be down in a minute,” he told them.

They’re probably worried I left him dead up there on the roof. What kind of brother am I?

Alejo forced his gaze from the wide-eyed little Martirs to his mother and Wara, sitting wearily together on one of the beds He was glad to see pills on the bedside table; the stuff he had ordered must have arrived from the pharmacy. Wara and Noly had obviously been in deep discussion just before Alejo interrupted them and his heart sunk three notches lower, easily imagining that little chat. There would be the part about how Alejo had smacked her in the face, then nearly slit her throat. And before that, how he had handcuffed her and kissed her. Alejo felt his face heat. No matter how highly he thought of himself and his problem-solving abilities, there really was no fixing this situation, was there?

Alejo suddenly felt very tired and sank down onto a bed across from Wara. “We should call your family,” he said. Wara speared him with reddened eyes.

“I already did. From the street. I called the Bennesons, who work with my mission, too.”

Alejo nodded once, admiring how she seemed to make good decisions even in stressful situations. “They must want you to come home, right away.”

Noly Martir lowered her brows at her son, expression a mixture of love and annoyance. “Of course they do, Alejandro. Their daughter almost died. But she won’t go.” Alejo eyed Wara, whose jaw was set firmly. “She won’t go until she finds out if Noah is still alive.”

Alejo remained silent, removing his gaze from his mother and sister and folding his arms across his chest. His mother and sister must think him a psychopath.

And maybe I am.

Keys jingled in the lock and Alejo tensed, then relaxed as Pablo Martir entered the room. It was time to leave this room, and quickly.