Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,6

from under his clothes. He tossed them onto the red silk bedspread, next to the heavy religious book with ornate golden swirls. For a second the image shocked him, and he blanched, turning to scan the familiar studio-style apartment. He was caged in by ornate, gold-painted furniture in the seventeenth century style, including a giant gilded wardrobe that could have doubled as a coffin for King Tut.

Feeling sick and angry, Alejo collected the two weapons and the gilded Arabic book and stuffed them in his black suitcase in the corner. The suitcase was basically empty, ready to head back to Bolivia after the trip to Pakistan’s Tribal Area Khan had insisted on the day after tomorrow. Peshawar’s bazaar was full of beautiful things, but Alejo’s suitcase was empty because, honestly, there was no one to bring anything home to.

In the morning his team would meet here early. It was time to plan the next job after Pakistan, something that called from Alejo’s native Bolivia and refused to be laid to rest. He really hoped that killing Salazar after so many years would give him some kind of peace.

It probably wouldn’t.

Alejo tossed himself onto the silk bedspread fully dressed and forced his eyes closed in the darkness, fully expecting a reunion with nightmares.

And his dreams didn’t disappoint him. The first stabs of light through the golden curtains were a welcome relief.

Alejo could always sleep through anything, a habit you learned fast when you spent your time doing the things he did. But last night had been awful. He dumped a bucket of cold water over his head in the shower, then exercised for a couple hours til his team arrived.

By the time the knock came on the apartment door, Alejo felt like he’d been awake forever.

“Asalaam alaikum,” the guys greeted him in the traditional Muslim way one by one, pushing past him into the apartment in pale cotton shalwar kameezs. They were all Muslims, having converted at different times in their lives: high school, university, graduate school. Benjamin, a doctor in Bolivia, greeted Alejo now with a droll smile and watchful eyes behind wire glasses. He wore a little brown goatee, some kind of homage to the Muslim tradition of big thick beards.

Alejo never even tried to grow a beard, because the scattered stubble that appeared on his chin when he didn’t shave for a week was really, really pathetic.

Gabriel ambled into the apartment, grinned, and gave Alejo one of those manly, back-clapping hugs just inside the door, the kind only Latin guys can share. Gabriel was the skinny, fair-skinned guy who could make something from anything, a regular MacGyver. Only twenty-three years old, he came from an Arabic-background family in Bolivia.

Lázaro strode in next, wearing a deep blue shalwar kameez and a wool Irish cap. He was the newest guy on Alejo’s team and had been sent over from Puerto Rico. Lázaro was one of those guys with a permanent tan from hours of camping and rock climbing and starting fires with nothing but sticks.

Last came Stalin, wheezing like a badger in the hazy Peshawar pollution. Stalin was pasty, with round glasses and straggly lion-colored hair parted down the middle. The guy was a PhD in philosophy and comparative religions, so he came in handy, instructing new recruits in religion. He also wasn’t a bad shot. And yes, Stalin’s parents, student revolutionaries, had actually named their infant son Stalin Lenin Gomez.

This was his team. The organization was called the Prism, because they wanted to bring God’s light to the world. Like a prism scattered light into different colors, everyone in the organization had different talents, brought the light in different ways.

By the time Alejo closed the door, his team was already making themselves comfortable. The ghastly hue that hung over the golden room after the nightmares was no match for the aroma of the expensive Colombian coffee Gabriel was dumping into the coffeemaker. Benjamin produced fresh roti bread and goat cheese from a paper sack, and Stalin was already stretching his legs out on the bed. Those socks looked like they had seen a good week of adventure in Peshawar without a wash.

This was life in Pakistan.

Alejo felt a grin coming on, and he plopped down at the table, pushing aside an ugly vase of melon-colored, gold-coated roses.

“The coffee smells strong today,” Gabriel nodded proudly. “Just how we like it.”

Benjamin was quietly spreading goat cheese on a piece of bread, leaning his chair up against the wall next to Alejo.