10
midnight blue
ALEJO WAS STRETCHED OUT ON THE FLOOR of the tent on his stomach, trying to ignore Stalin’s noisy snoring, eyes boring into the darkness and having absolutely no success at sleep. The sat phone’s glowing display said it was nearly midnight, and the clearing that held their tents buzzed with cicadas and singing frogs and the forest’s pulsating hum.
A snap cracked above the quiet chorus, and Alejo jerked his head up. He recognized the raucous voices that floated into the clearing as belonging to the Paraguayans and bolted to his feet. He unlatched the opening to the tent and jogged across the darkened clearing towards the group who was just exiting the forest.
Gabriel and some of the guys had made the hike down towards the spot where the bus should have gone over, anxious to see the results of the hastily-planned operation. It was too early for any news on the radio they had stashed with the supplies; the heavy tropical growth down the sides of the mountain was so thick that no one passing by would even notice the bus had crashed, unless the explosion had left a pile of debris next to the highway. Gabriel hadn’t wanted any tell-tale signs left over that the accident hadn’t really been accidental, and so had moved in to check the scene.
“Hey.” Alejo made out Gabriel’s pale face at the front of the line. He was relived to see that his friend seemed pleased. “Two questions: Is he dead, and does it look like an accident?”
“99.9% probability, and yes, check,” Gabriel said merrily. Some of the others, William and Marco, drew up next to Gabriel, laughing too loudly, and snickering something to the guys behind them. Alejo finally made out the dark forms of Christian, Daniel, and Osmar strolling casually out of the forest, hauling something between them.
Something that had the shape of a human.
Frowning sharply, Alejo opened his mouth just as they dropped their burden to the dewy grass. The person rolled over, moaning, and a head with long tresses turned to one side, revealing a white face streaked with blood.
Alejo swore, immediately understanding what was going on. He glared at all of them, including Gabriel. “What were you thinking, bringing her here? She survived?”
“Yeah, she was on the bus,” Gabriel explained, happiness slightly subdued. Alejo noticed Gabriel was carrying a purple backpack that obviously didn’t belong to him, which he carelessly slung to the ground.
The girl moaned again and then her eyes slit open. She thrashed one way and then the other, then flew up to a sitting position with a loud gasp and yelled, “Noah!”
Noah? Not a Bolivian name.
“She’s American,” Christian grinned, crooked teeth visible in the darkness. “Passport in her bag.” Alejo’s heart took a nose dive. Not one of Salazar’s staff.
How many others?
“Yeah, this is cool, huh?” William continued the jittery prattling from Alejo’s left. “We just thought you might want to share in the spoils of victory.” A few lewd comments rumbled from around the circle of men, and the American girl looked up sharply, terrified.
“I w-w-was in a bus accident,” she managed to say, in perfect Spanish. “Where am I? My friend was also on the bus—did you see anyone else?” She looked around frantically, trying to get up but obviously lightheaded.
“You weren’t in no bus accident, sweetheart,” William drawled, reaching out to touch her dark hair. “Your bus has been bombed…”
“Basta!” Alejo snapped, pushing William back hard. “Enough.”
“Bombed?” the girl’s voice faltered. Alejo clenched his fist and fought the urge to knock William out. They should have left any survivors on the road, so they could get to help. Now, instead, the girl was here, in the hands of some very unsafe men, himself included.
Alejo’s plans hadn’t included this possibility. How could anyone have survived the explosion? This girl didn’t even seem to be burned.
Stalin, long hair fuzzy around his very sleepy face, had by now joined the rest of the guys, who stood leering and making savage jokes. He rubbed his eyes, then slowly grinned, offering a hand to help the girl up from the dirt. “Come on,” he said, helping her stand up by his side. “You guys shouldn’t talk that way around a lady. It’s not her fault she ended up here with all of us. Wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Oh, cut it out, Stalin!” Christian grinned. “Always such a gentleman. She’s going to die anyway. She’s a witness. We thought we might as well bring her up to join us for the party in honor of our last night in Coroico.”
Alejo’s mind seemed full of sludge. There weren’t supposed to be other people on the bus. Only Salazar and his staff.
But you didn’t know that for sure, did you? an accusing voice bit back at him. There could have been children on that bus. Your own family could have been on there.
Acid scalded Alejo’s stomach and he took a deep breath. The girl was on the point of tears, looking all around, trying to find something. Or someone.
Alejo’s mind cleared and he decided what he was going to do. Marching over towards Stalin, Alejo motioned for him to move out of the way. He looped an arm under the girl’s arms and dragged her smoothly to her feet, anchoring her back against his chest. Her weight sagged against him, so weak she could barely protest. With his free hand, Alejo forced the girl’s face to tip backwards so he could see her. He could feel her lower jaw trembling in his palm, and large honey-colored eyes with thick lashes met his, runny with tears.
Alejo allowed himself to grin wolfishly. Then he glared at the guys who were still leering at their prisoner. “If anyone’s having any fun here tonight, it’s me. Sadly for all of you, I am in charge, and unless you want to have your salaries cut off by the Khan himself I need all of you to get your rears back to your tents and sleep—now. We’ll start tomorrow at six. Last session before it’s over.”
Alejo felt the girl’s rapid breathing as he set his jaw and pulled her back tighter against his chest. A chorus of complaints arose around him, which he ignored, turning towards Gabriel with a wink. “Good work everyone. Especially you, Gabo.”
Gabriel was staring at Alejo slack-jawed as the rest of the guys gave up and whirled around to head towards their tents, muttering bitterly. Alejo motioned towards the purple backpack with his chin, and said, “Pass me that, will you, Gabo? She and I are going to retire.”
Gabriel picked up the backpack and passed it over. “Sorry,” Gabriel barely whispered as he leaned closer. “The other guys made me bring her. But she would have had to go anyway. She’s a witness.”
“Yeah, I know. Everything’s going to work out.” Alejo winked again and then said a little louder, “You did it. It worked.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said, glowing expression admitting he enjoyed the praise.
The girl began to squirm feebly against Alejo. “What are you guys talking about? Please, my friend might still be around and I have to go back…!” Alejo plugged the girl’s mouth tightly with his hand and started towards his tent, dragging her in front of him and really hoping she wouldn’t bite.
“Good night!” he called to Gabriel, then raised his voice as he approached the tent. “Stalin! Get your butt out here with your sleeping bag. Bad news---you’re going over to bunk with Benjamin.”
Alejo ripped open the entrance to his large tent as he heard a low moan and “Awww, man! Alright.” Grumbling, Stalin gathered up his sleeping bag and pillow, then grabbed his bottle of antacids and the ridiculous stuffed Snoopy that he insisted on bringing along on every trip. Alejo and the girl ducked inside his tent, which was lit by a camping lantern perched on a box they always left up here in the clearing. Still keeping her tightly in his grip, he cautiously slid his hand off her mouth, waiting for Stalin to leave. She sucked in air with a shudder, still sagging against Alejo.
Stalin passed by them on his way to the door. He managed to free one hand from his mass of possessions and held it out to the surviving girl, rather sadly. “The guys say your passport says you’re a missionary, senorita. I admire the way you missionaries share what you believe, far away from home.” Stalin sighed dramatically and then ran a finger down the girl’s bloodied cheek, almost guiltily. “I don’t think you’ll be here much longer, but if anyone ever deserved to go through those heavenly gates, I think it would be you.”
“Wait! Please…?” Wara tried to reach after Stalin as he darted out the door. “Wait!” she screamed again, and Alejo clamped his hand over her mouth and growled lowly into her ear.
“I’m not going to hurt you, ok? Stop yelling. I need everyone else in their tents, where they won’t be paying any attention to you.”
He removed his hand from her mouth, then scooped her up and carried her, kicking and struggling, towards his rumpled sleeping bag. “You’ve got to lay down!” he insisted, inwardly kicking himself because he knew he was scaring her to death. “You were in an accident, ok? I’ve got to see how badly you’re hurt. You probably have a concussion, so you need to hold still.” He tried to keep his tone calm, because the usual way he barked out orders was probably not going to make this girl stop kicking.
She stiffened, then curled up on the sleeping bag, eyes squeezed shut. In the light of the tent’s lamp, Alejo took in his captive’s dusty jeans and sweater. Her dark hair, coated with a fine film of dust, was streaked with burgundy highlights and scattered around her shoulders. With tan skin and light brown eyes, she didn’t look like the typical North American girl.
Alejo slid to the floor of the tent, one knee in the air, and let out a long sigh. After deliberation he finally said, “I’m sorry for the crudeness outside, but I just wanted to get you in here to keep you away from the other guys. Ok?”
She slit her eyes open and searched his face, as if wanting to believe him, then gave up and curled back up in a ball. He did a double take, noticing the girl had coffee-colored, Indian-style tattoos on her palms. Henna.
“What’s your name?”
“Wara,” she muttered. Alejo was surprised to hear a Bolivian name.
Aymara language. Means “star.”
A gold star ring twinkled in the America girl’s nose. “Why do you have a name from Bolivia?”
He saw her swallow, hard. “My grandpa was a missionary, too. In Peru. He married a Quechua lady. My parents let my grandma name me and she gave me a native name.”
“Are you hurt?” Alejo felt himself staring. The girl’s explanation of her name had suddenly brought it home: she was very real, with a very real family somewhere who would miss her if Alejo just killed her here in cold blood. “I have a medical kit,” he said hoarsely. “Cuts from broken glass?”
He sounded like an idiot. His team needed him to kill this girl. For the mission, he had to kill this girl.
And he was asking her if she needed Band-Aids.
She glared at him then, jaw clenched with anger. “Why do you care?” she hissed. “My best friend was sitting right next to me, and if you didn’t find him he could be dead. What have you done?”
Her tone rose frantically, and she curled up tighter on his sleeping bag. Alejo’s stomach burned at her words; the others on the bus had almost certainly been taken out, but he couldn’t think about if Salazar was gone or not until he heard the news that the body was found.
If they ever found a body.
Alejo stared at this girl with the nose ring in his tent and saw a life he had just utterly devastated. “Who else was on the bus?” he asked against his better judgment. His mouth was bone dry.
Wara stared at the olive wall of the tent, obviously exhausted by her tirade. “I was…with Noah. I didn’t really pay attention. There were a bunch of people in the back in suits and then some more people came on at the last minute.”
Alejo felt sick. More people possibly unrelated to Salazar. And this girl in front of him. Wara.
Uncontrollable nausea welled up in the pit of Alejo’s stomach, and he knew there was no holding it in.
“Excuse me,” he told the girl briefly, then ripped open the door to the tent and ran outside into a nearby cluster of banana plants. He threw up until there was nothing left, then wiped his chin on his t-shirt. Alejo sank down onto the ground with a clear view of his tent, still feeling sick and undone. Thankfully, it looked like everyone was in their tents snoring. No one had seen him out here vomiting. Sucking in a slow breath, Alejo tried to clear his mind and think.
If he helped the girl leave this place alive, he would have to leave the Prism. Forever. The guys could even be sent after him to kill him. And then look for his family.
She would have to leave and never come back, always look over her shoulder. And she would tell the authorities everything.
Thank God the Khan is gone.
Lázaro had met him in the jungle near Boris’ house tonight, and the two were driving to La Paz in Lázaro’s chartreuse Brasilia. Ishmael was off to Peru, then home to Peshawar.
If Ishmael were here, she’d be dead already.
This time Alejo felt he had no plan.
There was always a price to pay, he’d learned, for doing what was right.
This time, the payment might have to be Wara, the American missionary girl.