And that was when the doorbell rang. The sound actually launched Wara a good inch out of her plush chair. It wasn't a screeching buzzer like she might have imagined in this place, but a resounding ding-dong that echoed off the plaster ceilings.
Wara slapped a hand to her heart, trying to breathe again. Lázaro was glowering at the sitting room door, still pretty pale. Wara had no idea what he was going to do with that memory. It must be the church he went to in Cochabamba, where he decided to try and turn his life around.
Obviously the whole altar-call thing had been a very life-changing experience.
Or not.
"He's here," Lázaro croaked. He was speaking proper English again, on his feet and marching towards Wara's chair. "My boss is here, dear. If you know what's good for you, you'll come with me and stay out of sight until I call you. He is the one who wants you dead."
Eyebrows
THE DOORBELL OF LÁZARO MARQUEZ’S crumbling colonial mansion from hell donged again. Lázaro snatched up Wara's crystal glass and yanked her clean out of her chair. He limped when he walked, but he seemed pretty strong for a guy with burns over a significant portion of his body.
She wondered where would be the best place to kick him so she could get away, where he was weakest. Probably in the sore ribs he’d mentioned.
She wondered if she actually cared enough to try to make a break for it.
"Brush off your chair when you stand up," Lázaro ordered. "There, just like that." He pushed her aside and ran a hand briskly across the bright fabric, smoothing out the dents Wara's butt had left in the plush red.
"By the way," he said, "there's something you should see."
Lázaro made a point of pulling up the black sweater to expose his navel and a weapon strapped to a holster in the hollow of his back. It looked like a Skorpion, a light, submachine gun bad guys were always carting around in this region.
The scarring was much worse inside his clothes. Silvery ridges ran around most of his hips and lower back. The sweater still covered his rib cage and she couldn't see how much of his chest had been burned.
"This is so you don't cause trouble," Lázaro winked at her, still showing skin. "I'm talking about the gun, of course. I'm assuming your full cooperation, however. With my questions, that is."
Wara didn't even have time to flush at his sleazy double meanings. Lázaro dropped the sweater and gripped her upper arm, shoved her empty glass into her hand. "Down the hall, dear," he clipped at her. "The boss is waiting."
"Let go of me!" Wara snapped. The guy had a grip like serpent fangs.
"Whatever you say, but hurry it up. You don't want to be here when he comes in."
Wara kept pace with Lázaro, happy to have his hands off of her. They marched down a wide hallway lined with warped photographs in gilded frames frosted with dust. The hallway was very dim and cobwebs fluttered on the breeze as Lázaro and Wara stalked by. Their feet left thick footprints in the dust.
Lázaro pushed her through an open doorway. The room was pretty dark, lit only by a lamp in the corner, a white shade on a base of twisted horns from some long-dead animal.
"My office," Lázaro said. "Security's in here, so if you want you can watch any room in the house. Listen in on my conversation too, if you really want to. If you value your life, be a smart girl and wait here til I come to fetch you. No phone or internet, though, so don't waste time trying."
He left her standing there barefoot on a fluffy rug. The door that closed Wara in was hefty and lined with something silver and electronic. Obviously a newer addition to this old African colonial house.
She was probably locked in here. Not that Wara was really ready yet to bust on out and run into the visitor that clearly had Lázaro on edge.
Even if she got out of this house, who was she going to call for help? She had betrayed her entire team. And Rupert.
What she had done was never going to go away.
She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them, anchoring a palm against the cold door.
Finally she made herself get a grip and walk across the rug. Thick strands of cotton pulled at her bare toes like pillowy quicksand. A hulking desk sat smack at the center of the office, wreathed in shimmery computer screens. Wara set the empty glass he was holding on the desk and sat on the brocade armchair, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the screen images in the dark.
There was a street scene, in tones of black and pea green. It still looked like Africa. Lázaro was probably telling the truth about Bamako. It was the only city close enough to Timbuktu, yet large enough that Lázaro could hide himself with her in the urban sprawl.
The next image was a courtyard, probably just inside the outer wall, separating the street from the house where Wara was sitting. The other screens showed rooms, empty except for the now-familiar parlor with its creepy red chairs, drained now into tones of gray. Lázaro's back moved into view of the camera as he poured a glass of water for a stick-thin guy making himself comfortable in the chair Lázaro had been using before. Wara leaned closer to the flat-screen, taking in the newcomer's light skin and mop of curly hair. He had some pretty substantial eyebrows and a ginormous nose. The guy didn't look a day over eighteen.
And he was obviously really disgusted by Lázaro's spread of wine and figs. Wara tapped the screen of the parlor to turn up the volume.
"I've told you a thousand times not to drink that devil's brew," Eyebrows frowned. Wara saw his eyes flit over to the wine bottle again and his lips twitched. She'd thought Eyebrows was just a kid, but there was authority in that accented English that made him seem much older right away. The guy obviously had no qualms about bossing Lázaro, killer for hire, around. The attitude towards the wine told Wara that Eyebrows was probably a serious Muslim.
Lázaro did not serve himself more wine. Neither did he sit. He parked himself next to the other red chair, leaning one hip against the side. He looked nice and stressed. "I hope you brought me something," he said, looking Eyebrows' way but not meeting his eye. "I've had a really bad day."
Eyebrows raised his chin, raking his eyes coolly up Lázaro from feet to head. "You seem to be in pain, my friend. I've brought you enough for now. But the deadline still stands; I'll need results by Wednesday."
"I'm going to Timbuktu tomorrow. I know for a fact the girl went there with her boyfriend.”
As soon as Lázaro said Timbuktu, it all clicked. The guy downstairs was Alexei Tsarnev; now Wara recognized him from the briefing back at headquarters. This was the guy Alejo said was there when the school blew up. And Tsarnev was the one who wanted her dead?
It was because Lázaro had failed to kill her before. That’s what Rupert and Alejo seemed to think. Lázaro’s new boss needed him to prove himself.
The fact that Lázaro worked for Tsarnev really wasn’t a good sign. Her brain was just too overwhelmed to let herself realize why.
Lázaro was still talking to Alexei Tsarnev. "I couldn't begin my trip, of course," Lázaro said, "without the drugs. Hard to do a job when one is doubled over in pain. I hate to not be feeling my best."
Wara watched as Lázaro bared his teeth at Tsarnev in a smile. He did look in pain. Now that Lázaro mentioned it, Wara could see the way his leg was bent at an unnatural angle while one hip bore most of his weight against the chair. His jaw was squared and tense.
The scarring Wara had seen under Lázaro's sweater had to burn.
Strangely, Tsarnev’s lips twitched into a freaky, gray-toned smile. "I brought you something today, to help you get the job done." Tsarnev stood up and pulled a silver case from a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He clunked it onto the coffee table, rattling the plate of figs. Water startled over the lip of the crystal pitcher and wet the cookies. "You understand, this is on condition there will be no more screw-ups. The girl was supposed to be gone last week. This week, we need you to move on to your second screw-up."
Tsarnev scoffed, leaning back into the chair and crossing one long leg over the other. Wara noticed the
guy was wearing outdated dark jeans and what appeared to be leather boat shoes. His sweater was a light cardigan, buttoned up to the V-neck. Under the dark eyebrows, the skinny guy was scowling. "I'm tired of paying you to fix mistakes, Aslanbek," he said. "Do you see my point here, the way your shoddy workmanship is starting to make me worry? You are supposed to be finding me my multi-million-dollar prize. Not still fixing past mistakes. I told you about the intelligence leak; word about the prize is getting out. You need to find it for me, immediately! Do you understand, Aslanbek?”
Amid the ringing in her ears, Wara realized Alexei Tsarnev was standing, picking up the silver case and tossing it onto the chair next to Lázaro. "Get the job done. Clean up. This week. Fix the mistakes, then find me what I’m looking for. Or this will be the last of this you see for a very, very long time. I don't pay for incompetence."
Wara suddenly felt very, very small.
She was here with Lázaro, a guy taking orders from a terrorist and getting paid in drugs. And she was here because she chose to be here. She chose it when she drugged Alejo, who was only trying to save her.
And in some ways she chose it years ago when she spent the night with the guy she met at church camp.
She was here, in his house. Helping him. Scarfing down his water and fruit. There was no way she could go back to Alejo now, not after what she'd done.
Like it or not, she was on Lázaro’s side now.
Even if it killed her.
She Wanted to Go
NEARLY TWO DAYS AFTER WARA BROKE Alejo’s heart, Amadou still had both of his hands.
Alejo was sitting in Amadou’s house right now, hunched over on the couch, elbows digging into his knees. Cail and Caspian were at the hospital. Lalo was leaning back into the couch next to Alejo.
The evening news chattered from the TV in the corner and Maria was in the kitchen boiling up some tea. Alejo and Lalo were checking up on Amadou on their way back to the mission compound where they were supposed to eat and catch some sleep.
Alejo wanted to sleep forever.
She broke his heart.
Amadou was sitting across from Alejo on the other couch, hands folded neatly on his lap, staring at an 8 by 10 photo of Amy on the ancient plaster wall.
Amadou’s heart was broken because Alejo couldn’t save his wife. No one had been able to save his wife.
Alejo’s heart broke because the woman he loved wanted to leave.
She told him she loved him, seemed so hungry for him that night she kissed him and said she didn’t want anything. Anything but him.
Slumping there on Amadou’s couch, Alejo felt his cheeks pale again at how he had believed it.
Then she rode off with the bad guy into the sunset.
And probably never looked back.
They had searched Timbuktu, anywhere two foreigners could be hiding out.
Nothing.
Lázaro and Wara were gone.
Rupert kept calling but Alejo didn’t take his calls.
Let Rupert figure out what to tell Wara’s parents about their daughter’s location. Alejo just could not think about it.
That night, Alejo was sure he had gotten there in time to save her. Amy died, but he was going to save Wara. They’d gotten the crowd to disperse, were about to escort Amadou back to his house. Lalo had run onto the scene, panting and shouting something about the tracking device, but by then, Alejo had shut him up because everyone was heading home.
It was odd how quickly the rioters had given up the idea of Amadou being the thief.
It took Alejo too long to realize this smelled like a distraction.
It all came together in about two awful seconds.
No one had seen any new foreigners around Timbuktu, because Lázaro was already here.
Twenty-four hours after Lázaro tried to roast Alejo and Wara at the Western Union, Hannibal had walked into Timbuktu out of the desert.
They’d never suspected anything, because the AT security guys went through extensive background checks. But yesterday Alejo learned that Hannibal had joined the team in Timbuktu six weeks ago, just in time to join Jonah’s team of manuscript guys. It was the perfect cover to do assignments for whatever terrorists in the region must pay Lázaro these days.
Lázaro had been here, in Timbuktu, right under Alejo’s nose the past six weeks. And Alejo had brought Wara right to him.
Alejo’s lungs were on fire that night by the time he raced back to the mission compound to find Johnny out cold on the porch.
Everything went downhill from there.
He’d been in time to save Wara.
But she didn’t want to be saved.
She wanted to go with him.
Alejo squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard, shutting out the chatter from the TV and the scent of honeyed green tea starting to swirl around the living room.
When Marquez is done with her, will he kill her?
Is she sleeping with him?
Alejo’s ribs were so tight it was hard to breathe.
Lalo clapped a hand onto Alejo’s shoulder. “If you want me to, I’ll help you find her,” Lalo said.
Alejo had a hard time getting his eyes to focus on the guy right next to him on the couch. “What?”
“Are you just going to let her go?”
As if that was optional.
Alejo scowled darkly.
Wara was already gone. This wasn’t a rescue mission.
Wara knocked Alejo out and left him for dead so she could go with the man she apparently really wanted.
And it appeared he had just said that out loud. Alejo hated talking about his stuff, but somehow Lalo was getting it out of him.
“She burned all the bridges,” Alejo told Lalo, hot and angry. “There’s no coming back from this.” Alejo wished he’d brought one of the dorodango balls here, because his hands desperately wanted to do something, anything. Even if it was crushing one of the mud balls into dust.
“Look,” Lalo said, “sometimes people get all kinds of emotional scars. Because of that, they do bad things. It’s not always because the person is evil.” He sighed. “If she did something that hurt you, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. She can still love you, and do something that hurts you. For many reasons.”
Yeah, like to save a killer’s life.
“You have to decide,” Lalo was going on, “if you’re just going to let her go. Or if she’s worth going after. People hurt people,” he repeated, “but that doesn’t mean she’s not worth saving. Or that she doesn’t want you.”
Lalo eyed Alejo and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Lalo looked exhausted. Alejo could safely say the last few days hadn’t been fun for any of them.
If anybody knew something about people hurting other people, it would be Lalo. His dad apparently beat the crap out of him when he was just a kid. Alejo had seen some of the scars. Daddy was also a Satanist. That’s about all Alejo knew, but the calm hollowness in Lalo’s eyes when he talked about hurt and love made Alejo want to listen to him.
“Bad situations sometimes make people do bad things.” Lalo looked at the floor. “Don’t let her go just because of what she did. Let her go if you don’t love her anymore. Or if you aren’t gonna be able to forgive her.”
It sounded beautiful, the idea of never letting the person you loved go, of forgiveness conquering everything.
But what were you supposed to do when hanging on hurt so bad you could hardly breathe?
In the End
MUCH, MUCH TOO SOON THE OFFICE door whirred and softly clicked open. Lázaro flipped the overhead light on to find Wara under the huge desk, arms wrapped around her knees, face buried in her black sweat pants. She really did not want to see Lázaro, and it could have something to do with the fact that he just got paid in drugs to finish her.
There was a very long pause.
"He is kind of an asshole," Lázaro finally said. In Spanish. He was already remembering. Crap. "Makes me feel sick too. Come out here a second. Yes, you. Come o
ut here. I have to show you something."
What was she gonna do, hide under here like a six-year-old? Wara climbed in slow motion out from under the desk and stood there behind the heavy piece of furniture, happy for the barrier between herself and Lázaro.
It was weird to hear him speaking Spanish again, after all the proper English. Lázaro was holding that silver case. The scars on his neck stood out even more and he was not looking very good.
"I'm not sure if you understand what kind of pain nerve damage from burns causes, but it is actually quite substantial." He clicked open the case and pulled out a syringe. Wara startled and felt her breathing quicken. Lázaro didn't even look at her.
"Not for you, dear. This is mine." He plunked the case onto the tiles at the border of the thick rug and started to uncap the glass syringe. "I don't know where Tsarnev gets this stuff, but it's experimental. He took care of me after whatever the hell gave me these burns. But burns are not the easiest thing to heal from. There's still a lot of pain." Lázaro crisply rolled up one black sleeve to above the elbow, the arm without the scarring. "If I don't work for them, I don't get this,” he said. “I've tried a lot of other things, and this is the only stuff that makes the pain manageable. End of story."
It was a horrible situation to be in. Really it was.
Lázaro said the people he worked for wouldn’t tell him anything about his life before the memory loss. “Aslanbek,” Tsarnev had called him. Until the night Lázaro tried to kill her in Montana, he didn’t even know his own name.
But Wara wasn't focused in the least on Lázaro's burned skin or the drugs. Her thoughts skittered right over that and slammed frantically into images of her and Lázaro in that café, buying beer from Marc. She could smell the dark roast espresso, taste the sweet cream on her tongue, feel Lázaro's white napkin flower crinkling inside her purse between her thigh and the glossy black counter. She saw the two of them laughing in the shadows of those fuchsia bougainvillea, walking through Cochabamba towards Wara's apartment with a backpack that clinked with cold beers.
Burn (Story of CI #3) Page 20
