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Alejo, then Wara. “Lázaro worked under Alejo in the Prism for only a few months, then the local cell was disbanded. The last place we have Lázaro in is Europe, where he did work for the Eastern Star, a radical Muslim group out of Georgia.”
    “And now he shows up claiming to not know who Wara is,” Cail scowled. “But saying someone’s sent him to kill her.”
    This was so awkward. Wara was starting to feeling frustrated.
    “I can see how Timbuktu is a good place to hide out,” she said, “but I obviously don’t have experience in this kind of situation. I’m not really any help. Everyone will basically be my babysitters there.” Embarrassing, but true. “When the kids are able to be moved, Lalo and the rest of us will move out. Right? And then what do I do? Find a new place to hide out?”
    Alejo was watching her. He looked a little less cold now that he’d downed coffee. “Right,” he nodded. Something uncertain flashed across his hazel eyes. Alejo tried to cover it up with a reassuring smile. It came across rather lopsided. “Timbuktu is just until we can figure out what to do next.”
    Wara felt herself making a face. “You mean, like, until we work out some kind of deal? Get him to stop coming after me? Oh, maybe we could Facebook him and ask him to please lay off. Do assassins even use social media?”
    Cail was grimacing and tracing wood patterns on the ceiling with her eyes. Alejo looked very disturbed. “Someone will have to track him down and get him to stop,” he said gruffly, “if you’re going to come out of hiding.”
    Wara just stared at him. “That’s how it works? Just convince him to stop?”
    Alejo’s eyes slid shut and his shoulders slumped.
    "Alejo'll have to take him out, Wara." Rupert's gravelly voice broke the silence. “The Eastern Star Lázaro worked with are not small time players. After that, Marquez went off the grid. That means whoever he works for is bigtime. He’s not going to give up til he’s finished the job and you’re dead. It's either he kills you, or his bosses kill him."
    Wara blinked at the empty dishes in front of her, horrified. She felt her armpits prick. “We’re talking about…Lázaro,” she croaked. She knew the eyes she locked with Alejo’s were much too frantic. “Weren’t you guys…friends? At some point? Alejo, he doesn’t remember who he is. What if he just needs…help?”
    “He tried to kill you.” Alejo’s eyes narrowed and he looked away. “That’s all the excuse I need.”

Slow Students
    IF ALEJO LIVED TO BE A THOUSAND, he might never forget the look in Wara’s eyes.
    He’d thought about this. On the entire hellish trip here to Morocco. There really wasn’t another way.
    But the sick sheen of Wara’s forehead drove home something he hadn’t really wanted to consider.
    “Weren’t you guys…friends?” Wara squeaked. “At some point? Alejo, he doesn’t remember who he is. What if he just needs…help?”
    This guy pinned Wara down in the middle of the night and tried to kill her with poison arrows.
    But Alejo did know him. He’d worked with him.
    Wara had dated him.
    “He tried to kill you,” Alejo felt himself growl. “That’s all the excuse I need.” But inside he just withered a little bit more. He was sick of this, felt rotten to the core from all the violence and brokenness.
    “If we capture Marquez and turn him over to the authorities,” Rupert was explaining, “he will be on the loose again before you know it. Bolivia and the other countries where he’s committed crimes have corrupted legal systems. We have to assume the people Marquez works for are powerful. Organizations like that invest a lot of money in their assassins. They’re not gonna leave him to rot in jail.”
    Alejo wanted to finish this discussion before he had to see Wara’s stricken eyes again. “I know Timbuktu,” he said to his empty coffee mug. “It’s my turf. Lalo and Caspian and I know it like the back of our hand by now.