Hostage Situation. Debra Webb

the partially opened door. “Señor?” Her voice was small and worried. She should be worried. She had played a part in this vile plan, had made herself an accomplice to his brother’s selfish scheming.

      In spite of the many reasons to doubt the possibility, hope stirred. Had he at last gained an ally? Or was this another trick?

      “Have you had a change of heart, woman?” He asked this in English, refused to speak the native tongue of his betrayers. He had known this woman since he was a small boy. His mother had trusted her, had allowed her to look after her only children. Were his mother still alive, she would be gravely disappointed. There was no longer any loyalty in this family.

      Juanita slipped into the room that had served as a prison for the past month, or had it been longer? On some level, he had reconciled to the likely fate that he would die here.

      The light that followed Juanita into his prison accentuated the somber features of her thin face and her downcast gaze. He imagined that guilt kept her from looking him in the eye. He was being held prisoner in his own birth home. He had given up on the possibility of ever seeing the light of day again. His own people had turned on him, motivated by whatever threats made or gifts offered by his monster of a brother.

      “I have, señor,” Juanita confessed sadly. “You were right. He is evil. I have heard whispers that he plans to cut off your head—” she shuddered “—when he returns. No matter what you’ve done, I cannot allow him to harm you this way.”

      The threat of death was not unexpected. Why else would he be held prisoner like this? There was no turning back now. Whatever his brother was up to, he would leave no loose ends to fray. Yet even as the anger against his last living blood relative expanded inside him, he yearned for answers. His heart wouldn’t simply let go of the need to know the answers as to why he had come to be in this position, at the mercy of his own kin. What had changed? Why the sudden determination to come against him…after all this time? There had to be some scheme in place.

      He should have gone to the authorities years ago and put a stop to his brother’s dealings. As a child, he had promised his mother that he would look out for his brother. Even then, she had known that something was not right with her eldest child. Maintaining his allegiance to that promise had been a mistake; looking the other way for so many years was a crime.

      If he survived what was to come, he would settle this score once and for all.

      “And what is it I have done that has brought about my imprisonment and impending death?” he asked the woman hovering with such uncertainty.

      She eased back a step, positioning herself in the open doorway as if she feared she might need to quickly run away. Still, she refused to meet his gaze. “Señor, there is no need to speak of the past unless it is to pray for mercy on your soul.”

      Her hand trembled as it came to rest on the door in preparation for yanking it closed if necessary. Would she rather lock him back up in this room than answer a simple question?

      “We must speak of it, Juanita,” he insisted, “for I have no idea why this has happened.” Other than the fact that his brother was as insane as his vile acts would suggest. But there would be much more than that. The need to uncover this plan sent much-needed adrenaline pumping through him. “Tell me what it is that you believe I have done.”

      For several moments, he was certain she did not intend to answer. Finally, her mouth worked mutely for a moment and then the words tumbled out. “You killed them, señor. All of them.” Her voice trembled. She cleared her throat and began again. “Your brother put you here to protect you until he could ensure the authorities were satisfied. But I have learned that he plans to kill you himself, not protect you at all. I cannot permit such a thing. Your madre would not want me to allow this end, no matter your crimes.”

      This made no sense. He had not killed anyone. “Who have I killed, Juanita?”

      “The missionaries,” she whispered, then crossed herself. “You killed them all.”

      Shock radiated through him, rendering him momentarily unable to speak. “You are sure they are dead? All five?” His voice was quavering.

      Juanita nodded jerkily. “The authorities are saying the rebels did the killing. Your brother saw to it that your name was kept from the trouble that has finally grown quiet. But now he plans to kill you so that you cannot do such a thing again. It was an act against God the Father.” She crossed herself once more. “Your brother says that your death is necessary in order to obtain forgiveness for you as well as for himself.” At last she lifted her gaze to his. “I have known you since you were a small boy. I cannot watch you die by the hand of your own brother. Forgiveness or no forgiveness, it is not right.”

      “What shall we do about this, Juanita?” He wanted to rise up from his position on the floor. To urge the woman who had known him for most of his life to act now. There was no time to waste. But he did not want to risk frightening her with any sudden moves. In addition, the price could prove to be very high if Juanita’s participation in his escape were discovered before an end could be put to the enemy—his own brother.

      “You must hurry back to your home in the north, señor,” Juanita offered. “You must go now. There can be no delay. Eduardo has heard that your brother is already on his way here. He will not follow you to the north, as you well know. You must never return to Mexico. No one else can die in the Reyes’ name. God will not forgive any of us, I fear.”

      He had not killed anyone, but Juanita was right about one thing—no one else should die in the Reyes’ name, period. “How am I to go back to the States, Juanita? I have no papers. No money.”

      She exhaled a careworn breath. “Eduardo makes a way. Your brother’s private plane waits. You must hurry. I have clothes for you.”

      “What will you and Eduardo do when my brother finds me gone from here?” Eduardo, Juanita’s husband, had taken a great risk, as had Juanita.

      She shook her head. “There is no time to talk of this. You must go.”

      He got up slowly. Even though she knew his intentions, Juanita gasped when he took a step toward the door.

      His chest tightened at the idea that anyone would consider him threatening. That was the part of this ugly mess that he hated the most. His own brother had used him to create fear…to kill.

      “Juanita,” he said softly, “I have not killed anyone. If the missionaries—” his throated constricted “—are dead, then my brother or his men killed them. You surely know I would never do such a thing.”

      Those five men, volunteers from the Basilica de Guadalupe on the north side of Mexico City, had been working with him in a small southern village devastated by last year’s floods. They had rebuilt many homes already, but there was much more to be done. Now those men were dead if what Juanita said was to be believed. What in God’s name did his brother hope to prove?

      “I have been thinking that you did not,” Juanita admitted, her voice grave. “But I do not know the truth, señor. Flee this place. If your heart is pure you will flourish again.”

      If only it were that easy. “I understand.” His brother could be charming and utterly persuasive when he chose. No one wanted to believe the depth of his depravity.

      “You must hurry, mi hijo.”

      “Thank you, Juanita.”

      Their gazes met briefly in the near darkness. Years had passed since she had last used that endearment. If they survived, he would ensure that her attempt to do the right thing was well compensated. Of the handful who knew of this despicable arrangement, no one else had dared to offer a hand in support. Those who had looked the other way would not be forgotten, either.

      He followed Juanita from the prison. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs despite his attempt to stay calm and steady. If they were caught, Juanita would die. His own fate might very well be no better, though most would not dare attempt to use lethal force