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THOMAS J. NICHOLS
Preview - Color of the Prism
Sixto was still crouched down in the ravine. Julian
looked at him and put his finger to his lips. Julian looked back as Aguilar
opened the driver's door and got in. The moment he sat down and shut the
door, Julian ducked low in the ditch and nodded his head at Sixto.
The blast of noise and light tore through the quiet of the night. The light
was like a thousand flashbulbs going off at the same time. It was a huge
white flash, and then it was gone, replaced by the flicker and glow of light
from the flames. The concussion rolled across the desert foothills and
echoed off the low mountains to the west. Julian could hear tiny pieces of
shrapnel from the car body and windows zing over their heads and bury
themselves in the bushes and cactus. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the
crash of what must have been at least one large part of the car body slam
down into the ground. The two men did not stop to look at their handiwork.
They jumped out of the ravine and trotted softly and quickly through the
desert, taking only a moment to look over their shoulders. Julian was a
little surprised. There was not enough car left to be recognized, and the
fire was lapping around its remnants. He smiled grimly. Shit, it was good.
It was his job, and he had done what he was supposed to do. He had expected
a big explosion and fire, but this one was really big. Nothing was left. As
for the wife and kids, that was too bad. It was Aguilar's fault for being
such an asshole. He had brought it on himself and his family, and couldn't
blame anybody else. Aguilar would burn in hell, just as Julian had promised.
Lupe carefully drove the stolen van back to the shopping center, signaling
for every turn and staying just under the speed limit. There was no
conversation among them, but Julian watched Sixto in the right front seat.
He kept fidgeting, looking from side to side, wiping his brow and
occasionally his eyes.
In the back, Julian unwrapped the duct tape from his shoes, rolled it into a
ball and put it in the paper bag that he had saved. His eyes never left
Sixto, except for an occasional glance at Lupe. Lupe, too, was aware of
Sixto's discomfort. Or his guilt. That might be it. Maybe this had been too
much for him, what with Aguilar's old lady and the kids.
It only took a few minutes to get back to the shopping mall. Each of them
used their handkerchiefs and wiped down the interior before they got out and
walked to their car, leaving the empty beer cans and the cigarette on the
floor. Lupe drove and Julian directed him to the shopping area near the
front gate of the university. He pulled into a parking spot and Julian
jumped out, taking the paper bag and tossing it into a trash barrel as he
walked by it on the way to the bank of pay phones in the middle on the
block. They were less than a mile from the Islamic Center. Just in case the
cops or feds tracked back on the phone call to the newspaper, this would be
the right neighborhood.
'Star-Citizen, how may I direct your call?' asked a polite feminine voice.
'I say this only once,' said Julian in a forced, accented voice. 'The
freedom of Islam cannot be forgotten by the rich. We will strike until we
are free. The United States of America cannot continue to support
Jerusalem.' He wiped off the phone as he hung it back on the receiver. He
couldn’t be too careful.
He walked back toward the car, mingling with students and visitors who hung
around the burger joints, bars, and coffee shops. He wasn't in any hurry.
Everything--well, almost everything--was finished, and the rest would wait
until they were back in Mexico. He stopped at the walk-up window at Dinkies
Dogs and bought three chili dogs and cokes before going back to the car. He
was hungry and thirsty and knew the others had to feel the same way. He
passed the bag of food and drinks through the window to Sixto, who had
relaxed by this time. Julian figured that Lupe’d had a good talk with him
while Julian was on the phone, and Sixto was trying hard to calm himself
down.
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