What Lies Within (22 page)

She stepped away from Fredrik—and closer to Rafael. “One thing I have never been, sir, is absurd. I’m only telling how it seems to me. Clearly, this is God’s call to Fredrik and the church people. And yet when you arrive, rather than offering constructive suggestions, you spout dire warnings—”

“Kinder, please.”

“—and act as though you’re the only one with a rational thought in his head. Even you—”

The frown between those dark brows deepened. “Even I?”

“—must see how odd that is. Which leads me to wonder at your motivation.”

“Really, both of you—”

Rafael’s sharp words sliced through Fredrik’s objection. “What are you trying to say?”

“Only that Fredrik trusts you implicitly, and I hope he’s right to do so. Because all I’ve heard today seems to imply that, for whatever reason, you’re part of the opposition.” She made her own gaze as pointed as she could.

“And all I’ve heard proves you haven’t a clue what’s going on here. Which makes you more dangerous than the gangs.”

“Please, don’t you two see how wrong it is?”

Kyla shushed Fredrik with one hand, even as she demanded Rafael’s attention by laying the other on his arm. “And what is that supposed to … to …”

She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say. The moment her hand touched Rafael’s arm he’d flinched, then gave her what she wanted.

He looked at her.

Right into her eyes.

And suddenly all words were gone. Melted away in a gaze so intense it made Kyla pull back as though she’d touched fire.

Which, from the heat in Rafael’s eyes, she might have done.

The only question now was if that heat was intimate … or incendiary
.

TWENTY-TWO   

W
hat was
wrong
with him?

Here he’d spent all these weeks thinking and praying about Kyla, and now that he was face to face with her, all he could do was antagonize her.

He might as well be twelve years old again.

Still, as much as he wanted to stop what was happening, her defiant accusation stuck deep in his gut. The idea. That he’d undermine God’s work.

If she’d been a man, she’d be on the ground. Nursing a broken jaw.

“Rafael!”

He started at Fredrik’s harsh tone, but before he could ask what the old man wanted, his arm was gripped by aged fingers and he was led to the side, away from Kyla.

Probably a good thing right now.

“You must listen to me, Rafe.
Listen and hear
. You are not at war here. And this woman? She’s not some target to be taken off—”

“Out.”

“I … what?”

Rafe’s lips twitched. “Taken out. You take targets out, not off.”

Fredrik’s head wagged back and forth. “Out, off … oy! Such a
schmendrik
,
when you want to be. But this stops now. No more, my boy. All you’ve been doing is hearing words. But you must listen to a woman’s heart to hear what she means.”

“Fredrik …”

“No. On this I insist. Go now, back to mein kind, but this time not so much of
this
”—his finger poked at Rafe’s mouth—“and substantially more of this”—a finger jabbed at Rafe’s ear. “Because then, dear boy”—Fredrik laid his hand over Rafe’s heart—“this will know what to do.”

Ancient eyes rested on his face. Eyes holding such wisdom. Rafe pursed his lips, then gave one slow nod. He turned and walked back to Kyla.

She stiffened at his approach, and he forced a calm he did not feel into his voice. “I’m not against the youth center, Kyla. I’m only concerned.”

Her posture relaxed a fraction. “About what?”

“Did Fredrik tell you that there’s one very determined, and even more dangerous, man out there who will do everything he can to keep this center from being built?”

She nodded. “He did.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “He did?”

“Sam Ballat. Yes, Fredrik told me.”

Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way. Sheepish. Foolish.

Or could he? Actually, if he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit something he’d been trying to ignore. He’d been feeling foolish for months. Ever since the day Kyla Justice walked back into his life. Fascinating how a man’s fury could go from zero to sixty and back in a matter of seconds.

“I’m sorry, Fredrik.” There was no doubting the sincerity in Rafael’s voice. “I misjudged you.”

Kyla almost snorted, ready to point out Fredrik wasn’t the only misjudged soul here today. But before she got a chance, the old man rested a hand on Rafael’s shoulder.

“No need for apologies, Rafe. I know what all this means to you. God made you a passionate man—”

Passionate? Was that what you called it?

“—and I wouldn’t change that about you. Besides, you were right.” At
this, Fredrik came toward Kyla, holding his hands out. She placed her hands in his, noting the strength in his grip. “I wasn’t completely forthcoming, my dear. I didn’t want to frighten you away before you caught the vision for what God has called us to here.”

She tugged at Fredrik’s rough hands. Hands that had helped so many. “So tell me now.”

He did so, explaining the obstacles they’d faced since beginning the project—which, Kyla had to admit, were many. Minimal funding, suppliers who seemed hesitant to deal with them because they didn’t want to cross Sam Ballat, dissension within the elders, who were overseeing the project …

Kyla patted Fredrik’s hands. “You’re right, it’s a lot. But it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before on other projects.” She offered him as encouraging a smile as she could. “That’s all just a part of construction, Fredrik. Nothing that you’ve told me sounds all that terrible.”

“He’s not finished.”

She looked from Rafael to Fredrik. “You’re not?”

Clearly, the older man didn’t want to go on. But Rafael placed his hand on Fredrik’s shoulder. “You have to tell her all of it.”

Fredrik nodded. “We have a certain group here in the neighborhood …”

“A group?”

Rafael’s patience was wearing. Kyla could tell from the increased tension in his voice. “A gang.”

Kyla’s eyes widened at that. “A gang.”

Misery rested on Fredrik’s features. “A gang, yes. But not one involved in truly serious crimes. At least, not murder.” He pointed at Rafael. “You told me that yourself, Rafe. They aren’t like those violent prison gangs or the violent gangs immersed in the drug trade.”

Thank goodness for that.

“No, they’re just a violent gang bent on defending their territory.”

Kyla turned to face both men. “Their territory being?”

Rafael didn’t flinch. “This neighborhood.”

So. If she took this job she’d be facing tight deadlines, high expectations from the church leadership, and resistance from a bunch of hoodlums. She should just turn and walk away. Kyla opened her mouth to say she was going to do just that, but what came out instead was, “Tell me about this gang.”

Fredrik took her arm, tugging her toward a pew. “Come, sit. I will tell you all I know.”

She followed him, lowering herself onto the cushion.
Lord, a gang? This is the project You’re calling me to? One where I have to deal with a gang?

“They call themselves the Blood Brotherhood.”

She focused on Fredrik’s somber words.

“They started a number of years ago and have been growing a bit as each year passed. We’ve lost a number of the youth from our church families to this gang.”

Kyla folded her hands in her lap. “What do they want?”

Rafael spoke up. “They consider this neighborhood their territory. Their turf, they call it. And they want to keep it. Every inch of it. Having a youth center here, it might pull some of the kids away from them. So, as you can imagine, they’re less than enthusiastic about the proposition.”

“I thought you were working with them. Had gained their trust. Can’t you talk with them? Explain that a center might actually help them?”

Rafael’s gaze narrowed, and she had the sense he was trying to determine if she was criticizing him. But when he spoke, his voice was calm. Assured. “I’ve done exactly that, and while some may want to buy into it, unless the leadership does so, it’s a no-go.”

“The leadership?”

Fredrik leaned toward her. “One young man.” His gaze traveled to Rafael, who nodded.

“Tell her.”

Oh dear. This didn’t sound good. “Tell me what?”

“The leader, his name is King K.”

“Fredrik.”

The old man bent his head at Rafael’s scold, then heaved a deep sigh. “Which stands for King Killa.”

“King Killa.” Kyla had the sense that should mean something to her. She looked from Fredrik to Rafael.

The latter shook his head at her apparent thickness. “Killa is gangspeak. For killer.”

She stiffened. “You mean … has he really killed?”

Rafael’s shrug was as eloquent as it was dismissive. “No one can prove it,
but he claims six kills.” He angled a look at her. “That’s how he made his bones.”

“Made his …?”

“Got into the gang. You know, ‘Blood in, blood out.’ ”

Her confusion must have been plastered on her features, because he went on.

“Only way in is to kill. Only way out, be killed.”

“I thought that was just the Mexican mafia.”

Mafia? Kyla stared at Fredrik. There was a mafia involved?

Rafael shook his head. “Other gangs have taken it up. With King Killa in charge, you know the Brotherhood won’t let anyone out without spilling blood.”

All they were saying was utterly terrifying. If she had a brain in her head, she’d turn and walk away. And yet as she listened, she felt a quickening deep within. Against all common sense, a certainty grew.

This was the kind of project she’d been asking God to bring her. And though her mind told her to run and not look back, her heart had other ideas. “Let me pray about it.”

Another snort from the peanut gallery. Kyla pinned Rafael with a glare. “You have a problem with prayer?”

“Me? No. But then, I’m not looking for it to justify a bad decision.”

Oooh! That man was impossible! She turned her back on him and focused on Fredrik. “I’ll get back to you in a week.”

“If you’re smart, you’ll say no.”

She turned back to Rafael Murphy. How had she ever thought this man appealing? “Perhaps so. But I’m far more concerned, Mr. Murphy, with being obedient.” She just barely withheld the “So there!” perched on her tongue.

“Come, kinder. It’s time we should leave, while everyone is still alive.”

Fredrik’s tone almost made her laugh out loud. It reminded her of her mother’s voice when she moderated childhood battles between Kyla and her siblings.

From Rafael’s expression, he recognized the tone as well. A wry smile teased his lips, and he put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Fredrik. We … 
I
got a little”—his gaze slid to Kyla, apology clear in his eyes—“out of control.”

She inclined her head and linked her arm in Fredrik’s. “
We
got out of control. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Got zol ophiten.”

God forbid? Kyla stared at her friend.

“Such
aftselakhis
I haven’t seen since I was a boy in the old country.”

Now that one Kyla didn’t recognize. She looked to Rafael, but he just shrugged. Apparently he didn’t recognize it either. Fredrik didn’t notice their confusion—either that, or he didn’t care to enlighten them. He just went on.

“It did this old
kvetcher’s
heart good. Not happen again?
Feh!
It will happen again.” Chuckling, he patted her cheek, then turned and headed for the door. “But such entertainment you couldn’t find on television.”

Kyla stood there, mouth hanging open. Rafael appeared as nonplussed as she felt. They exchanged a look.

“What was that all about?”

Rafael shook his head. “I have no idea. But I’ll tell you one thing”—he fell into step beside her as she followed Fredrik out of the sanctuary—“I’m gonna look up
aftsela …
”

“Aftselakhis.”

“Right.” He stared after Fredrik. “That word. I’m gonna find out what it means.”

“Just be sure you tell me too.”

“Oh, you can count on it.”

As they walked the rest of the way in silence, Kyla wished that was all she could count on. But she couldn’t help feeling something else awaited her.

Trouble.

In abundance.