Chapter 5 In the dark voice

Chapter 5

In the Dark, Voices

The recorder remained silent while Maria remained crouching, burning like a hot coal in her hand. As if nature itself were reacting to the betrayal encoded in that brief recording, the forest appeared to enclose her with darker shadows. Her thoughts became entangled as she considered the possibility that her voice had been faked-or, even worse, that she had been manipulated without her knowledge. Her nose was filled with the scent of damp leaves. She had to find out who had done this before going back to the camp. She disappeared into the trees after putting the recorder in the pocket of her coat. Holy Names and Painted Masks After sunset, Jone Sophia's tent was the loudest part of the camp because it was filled with kerosene lamps, glowed with laughter, and smelled like cheap whiskey and something sinister and dangerous. Jone Sophia was a flame, dancing, daring, and untouchable, whereas Maria was a shadow. Her uncontrollable, raw laughter was like storm-tossed wind chimes. In a camp ruled by mud, she wore color, wore sequins on her bust, and carried a knife in her boot. Jone didn't grow up in this war-ravaged valley. She had danced in bars from Tijuana to Panama, charmed American soldiers and cartel thugs alike, and she had survived without being shot thanks to her stories, flattery, and hypnotizing hips. She spoke four languages badly and seduced in all of them. She lied in a variety of ways based on her mood, so no one knew her true age. Williams Brown, who some referred to as Commander or simply the Devil, was at the center of her current orbit. He was the kind of man who never smiled but raised his eyebrows to make women laugh. Fearful men followed him. Jone danced for him not out of obligation but rather out of a desire for him to look at her with something more than just hunger in his eyes. Moreover, because he had not yet. She painted her lips crimson with a match, telling the other girls, "He's different." He is broken in the best possible way. like a glass you drink from even though you bleed from it. She would make the girls giggle and call her mad, but they didn't get it. Jone didn't want to be loved. She wanted to leave a legacy. Additionally, being the woman who subdued Williams Brown was the kind of legend for which one need not have lived to be remembered. Pedro Martinez Williams lived like a monk across the camp, where the music stopped before it started and the lanterns flickered less. Despite being close to the Commander's, his tent was quiet, neat, and almost holy. Pedro read at night, not intelligence briefings but actual books. He did not preach; rather, they referred to him as "Father Pedro" because he listened to them. His eyes could see right through lies and he was tall with graying temples. No one knew why the Commander had more faith in him than anyone else. He was said by some to be Williams Brown's half-brother. Before they both vanished into the jungle, others claimed that they had fought together in Colombia. Pedro never denied or confirmed anything. Pedro, in contrast to Jone, was bound by an invisible code. He only drank water. The women were not touched by him. He prayed quietly. But Pedro, not the Commander, knew the names of the children who were hidden in the refugee tents beyond the perimeter, calmed the camp when supplies were low, treated wounds when the doctor was drunk, and so on. Jone once made a personal approach to him, more out of curiosity than attraction. She said, squatting next to his fire, "You know, you'd be less lonely if you just gave in." Everybody has a price. Pedro gave her a tired, warm look. "Kingdoms were even offered to Christ. He continued to walk to the cross. She grinned. "As for you? Are you going somewhere? "I'm leaving the person I used to be." She ought to have laughed when she heard that. However, it did not. She did not mock him again that night. The camp moved forward in the tense silence between their worlds. Supplies moved around. After dusk, betrayal cries erupted. The absence of Maria was noted but not raised in public. Pedro remained vigilant. Jone continued to dance. When Pedro Martinez heard the sound of footsteps outside his tent, the sun had not yet set. Not out of fear but rather out of habit, he quietly rose and grabbed the small knife he kept beneath his bedroll. Before he could speak, Maria slipped inside with a pale face and wild eyes as the flap shook. He whispered, "You shouldn't be here," to her. She whispered, clutching the recorder, "I have no one else." He made a motion for silence. Two guards laughing and joking excessively for this early hour can be heard outside. Maria put the gadget in his hand. I'm being framed by someone. There is a recording of Koro. My sound. talking about William's death. Pedro listened as he pressed play. He looked at her at the end of the video with concern rather than accusation. He stated, "That is not your voice." It's flawless. Overly perfect. A clean sample was used. Maybe AI mimicry. This was planned in advance. She said, "Then aid me." Koro stated, "Before dawn. They will pursue me. The recorder in his fist clenched, Pedro gave her a long look. He stated, "I need one thing first." "Sofia Jones. Is she near your communications?" "What? No. She-why?"

She has friends all over the world. Additionally, she has been spending more time than you would expect a dancer to near the tech tent. A beat.

Maria looked up. "Do you believe she did this?" I think she is being used by someone. And if we are unable to identify who-" The morning was pierced by a scream. Both of them turned. It emanated from Jone's tent. Then came the gunfire.