A/N: This story is set one year following the events in 'Hiro's Lament.' While this also follows Markham Chronicles Negima and related stories, it is meant to stand alone from those works.

Ken Akamatsu owns Negima and its characters. Sloan Maxwell is a character created by Midnight Sleeper and appeared in one of the chapters of 'Operation Valentine'. He is used with Midnight Sleeper's permission.

The following conventions are used: "words", 'thoughts', "spells"

--

Where the Mariachis Play

Diesel tractor-trailers, rusted pickups, rickety buses and shiny, new sports cars plodded along the highway up from Monterrey. Traffic all out of proportion to the city's size converged upon Nuevo Laredo, Mexico's commercial gateway to her northern neighbors. To the side of the road, next to an abandoned refinery, a red, Chevy Impala was parked. Both driver and passenger sat quietly in the front seat and watched the slow parade of cars.

Behind the wheel sat a muscular man who looked big enough to play American-style football. His dark hair was cropped short and a neatly trimmed beard covered his square jaw. Arms, left bare, were covered with several tattoos. Most were of a religious nature save for a small eagle above the words Semper Fi. Manolo Torres, Manny to his friends, wiped a handkerchief across his brow. It came away wet with perspiration.

"Man, how can you stand it?" Manny asked the young man next to him. "This heat's killing me and you still have your coat on."

Compared to his companion, the other man looked small though he was of average height and build. Dressed in a black coat and slacks, he seemed to be unbothered by the heat. "I thought Marines were tough. This is nothing."

"Tough is hiking through thirty miles of desert carrying about 100 pounds of equipment," the big man replied. "Not sweating in 90 degree heat is just unnatural."

"Never claimed I was natural," he replied while a hand rummaged through pockets, finally extracting a cigarette package. "Care for one?"

"No. Mamacita doesn't like smoker's breath when she kisses."

A match flared briefly to life, followed by the sickly-sweet aroma of burning tobacco. After a few puffs the smoker remarked, "It must be rough to be henpecked."

"It's not so bad," the big man replied with a grin. "There's plenty of compensation."

A string of identical, black sedans appeared on the northbound road. "Looks like company has arrived," Manny said. "I count five."

"Same here," his companion replied. The man quickly produced a cell phone and punched the speed dial number.

"Hello," a woman's sultry voice answered.

"It's show time," the smoker remarked.

After hanging up, both men got out of the Impala and stepped to the rear. Within its trunk rested a black, nylon duffle bag. "M4A1 carbine with Special Ops package," the former marine announced as he pulled the rifle out for inspection. "Fully automatic with sound suppressor, laser targeting system and a single shot grenade launcher."

Flicking the cigarette away, the man smiled admiringly at the weapon. "I should start calling you 'Q'."

"Que?" Manny said. "Who's 'Q'?"

"Never mind," he answered. Looking into the bag he noted the pre-loaded ammo clips and explosives. "Damn you're good."

"Just make sure you return the rifle in one piece," Many chuckled. "This stuff doesn't grow on trees."

"That's 'Q' alright," the young man muttered as he returned the equipment. Slinging the bag over a shoulder, he started for a chain link fence in front of a line of rusting storage tanks. "I'll meet you on the US side of the river like we planned."

"Hiro!" Manny called out, causing the other man to look back. "Make sure you show up. I'd hate to go through life saying 'I know Sasuki-san. He owes me money'."

--

From his perch on a catwalk, Hiro watched the line of dusty cars gleam in the mid-morning sun. Raising the carbine, he carefully checked its sights and settled in to wait. One of the sedan doors opened as two men dragged a third from a nearby shed. The captive was hooded with shackles upon both wrists and ankles. As a man in a white, linen suit exited the limousine, the prisoner was thrown to the ground before his feet. The assassin recognized the white suited man as one of his targets.

Diego Machado was the leader of a drug cartel based in Monterrey. An ambitious man, Machado was engaged in a long running battle with the rival Sinaloa Cartel for control of routes into the United States. Nuevo Laredo was one such battleground.

'That's bastard number one,' Hiro thought to himself. 'Where's number two?'

A large man wearing a floral shirt appeared from out of another car and approached the prone figure. 'Bingo,' the assassin thought as the second man hauled the prisoner to a standing position. Luis Guerrero, nicknamed El Machete for his frequent use of the weapon, yanked the hood off the restrained figure. Hiro groaned at the mop of red hair revealed. 'Good God!' the man silently cursed. 'It had to be that baka!'

Detective Sloan Maxwell came to his attention during a job in Dublin. Cyrus MacDougall supplied arms to both sides of the Irish conflict, and had branched out to trafficking in drugs and humans. Hired by some of the gun runner's former IRA associates, Hiro came into conflict with the young detective who was working undercover in MacDougall's organization. The little twerp had nearly stopped him, and only a few, well-placed explosive charges kept Hiro from a stay at Mountjoy Prison.

'Ought to let them shoot him,' Hiro told himself. A sudden image of a sad-eyed, red-headed cheerleader appeared before his eyes. 'Awwww.'

Again the sultry voice answered his call. "Change of plans sweet-heart," Hiro told her. "I need to get the prisoner out. Can you provide a distraction?"

"How big of a boom do you want?"

"I'm heading down into the middle of that," he reminded. "Let's keep it to noise and smoke."

"Consider it done," she answered.

Lifting the carbine, he sighted on El Machete and flicked the selector to single shot. Guerrero smiled as he held the young detective's collar and gave the machete a practice swing. A foomp sounded as a smoke grenade impacted against one of the Mercedes. Hiro fired as another grenade exploded, and the cartel's most infamous hit man fell to the ground, pinning Maxwell in the process. Sliding down a ladder, the assassin reached the ground and ran into the smoke-filled area. In the general confusion, he shoved several men aside while he made his way towards where the detective laid. Shackled as he was, Sloan struggled to move the heavy corpse off him. Hiro pushed the body to one side and then lifted the other man across his shoulders to a surprised "What in hell?"

"No time for explanations Maxwell-san," he replied.

"What hole did you pop out of?"

"Put a sock in it or I'll dump you right here."

Moving behind a tank, Hiro sprinted towards a small building and then dropped the detective to the ground with a thump. "Thanks," the red-head sarcastically said. "Need I ask what you're doing here?"

"For the moment I'm saving your sorry ass Maxwell-san," the assassin answered as he knelt down and pulled a set of picks from his coat.

"Maybe I didn't need to be saved," the Irishman replied in his heavy accented Japanese. "I had everything under control until you showed up."

"That's the problem with our relationship Maxwell-san," Hiro quipped while unlocking the wrist shackles. "You're never satisfied."

"You've just ruined three months of investigative work," Sloan complained.

"Next time I'll let them splatter your brains over the place," Hiro said as the final lock sprung opened.

"So was Guerrero your target?"

"One of them," he answered while unslinging the rifle.

"You're not going to have time for anyone else," Sloan replied with a grin. "The Policia will be pouring in here any second now."

Hiro frowned in response. "That could be inconvenient."

"Yeah, for your pocketbook."

"I've planted several bombs around here," Hiro told him. "They should start detonating in about five minutes."

"You're bluffing," the detective flatly stated. "I know your MO. You don't take out people you haven't been paid for."

"This is a special case," he replied. "My employer doesn't want Machado to slip away."

He smiled at Sloan's skeptical look. "You don't have to believe me of course. Now if you'll excuse me I have a job to finish." With than he started running towards the main gate, leaving a very confused detective behind.

--

Tires squealed as a black car careened around the corner. Hiro calmly stood his ground as the vehicle bore down upon him. A grenade exploded in front of the Mercedes, causing it to sharply swerve and roll over. Men scrambled out of windows only to face the grinning young man. A rifle butt smashed into a guard's stomach, doubling him over, and was followed up by a blow to the back of his head. The second guard was dispatched just a quickly and Hiro turned towards the fleeing Machado.

"Senor!" he shouted out and sprayed the ground behind the running man with semi-automatic fire.

With hands held up, the mobster turned. "How much are they paying you?" the man asked. "I'll double it. Triple it."

"Keep talking senor," Hiro said as he advanced with the carbine held before him. "I'm listening."

Machado's slight smiled betrayed the mobster's relief. There wasn't a person who didn't have a price. "I know my enemies want me dead," the man said. "But we can turn the tables on them. Si? Just tell me what you want senor."

The M4A1 clattered to the ground as Hiro dropped the weapon and grabbed the white suited man by the throat. "I want Hector Ayala's widow to see her dead husband smile."

"Behind you!" a voice shouted.

Hiro spun around, swinging Machado in front as gunshots sounded. The mobster jerked as slugs tore into flesh and bone. The man's eyes appeared shocked as his body went limp in the assassin's grip. Sloan brought a length of pipe down on the back of the gunman's head while police sirens wailed in the distance.

Lighting a cigarette, Hiro waited for the inevitable. "Hiro Sasuki," Sloan said in a loud voice. "You're under arrest."

"And the charge?"

"Let's start with unlawful possession of a firearm, destruction of public property and interference with an official investigation," the detective responded. "I'm sure if we throw enough at you, something's bound to stick."

--

Three days later, Sloan Maxwell had turned in his final report and made his way down the corridor, grumbling as he went. Once again, the assassin had eluded his grasp. Sasuki had admitted shooting Guerrero but that had been in defense of the detective's life while one of the other cartel thugs had killed Machado. All other charges had been dropped at the request of the Japanese Consulate. "Next time Sasuki-san," the young Irishman grimly promised. "Next time."

Stepping into the bright sunlight, Sloan shaded his eyes as a tall, attractive woman dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt approached. Her dark hair and complexion were unremarkable, but the woman's eyes denoted some Asian ancestry. "Buenos Dias senorita," he greeted her.

"Buenos Dias Senor Maxwell," the young woman replied to his surprise. "My name is Mana Tatsumiya. I believe you know one of my classmates at Mahora."

"Mahora is it?" he asked in return. "Which classmate would that be?"

"Sakurako Shiina."

Visions of a girl whose orange-red hair was tied up sprang instantly to mind. His most memorable Valentine's Day was spent in the cheerleader's company and lips pulled back into a pleased smile. "And how can I help you senorita?" he asked.

"Actually, I thought I could help you," Mana answered. "Would you like to meet the people who paid for the deaths of Diego Machado and Luis Guerrero?"

It took the better part of an hour for them to cross the river and pass through customs. Eventually, the red Impala parked in front of a modest home on the north side of Laredo. At least a dozen men of differing ethnic groups stood or sat around the house. They fell quiet as the auto pulled up and the occupants got out.

"Inside," Mana said as the dour group watched.

"What is this place?" Sloan whispered to his guide as he followed her up the drive. "And who are these men?"

"This is the home of Hector Ayala," Mana answered. "And these men served in the same platoon with him."

"Platoon? Like an army platoon?"

"Marine Corps," she replied.

Walking into the house, Sloan could hear the hum of an air conditioning unit as it continuously ran in the sweltering heat. A little slip of a woman ran to Mana and gave the taller woman a fierce hug. "Gracias Mana," the woman said.

"I'd like to add my thanks as well Miss Tatsumiya," another voice added in English. A Caucasian whose sandy blonde hair was graying at the temples, walked in from the kitchen.

"And who are you?" Sloan asked.

"My name is William Prescott," the stranger replied.

The detective's face screwed up in concentration. "Are you any relation to the owners of Prescott Electronics?"

"I'm the company's president," the man answered. "I was also a lieutenant in the 3rd Battalion 6th Marine Regiment."

A light bulb clicked on over the young man's head. "Would that be the same outfit Hector Ayala belonged to?"

"I was his platoon commander during the Panamanian invasion," Prescott proudly announced. "Hector carried me out of danger after I had been hit during a fire fight. I owe my life to his quick actions."

"Was your gratitude enough to pay someone to kill his murderers?"

"Do you know how Hector died young man," the former marine asked.

After Sloan shook his head, the older man explained that Hector had left the Marine Corps and went to work for the Drug Enforcement Agency. "He was kidnapped by Machado's men last February and slain by being hacked to pieces," Prescott told him. "Unfortunately, neither government was able to bring his killers to justice."

"So you took it upon yourself to ensure justice was done?"

"During my short service with the Marines, I learned an important lesson. One I wished more of my country men would follow," the man replied. "Never leave a fallen comrade behind."

Mana walked back over to them and held out a slip of paper. "What's this?" Prescott asked as he took it from her.

"Fee for services rendered," the woman answered.

Confused, the man looked up from the paper. "This is for less than ten thousand," he said in amazement. "What about the other forty?"

"This is what Mister Sasuki is asking to cover expenses," Mana told him. "He suggested anything beyond that be given to the family."

Exiting the house, Sloan asked, "Are you on the level Tatsumiya-san? Did that assassin turn down that much money?"

"It's not always about money Maxwell-san," his companion replied as her mouth twisted into a knowing grin. "Sometimes you back a cause because you think it's the right thing to do."

From down the street, the detective could hear the sounds of mariachi music playing loudly from a radio. Glancing at the men still gathered nearby, Sloan caught a glimpse of something the young man couldn't quite put a name to. Words like purpose and commitment sprang to mind, however neither adequately described it. He pondered just what it was on the long trip back over the border.