Disclaimer: I still don't own them. Everything belongs to Robert Rodriguez.

Rating: R for language and mild violence

Summary: What happens to Sands after Once Upon a Time in Mexico? El Mariachi enters the story.

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Chapter 2

A Knock at the Door

Someone was knocking on the door.

Despite the fact that the sound sent a thrill of fear through him, Ramirez was grateful to whoever was out there. Maybe he was even grateful because of the fear, who the hell knew anymore?

It was nearly dawn, he saw, as he approached the door. He blinked in surprise. If it was dawn, that meant it was a new day. It meant he had survived the previous day, and the hellish night that had come after.

The knock came at the door again. He wondered who had found him first, FBI or CIA. Surely they would come calling, all the way down from DC, and then all hell would break loose. There was a chance that he wouldn't spend the rest of his life in federal prison, but it was a very slim chance, and Ramirez knew it.

He was almost to the point of not caring. Let them come. He would smile at them, welcome them inside his house, and calmly direct them to the back bedroom where his unwanted houseguest was currently residing. Hell, he'd even hold the door open for them on their way out.

Don't be an asshole, his conscience said. Ever since it had conned him into turning the car around yesterday morning, that little voice inside his head hadn't let up once. You know it isn't his fault, it said now. So. Just. Don't. Be an asshole.

They had left the village around noon, the doctor in the front seat, the kid in the yellow T-shirt sitting in back with Sands. And a little later, still ten miles away from Ramirez's house, the drugs the cartel had given Sands had worn off, and the man had begun to scream.

Ramirez would never forget those screams. The CIA agent had begged for something for the pain, clutching his face and moaning, swearing that he would kill every last fucker in Mexico and piss on their still-warm bodies when he was done. Ramirez had been ready to pull over to the side of the road so he could safely turn around and beat the shit out of the man when Sands had finally passed out.

Since then the doctor had come and gone twice, the kid had thrown up on the carpet in the living room before running back to whatever passed for his home, and Ramirez had had to listen to the drugged-up, pain-crazed rantings of a man he had never even liked much in the first place.

It was enough to drive someone mad, he reflected.

The knock at the door sounded again. This time it sounded pissed off.

"All right, all right!" Ramirez shouted. He pulled his gun and held it down low, against his thigh. "Quien es?"

There was no response, which meant it wasn't the FBI. "Okay, then." Bracing himself for whatever was on his front porch, Ramirez opened the door.

The man who stood there looked familiar, but it took Ramirez a long moment to place him. He had dark hair down to his shoulders and he wore the outfit of a mariachi. He looked different without a gun in his hand, and that was why Ramirez took so long to recognize him.

He looked out into the darkness that was just giving way to dawn, trying to tell if the musician had come alone. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," the man said.

Ramirez thought about the man in his guest bedroom and hesitated. If Sands went off on another tirade, there was no telling what this black-clad stranger might do. And he would be damned if his house became another killing ground like the streets of the village.

Without waiting for an invitation, the man in the mariachi outfit pushed his way into the house. Ramirez shut the door and put his gun away. He didn't know this man, but he figured if the stranger had wanted to kill him, there had been ample opportunity in El Presidente's compound. He would take his chances.

The compound. Ramirez sucked in his breath. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. He cast a reluctant but admiring glance toward the back bedroom, as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Sands had set up quite an elaborate house of cards with his schemes. It was almost a shame that the whole structure had come tumbling down. "You were the man inside, weren't you?"

El Mariachi turned around. "I was," he said. He did not seem surprised that Ramirez knew that. His dark eyes swept the foyer, the habit of a man who had grown accustomed to watching his back. "And you, are FBI."

"Retired," Ramirez said.

"And you came out of retirement for Barillo?" El Mariachi asked. He stood with a deceptive grace, ready to spring.

"Something like that," Ramirez agreed. He guessed that if it came to a cold draw against this man, he would be shot dead before his gun ever cleared its holster.

El Mariachi nodded. He walked across the foyer, into the living room. "And you did not finish what you started." He turned and looked at Ramirez. "Because I killed Barillo. Not you."

And suddenly Ramirez understood what this visit was about. "He's dead," he said. "That's all I care about." He had avenged his dead partner and friend. He had done his duty, and he had done the right thing. He could face himself in the mirror again. That was what mattered, not who had pulled the trigger, or whose bullet had done the killing.

"There is no," El Mariachi paused, "dishonor here?"

Ramirez dared to smile. "No," he said. "I'm not going to hunt you down for stealing my kill, if that's what you're afraid of."

El Mariachi did not smile back.

It was probably not a good idea to accuse this man of cowardice, even as a joke. Ramirez opened his mouth to apologize, and from the back bedroom, Sands chose that moment to call out. "Jorge?"

El's eyes went flat.

Oh shit. Ramirez held up a hand. "This is not what you think," he said quickly. He made a placating gesture, the kind he would give a dog he was ordering to stay, and hurried to the back of the house.

Sands was sitting up in bed, leaning heavily against the headboard. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped about his head, covering the place where his eyes had been. The waterglass that had been on the nightstand was knocked over, and water was pooling on the carpet. "Jorge?"

"What?" he asked, nervously aware that El Mariachi had come up to stand right behind him in the doorway.

The CIA agent looked like shit. Pale, trembling, wearing a dark shirt far too big for him that Ramirez had grudgingly lent him from the back of his closet. "You know that dream, Jorge, the one where everything around you turns to shit, and you're standing there watching it all happen, and you're trying to scream, but you can't, and then you wake up and sit bolt upright in bed and you shake and you sweat but you realize, it was only a nightmare? Well that, my friend, is my life now. Only I'm never going to wake up from it." He reached out, slapping at the nightstand until he found the half-empty waterglass, and threw it in the general direction of the door. It landed harmlessly on the carpet a good foot away from where Ramirez stood. "Do you hear me? My life is a fucking nightmare and I am never going to wake up!"

Ramirez fought the urge to grab the crowbar from its resting place in the garage and brain the man. He turned to El Mariachi and gave an apologetic shrug. "The cartel," he mouthed. He curled his fingers into claws and made a plucking motion at his eye, then pointed to Sands.

El Mariachi looked at the CIA agent, and for a moment he looked almost sympathetic. Then his face hardened, and he nodded. "At least you are still alive," he said.

Sands jumped at hearing El Mariachi's voice, but he did not hesitate. He rolled to one side, his hand plunging under the mattress. Before Ramirez could do more than marvel at the man's speed when he was injured so badly, Sands was sitting up again, a gun in his hand. "I thought I told you no visitors, Jorge."

"I am not here to visit you," El said. He looked completely unperturbed by the gun, and with good reason; Sands was aiming two feet to the man's right.

The moment El spoke, however, Sands shifted his aim, and now the muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at the musician. "How nice. Now why don't you and Jorge both go fuck off?"

El walked forward, pushing Ramirez out of the way in order to get through the doorway. "Put that away."

Sands pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into the wall behind El Mariachi, having missed him by a mere inch. El never flinched, but Ramirez shouted in dismay. "Hey! This is my house!"

"Shut up," Sands hissed. He was shaking so badly he could barely hold the gun straight, but he gave no sign of backing down.

With a smooth grace Ramirez would never have been able to achieve, El moved forward and took the gun from Sands. "Now, what are you going to do?"

Sands slumped back against the headboard of the bed. He spread his arms, a melodramatic gesture made difficult by the sling binding his left arm. "Fine," he said, with the same exaggerated boredom that had always marked his speech before. "Shoot me. What do I care anymore?"

El Mariachi studied Sands's gun as though to memorize it. Ramirez could almost see the wheels in his head turning. The man was obviously not adept at planning; it was clear he worked much better spontaneously. "They tell me," he said slowly, "you killed two of Barillo's men."

Ramirez gave El a hard look, and wondered just who had told him that.

"Actually," Sands drawled, "it was four men. Well, really it was only three, because one of them was a woman."

Ramirez started. "Ajedrez?"

"Well, just between us three," Sands said, "her name was really Barillo. But let's keep that confidential, okay?" He was laboring now to maintain his casual attitude, but Ramirez respected him for trying. He didn't like the man, but he had to admit, Sands sure had guts.

"Barillo had a daughter?" asked El Mariachi. He sounded just as surprised as Ramirez felt.

"Apparently so," Sands said. Abruptly he dropped the bored act. "And I find myself wishing I hadn't killed the bitch, so I could do it again. Much more slowly, this time."

"Vengeance," El Mariachi said, so quietly he almost seemed to be caressing the word.

"What do you want from me?" Sands asked. "You want to shoot me? Be my guest. Otherwise, leave me the fuck alone."

El Mariachi spun Sands's gun absently on his forefinger. On his face Ramirez saw the same reluctant respect he himself felt. "The cartel still stands. They will regroup."

"Well then, I guess you have something to do with your time, don't you? You just go on and toddle off, go be a good son of Mexico. Save us all from the evil cartels. While you're at it, why don't you look for someone who sells really nice glass eyeballs?"

Ramirez took a step forward. "You're going to take on the cartels?" he asked in shock. He had suspected El Mariachi was reckless, but this was flat out insane.

The guitarist gave him a crooked smile. "Your friend here said to me once that I had nothing to live for. Maybe that was true once, but perhaps now I have found something."

"What?" Ramirez shook his head. "Mexico?"

El Mariachi said nothing, but Ramirez knew he had guessed right. "They will kill you," he said. "They are probably hunting for you already. You should leave, before it is too late."

"I am tired of seeing the people of this country run and cower from men like Barillo," said El Mariachi. His eyes had gone flat again, completely emotionless. "Men like my brother. Men like Marquez."

Ramirez sighed. Once he had felt that way too. It was why he had requested to be assigned to Mexico in the first place. He was tired of the drug runners and the corruption in his country, and the way it spilled over into his new country, America. He had joined the FBI so full of ideals, and now, thirty years later, not a single one still stood. Over time they had all been tarnished or ripped away.

But apparently enough of that idealism still remained, however, for him to feel a fleeting desire to join the stranger in the mariachi clothing. Maybe it was possible for one man to make a difference, when that man was someone like El Mariachi.

"You know," Sands remarked, "if I had eyes this would be the part where I start boo-hooing and swear my allegiance to you. Unfortunately, I don't. So I'll just have to renew my request that you fuck off and leave me alone." He slumped a little further down in the bed.

El Mariachi walked up to Ramirez and handed him Sands's gun. "How long before he is ready to go?"

Ramirez shrugged. "A few days."

"I'll come back then," El Mariachi said.

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Author's Note: There are several more chapters of this story written, but I still honestly have no idea where it's going.