Chapter 3
El Gets a New Partner
Disclaimer: Still not mine. All is Robert Rodriguez's. I worship at his feet.
Rating: A strong R for language, and violence in this chapter. Poor Sands...
Many many thanks to my reviewers, for their comments and support. I started out writing this story for myself, to satisfy my own twisted wish to see more of the lovely, psychotic Agent Sands, but thanks to you guys the story has taken on a life of its own.
And to Erin, who asked if we would be seeing any of Sands' POV? I'm afraid he has refused point-blank to talk to me, and let me into his head. I suspect it's a scary place anyway, and I probably don't want to visit. So from here on out, El will be telling the story. I hope that's all right with everyone.
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El waited a week before going back to Ramirez's house. He went alone. When he had told his friends what he meant to do, Lorenzo had laughed and said he was crazy. Fideo was drinking again and didn't give a shit about anything except where his next bottle came from, so he hadn't said anything, but even if he had, El wouldn't have cared. After all these years, he had a purpose again, and he meant to stick to it. It was, after all, the only thing he had.
Ramirez, the FBI agent, didn't look happy to see him, but then, Ramirez was one of those men who had a face that never looked happy, so that too didn't bother El. "I didn't think you were really coming back."
"Is he ready?" he asked.
"You'll have to drag him out of here," Ramirez said. "He said if you came back he was going to kill you."
El nodded. He had no problem with dragging Sands from the house. It was Sands's fault that he had gotten involved in this whole mess to begin with. Although, to be fair, it was also Sands who had, however inadvertently, given El his new purpose in life. So he would use force, if he had to, but he wouldn't necessarily like it. That was the thing they had never understood, any of them, except Carolina. He used violence when he had to, but he had never liked it.
Ramirez led him through the house. They found Sands on the back porch. He was standing at the railing – leaning on it, to be more precise. His head was lowered, but when he heard the jingling approach of El Mariachi, he stiffened and spun around.
El was not surprised to see the gun in the other man's hand. Nor was he surprised to find that it was accurately aimed at him. Sands had very good hearing.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Sands waved the gun. "Do you really think I'm going anywhere with you?" He was wearing dark sunglasses, and the sling about his arm was gone, but he was still too pale. El knew from experience that gunshot wounds were slow to heal, and annoyingly painful, and the CIA agent looked exactly like someone who was pushing his recovery too hard and too fast. El guessed he wanted to get out of Mexico fast, before the new leaders of the cartel could hunt him down and finish what Barillo had started. Although he would never admit it in a million years, Sands was probably terrified of the cartel.
And maybe, El thought, he's afraid of me.
"You can't stay here," Ramirez said. "The CIA and the FBI are going to be here any day now. Looking for me, looking for you. A shitstorm went down here, and they're going to have lots of questions about it."
"Yes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to skip that party," Sands said. He smiled, a quick thinning of his lips. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me." He took a step forward.
El glanced at Ramirez, and the two men rolled their eyes. El grinned. Even blind and injured, Sands had balls.
That was good. He would need them, in the weeks to come.
"We have to go," he said. "There is lots to do."
Sands let out an incredulous laugh. "What part of, I'm going to kill you, do you not understand?" He jabbed the gun forward, emphasizing his point.
Patience was not El's strong suit. He had always been an act-first-think-later kind of man. He could stand here all day on this porch and have this argument, or he could get what he had come for.
He took a deep breath and launched himself forward, ducking low and to the right.
Sands fired. The bullet whined as it plowed into the wooden porch. Ramirez threw himself to the floor.
El never even flinched. He threw out his left arm, intending to grab Sands and the gun all at once.
And Sands, knowing what he was about to do, pivoted neatly to his left, and let El crash directly into the wooden slats of the porch railing. The posts groaned and creaked as El thudded headfirst into them, but they held. For now.
"I told you," Sands said in that casual tone that was already driving El crazy, "to fuck off." He fired again.
The bullet destroyed two of the wooden slats comprising the railing. El winced as wooden splinters dug into his cheek and neck. With a low growl, he threw himself forward, and this time succeeded in wrapping both arms about Sands.
The CIA agent howled in pain and fury. He brought the gun down on El's head, and El snarled at the pain. "I guess," he panted, "I will have to drag you after all."
He lunged to his feet, taking his captive with him. With a terrific heave, he turned and threw Sands through the porch railing. The wooden slats shattered, and gave way with a tremendous crash. The drop to the ground below was four feet, and Sands landed with atop the broken wood with a sick thud.
"You killed him," Ramirez said, from the safety of the house.
El shook his head, and winced as pain shot through him from where the gun had connected with his skull. "No," he said. "Not quite."
He leaped off the porch and landed in a crouch. The impact of the fall had made Sands lose his grip on his gun, and it lay innocently in the grass. His sunglasses were askew on his face. When he heard El jump down, he rolled over and began searching among the broken wood for the gun. The sunglasses dangled for a moment from one ear, then fell into the grass.
El just stared at him. He was horrified by the sight of the empty holes where the man's eyes had been. He had seen many terrible things since he had first taken up his guns, and he had been responsible for many more, but somehow the sight of Sands's blindness touched him in a way all those other atrocities had not. He felt himself feeling sorry for the agent, and wondered where such an emotion had come from.
"Are you coming with me?" he asked. "Or do I have to throw you through a wall next?"
Sands did not respond. He just continued groping among the remains of the railing, trying to find his gun. His breath came in painful gasps, and his hair hung in his face. His head turned from side to side, as though he could somehow will himself to see, if only he tried hard enough.
El retrieved the gun, and tossed it up to Ramirez, who now stood on the porch, looking down at the drama taking place in his backyard.
"Here." El reached down and lifted Sands to his feet.
Sands went wild. He twisted and fought, beating at El with both fists. "Let go of me!" he shouted. "Get off me!" Panic made his voice rise higher. "Let go!" He threw himself backward so fiercely that he tore loose from El's grip. His momentum carried him back for a few staggering steps, then his knees buckled. He sank to the ground and promptly began searching among the grass again, still trying to find the gun.
El was appalled. Evidently the loss of his eyes had unhinged Sands even more than he had been before. Madness had its uses, but El was suddenly filled with doubt. Maybe Sands wasn't the right man for this job, after all.
He tried one more time. "Get up." He grabbed Sands by the arms and hauled him upright.
This time Sands didn't bother shouting. He just lashed out, making no effort to locate his enemy first. He was close enough that it didn't matter. His fist caught El square in the chin.
El saw stars. He reeled backward across the grass, but did not let go of Sands.
Sands was too far gone to notice, anyway. "Don't," he pleaded, and collapsed.
El just stood there, his arms full of unconscious CIA agent.
"Maybe you should let them take him back to the States," Ramirez said from up on the porch. "He belongs in an institution." He paused. "He always did. It's just more obvious now."
El frowned. Ramirez's pronouncement, which only days ago he would have been too happy to agree with, felt strangely wrong. Sands was mad, yes, but perhaps not incurably so. And vengeance, as he knew all too well, could mask all kinds of ills, and give them legitimacy. Surely, with enough time, Sands would be just fine.
He looked down at the man collapsed against his chest. He had held no one, since the day Carolina and his daughter had died in his arms. A strange feeling of protectiveness washed over him, making him frown. Sands was an amoral killer, but what had happened to him was horrible beyond words. And didn't every man deserve a second chance? Carolina had given El that chance, and he had lost it. But that didn't have to happen to everyone. Maybe he was Sands's second chance.
"He'll be fine," El said. He shifted his grip on the unconscious agent, and now Sands lay across his arms, the way he had once carried Carolina up the stairs to their bedroom. Sands's head fell back, exposing the line of his throat, mercifully hiding his empty eyesockets from view.
El carried him toward the steps leading up to the porch, and reminded himself to go back for the agent's sunglasses. Sands would be needing them soon.
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Author's Note: A question to any who care to answer. Surprisingly enough, in future chapters, this story has taken on a strange turn toward potential slash territory. My question is, what would you think of this? Would you want to see it? I'm not so sure I do, but it does create some very interesting images in my head..... g