Chapter 4

On the Road

Disclaimer: Still not mine. All hail Robert Rodriguez.

Rating: Still R, for language and a bit of violence.

Another round of thanks to my reviewers, especially to Erin. Thanks, dear! I hope you all continue to enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

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"You do know that kidnapping a federal agent is a serious crime, don't you?""

El said nothing. Only two hours on the road with Sands and he was already seriously debating pushing his passenger out the window.

Ramirez had stayed behind. "They may have forgotten me," he had said, "but not for long. Sooner or later the FBI's going to come calling for me. And I don't intend to be here when that happens."

"Where will you go?" El had asked him. He had an idea a man like Ramirez would come in handy later, and he wanted to be able to find the former agent again.

"No se," Ramirez had said with a shrug. He had wanted to go with El, the desire had been in his eyes, but for some reason he had denied himself. El was sorry to see it. He would have welcomed Ramirez, if the man had volunteered his services.

Sands, on the other hand. . .

The CIA agent had done everything in his power to prevent El from taking him out of Ramirez's house. In the end El had been forced to knock him unconscious and bodily haul him out the front door, but not before Sands had gotten in a few good licks. One of El's eyes was already bruising, and the bite on his hand was painful and didn't want to stop bleeding.

"You'll spend the rest of your life in jail, mister. And not the good kind of jail, where you get HBO and a Bowflex in the gym. The kind of jail where you're someone's bitch within ten minutes of entering the place."

El pursed his lips. Ever since leaving Ramirez's place, it had been like this. The FBI agent's house had still been visible in the rearview mirror when Sands had attacked him, clouting him a good one on the head and yanking on the steering wheel, sending them into a ditch on the side of the road. After he had gotten the car back up on the road, El had refrained with difficulty from killing Sands, and settled for handcuffing him to the door handle.

Since then, Sands had seemed content to sit still, and just talk El to death. He was still too pale and still in obvious pain, but he was not letting that stop him. El respected that stubborn determination, but it was damn hard to be the focus of it.

"Did you know," he said, "that I killed my own brother?"

El could have sworn Sands rolled his eyes, eyes he didn't have anymore. "Yes, as a matter of fact you did tell me that fascinating piece of information."

"Did you know," he said, "why I did it?"

"Well, let me guess," Sands drawled. "Probably something to do with a beautiful, lethal woman, right? The kind who fucks like a whore but who moves like a duchess. There's always one of those in stories like this."

All he had left of Carolina was her memory. Hearing someone talk that way about her made El's blood boil. Before he was even aware that he was going to do it, his arm flew out and smashed Sands in the face.

Sands' head rocked to the side and connected with the window. His sunglasses slipped, revealing one empty eyesocket. Blood dripped from his nose.

"Shit," El muttered.

Sands bent his head so his cuffed hands could reach his face, and pushed his sunglasses back into place. "If you ever touch me again," he said quietly, "I'll kill you."

"Yeah, yeah," El said. Death threats meant nothing to him anymore, he had been hearing them so long. Nonetheless, a small voice spoke up in his mind and told him he ought to be careful. Sands was a killer. A good killer. And blind, he was a very good killer.

But there was more to the man than that, El knew. After leaving Ramirez's house, they had driven through the village. Life had returned to normal in the town, and El had been pleased to see it. The windows were down, and a hot breeze circulated in the car, doing little to cool down its occupants. Sands had been sullenly quiet, but then he had abruptly sat up. "Stop! Stop the car."

Too surprised not to comply, El had slammed on the brakes. "What is it?"

Then he had seen. A kid in a dirty yellow T-shirt, riding a bike with a jangling bell. Somehow Sands had heard that bell, and now he was looking in the direction of the kid, who was pedaling eagerly toward the car.

El shook his head. The CIA agent had damn good hearing, there was no doubt about it.

The kid had approached the car, his face alight. "You're better!" he had exclaimed happily in Spanish. "Where are you going?"

"Well, that's up to Mister El here," Sands had said. He clearly understood the language, even if he refused to speak it himself. "Have you been staying at home, like I told you?"

The kid had given El a quick glance, and in his grin El had seen the truth. "Si, senor," the boy had said however, and El had smiled himself, to see the kid's lie.

"Good kid," Sands had said distantly. "You run along now. Stay out of trouble."

The kid had flashed his grin again. "Si, senor." But instead of riding off he had just continued to sit on his bike, staring at Sands with adoration.

El didn't like that look. He had cleared his throat, and Sands jumped. "Go on, get out of here!" Before, he had sounded a bit like an indulgent uncle, maybe. Now he just sounded pissed.

The kid had taken off, but not before El had seen one thing. The boy would follow Sands wherever he went, so long as the CIA agent let him.

El wasn't sure what he felt about that. He knew how the kid had gotten involved, had heard the story from Ramirez who had heard it from the kid himself. Sands claimed to remember very little of what had happened after being blinded, and the subsequent gunfight. Evidently, though, he remembered the kid, and that little thing made El feel a bit more kindly inclined toward him.

Now, however. . . El sighed. "I didn't mean to hit you," he said.

"Just shut up," Sands said wearily. He leaned his forehead against the window. His hair hid his expression. "Where are you taking me?"

El did not reply. In truth he had no idea where he was going. There was a certain beauty to being spontaneous, but he would need a plan if he was truly going to take on a drug cartel. So first he needed information. Barillo had ruled the Culiacan for years, but by now someone would have risen to take his place. He would sniff around, find out where the cartel had relocated, who its new leader was.

Sands, however, didn't need to know any of that. In fact, El rather liked the idea of keeping the man ignorant. Call it poetic justice, that the person formerly responsible for pulling all the strings was now powerless to control even his own fate.

He glanced over at Sands, then back at the road. He turned the steering wheel a little to the left, and the car jolted over a crumbling pothole. Sands' head thumped against the window, and he sat up with a wince. "Fucker," he muttered.

El didn't bother trying to hide his smile. It wasn't like Sands could see him, anyway. "What does that mean?" he asked, gesturing to the man's cuffed hands. "This three, on your hand."

The tattoo intrigued him. He had seen a variety of them throughout the years, notably on the man Bucho had sent to kill him, but the simple number made him curious. It could mean anything.

"The first time I killed a man," Sands said.

El chuckled in disbelief. "What, you were three years old?"

"There were three of them," Sands said, his voice heavy with scorn.

El waited, but Sands did not continue the story. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me about it?" When Sands still did not speak, he said, "You might as well tell me. The trip is long, and the radio does not work."

Sands sighed, and again El got the impression of a non-existent eye roll. "Fine." He sat up a little straighter, as much as the cuffs would allow. "There were three of them. They jumped me, made it look like a regular mugging."

"They weren't 'regular'?" El asked.

"No, fuckmook," Sands sing-songed. "CIA, remember? They were low-level goons, a bunch of nobodies hired by this guy I was shadowing, to get me out of the picture. They jumped me, they had knives, I had a gun, the end."

"And so you got a tattoo, to commemorate the occasion?" El asked. He shook his head. It was sick, but it could have been worse, he supposed. He had known men who wore necklaces comprised of teeth taken from their victims' jaws.

"Well they don't exactly make Hallmark cards that congratulate you on your first kill," Sands said. He slid down a little in his seat, his face tight with pain. Between his still-healing eyes, the jolt on the window, and El's blow, he probably had one hell of a headache. El felt another one of those traitorous pangs of sympathy, and stomped on it viciously.

One confidence deserved another, El thought. And the road before them was long. They might as well get to know each other. They would be spending a lot of time together in the weeks to come.

He cleared his throat. "I killed my brother," he said. "You know this, but I am going to tell you the true story. Now you will hear what really happened."

"Oh gosh, I can't wait," Sands said.

El drew a deep breath. A story, he had said. "Once upon a time in Mexico, there were two brothers. One of them was called Cesar. . ."

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