Chapter 7

Sands in Action


Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. All is Robert Rodriguez's.

Rating: R for mild violence.

Summary: Sands and El get closer to the cartel they have been hunting.

Author's Note: Well, back in chapter 3 I asked what people thought about this story having a slash aspect, and the votes are in. I had been undecided myself for a long time, but the more I think about it, the more I think I'm going to leave well enough alone. There is a chapter out there that contains some kissage – which was as far as I ever intended taking things, by the way – and when the story is done I could e-mail it out, if anyone is interested, but I don't think it will be included in the story itself. Thanks to everyone who responded.

Author's Note 2: If anybody is keeping score, this just so happens to be my favorite chapter. It's time for our corrupt, slimy, psychotic, beautiful Sands to shine. g

****

Word was getting out, and the Escalante cartel, formerly known as the Barillo cartel, was nervous. Two men were out there asking questions about them, getting closer with every week. And the cartel -- especially its new leader, Ramon Escalante -- was not happy.

The men who had survived the botched coup talked among themselves. It was El Mariachi, they said. It had to be. He had walked out of El Presidente's compound alive and unharmed, and for that costly error, men had died, so that everyone knew how important a threat Escalante considered him. He was still out there, and he was coming for them.

His companion, however, was a mystery. El's woman was dead, and none of the legends mentioned him working with anyone else. In the absence of fact, rumors ran wild. Some said another mariachi had joined the cause, taller and stronger than El, with a guitar case that hid a rocket-launcher. Others said the stranger was El Mariachi's younger brother, being initiated into the life of murder and revenge. Still others said he was a shaman from one of the mountain tribes, who had visions that directed him and El to the location of the cartel. No one knew who he was, and everyone was afraid of him.

Sands, had he known this, would have been pleased.

****

El slouched a little lower in his chair and sipped at his beer. The bar was loud and ugly, much like its patrons. He had been in dozens of them through the years, and although the name over the door changed, they were all the same. He was sitting in the corner, glowering at men and women alike if they dared to approach. He was on his third beer, but the drink was so watered down he scarcely felt any effects from the alcohol.

At the bar, Sands was talking to a former associate of Barillo's.

The man was short and thin. He had been on the fringe of the cartel, drawn there by Ajedrez, who had recruited him because he was good with explosives. He had tried to woo the lady, but she had rejected him so cruelly he had been startled back to reality. Working for a drug cartel, he had suddenly realized, was not as fun or glamorous as he had thought it might be. Before anyone could discover his cold feet, he had quietly packed up his things and fled.

It had taken two weeks to track down the man, and El wasn't even sure how much information he would be able to provide, but Sands had insisted. Privately El thought the CIA agent just wanted to talk to someone about Ajedrez, but he kept his suspicions to himself.

The man at the bar had said his name was Miguel. He held a beer in one hand, and the other was behind his back, his thumb hooked through his belt loop. He was nodding, agreeing with something Sands had just said.

They were making progress, El thought. In the month that had passed since their tentative truce in the hotel room, they had gained a lot of ground. Every person they talked to was a little more sullen; every town they entered was a little less welcoming. The cartel knew they were out there, but not where, and they were nervous.

He started to wave to the bartender so he could get another beer, then froze. Their latest informant, Miguel, had just waved the fingers of the hand at his back.

And from the left end of the bar, behind Sands, two men got to their feet and began making their way forward.

El put his glass down and sat up a bit straighter. The gun nestled in the small of his back suddenly took on weight, reminding him that it was there, ready for him if he needed it.

He doubted he would.

Sands was leaning on the bar, his left arm resting on its scarred surface. The dark sunglasses effectively hid his expression, but more importantly, they protected his secret. He held a dirty beer glass in his right hand, and as the two thugs drew nearer, he raised the glass as if to drink.

Miguel was good, El had to give him credit. He never once looked over Sands' shoulder to the approaching men, which would have given them all away. As it turned out, he need not have bothered. It was, as Sands said later, something in his voice. Just one off-note, maybe. But it was enough.

The thugs were only a foot away now. One had a snub-nosed pistol. The other had pulled a thick leather strop.

Miguel stopped talking. Sands took a sip of his beer. The thug with the strop raised his makeshift weapon.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Sands tossed the contents of the glass over his shoulder, directly into the face of the man with the pistol.

The thug bellowed as the warm liquid splashed into his eyes. It was the only sound he made, and it was the only one Sands needed to hear. The CIA agent spun on his heel and smashed the glass against the thug's face. A split second later he had pulled his gun and shot the man right between the eyes.

All activity in the bar came to a halt.

Miguel turned to run, and El had his only hesitation of the night. He could let Miguel run, and blow his cover, or he could go after the man. After a moment's debate, he stayed right where he was. Miguel darted out of the bar, into the night.

The man with the strop had gotten wet from the beer, but he had been far enough back to avoid any of the smashing glass. Now he bared his teeth and swung the leather at Sands, intending to knock the gun out of the CIA agent's hand.

The whistling noise the leather made as it moved through the air gave Sands just enough warning. He dropped down low and fired at the same time. The thug staggered backwards, clutching at his torn-open throat as blood poured from the wound. He tripped over a bar stool and fell heavily to the floor.

Sands stayed in a crouch, his head cocked, listening hard for any more assailants.

Someone at the bar motioned to the bartender. A woman in the back laughed out loud, and just like that, the place came back to life. Several of the men gave Sands an uneasy look, but no one even made a funny gesture toward him. They were taking no chances, completely unaware that the man they were afraid of couldn't even see them.

Sands stood up and put his gun away. He reached into his pocket and slapped some money onto the bar counter.

El drained his glass and walked up to him. "Did you get what you wanted?" he asked.

Sands grinned. "Oh yeah."

****

Later, as they walked back to their hotel, El asked, "What did he say?"

There were no sidewalks, so they walked in the street. El matched his pace to Sands', and let his footsteps and the jangling of the chains on his pants guide the blind agent. Once, in a dusty town he could not remember the name of, he had taken hold of Sands' arm in order to lead the man around a pothole, and Sands had whirled on him and laid him out with one solid punch. "Don't ever touch me," Sands had said, as El had stared up at him in shock from his back.

Just for that El had let him walk right into a streetlamp. The next day they had had matching bruises.

"About the cartel? Nothing," Sands said. "He wasn't privy to much, and we all know Barillo played things close to the vest. Anything he does know is probably no good by now, anyway."

El nodded. Escalante would have moved the cartel's operations after taking over. Now anyone who could finger them from Barillo's time would have to find them first.

And that was proving to be the hardest part. El shook his head, and for the thousandth time admitted that he should have gone after the cartel immediately after the attempted coup. He could have struck then, swiftly and decisively, and destroyed them for good. Instead he had waited.

And he still didn't know why.

"But," Sands said, "I did learn some interesting things about my dear friend Ajedrez." His voice had dipped into that bored drawl again. El had come to learn that when Sands talked like that, he was actually excited about something.

"What did you hear? Left," El said.

Without missing a beat, without reaching out to feel for the unseen obstacle, Sands stepped smoothly to the left, out of the path of the No Parking sign that had been right in his path.

"It would seem Agent Ajedrez had her own hideaway. Near Caimanero."

El frowned. "How is that important?"

"The house was owned by the cartel. Even with the dear Agent Ajedrez's passing, the cartel still owns it." Sands gave El a mirthless smile. "Someone has to still live there. Someone connected with the cartel."

So Miguel had proved useful after all. El nodded. "Good."

They reached an intersection. Before El could say anything to him, Sands turned right and began walking down the new street, a mean lane that ran between two blocks of ugly industrial buildings.

El stopped dead in his tracks. "How did you know to turn?" he demanded. He looked at Sands, and then at the intersection, which was unremarkable. "How did you do that?"

Sands continued walking on, paying no attention to El.

El stared. There was nothing at all different about the intersection, nothing to set it apart from the three others they had already passed as they walked back to the hotel. "Wait!" He broke into a trot and caught up to Sands. He started to reach out and take hold of the man's sleeve, and stopped himself at the last moment. "Stop."

Sands stopped. A frown of annoyance tightened his mouth. "What?"

"Tell me how you did that. How did you know to turn there?" El demanded. He felt almost giddy, and could not say why.

"Why ruin the mystery?" Sands quipped, and started forward again.

"No." This time El did grab the agent's arm. "Tell me first."

Sands did not look down at the hand on his arm. Already he was leaving behind the gestures and habits of a sighted man. "Let go of me," he said, his voice carefully controlled.

A long moment passed while El wondered what would happen if he did not. Beneath his fingers, he could feel Sands trembling, and he knew the man was a heartbeat away from striking out at him.

He released the agent's arm. "Tell me."

"I counted, all right?" Sands said, his voice heavy with self-mockery. "I counted the steps from the hotel to the intersection, and from the intersection to the bar. Savvy?"

"You counted," El repeated. He shook his head. "Jesus."

"Well, I don't think even I can walk on water," Sands said lightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He started forward again, heading up the street toward the hotel.

El watched him. All right, he thought. It can't be that hard.

He closed his eyes and began walking.

And he was right. It wasn't hard. For the first few steps. After that, doubts began to set in. Was he walking crooked? Would he end up facefirst against the factory wall to his right? How close was the streetlamp he had seen up the road?

It became harder and harder to put each foot forward. His mouth tightened into a grim line. Sweat broke out on his brow. A car drove past on the left, spraying him with its headlights, and he cringed back, throwing up an arm in self-defense, although the vehicle never came close to hitting him.

His right hand rose in the air, wanting to scout out the territory ahead of him. Angrily he forced it back to his side.

Four steps later he came to a halt. The darkness behind his closed eyelids was too absolute. He could not go on. He was too afraid.

He opened his eyes.

Sands was leaning against the building to the right, just ahead of where El stood. He had one foot propped up on the stone behind him, and was lighting a cigarette. "How'd you like it?" he asked.

"Like what?" El asked.

"Being blind." Sands threw his match into the dust on the street, pushed himself off the building, and started walking toward the hotel.

After a little while, El followed him.

****