Chapter 5
Shoot-out at Casa Del Mariachi
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
Rating: A strong R for language, violence and disturbing images
Summary: We interrupt your regularly scheduled angst to bring you some action.
Author's Note: Be forewarned. This isn't a nice chapter. It was difficult to write, difficult to edit, and some of you probably won't like it. Just remember, it isn't my fault. I'm not the insane CIA agent – Sands is. He made me do it.
****
El stayed in the house all day -- what was left of it -- nursing his hangover. He had not gone on a drinking binge like last night in quite a while. He had forgotten the sheer misery of the day after, the pounding head, the churning stomach, the intense desire to just lay down and die.
On the bright side, at least he had something to think about besides Carolina.
Sands stayed in the backyard all through the afternoon, and on into the evening, sitting in the hot sun. Whether this was self-imposed penance for the night before, or just sheer stupidity, El didn't know. He didn't really care, either.
His memory of the night before was hazy at best, but he clearly remembered talking about Carolina. Worse, he remembered crying over her. Only a little, but tears were still tears. He tried to remind himself of what had happened in Puerto Vallarta, and say that now he and Sands were even, but he didn't believe that. And it was no good telling himself that Sands couldn't see him crying, because the CIA agent would have heard it in his voice.
Besides, that bastard always knew. He was blind, but El could hide nothing from him.
I knew there was a reason I liked you.
Nothing about Sands made any sense. This enormous admission, so casually dropped, was just the latest bafflement.
Why? he thought. What have I ever done to make you like me?
The day was drawing to a close. The sun had been down for half an hour and only a swatch of darkest blue remained in the western sky to show its resting place. There was almost no wind tonight. El stood at the open back door and stared out. As far as he could tell, Sands had not moved in hours. For all he knew, the agent was asleep sitting up.
Just what do you think you are doing here? asked that drawling voice in his head. The voice he had spent months arguing with. The voice, he knew now, that had belonged all the time to the man sitting on his back lawn.
El sighed and folded his arms. If he was truly honest with himself, he had no idea what he should do next. It was not safe to stay in Villa de Cos, but he was tired of running, tired of playing someone else's game. He had finally found a place where he could be happy, and he was not going to leave it.
And what about Sands? asked the voice. Where does he fit into all of that?
El didn't know. And that was the problem.
Out on the lawn, Sands cocked his head to one side.
El shook his head in amazement. He was still half inside the house, just standing here, not doing anything, not moving. Yet Sands had still heard him. The man's hearing was nothing short of incredible.
He was about to call out when Sands suddenly leapt to his feet and turned around. He took two running steps, then faltered. His head turned from side to side. His right hand rose to feel the air in front of him. He looked utterly lost.
El lifted his foot and kicked the doorframe, making the chains on his pants jingle.
Immediately Sands' head snapped around. He pointed at El. "Get in the house!" He started running again.
And finally El got it. Sands had not been listening to him.
There were men outside his house. Men with guns, dressed in black so that they were barely distinguishable from the twilight gloom. El could barely see them.
But he didn't need to see them. Sands had done it for him, even without any eyes.
The soldiers creeping toward the house were not stupid. They saw Sands take off for the house and they realized their cover was blown. They rose to their feet, all three of them bringing their weapons to bear.
El's eyes widened. Stupidly enough, all he could think of was the fact that he was completely unarmed.
Sands reached the door, hitting it hard with one shoulder as he pushed his way past El and into the house. A split second later, the soldiers outside opened fire.
El whirled around, back inside his house. He threw the door shut behind him, and it was destroyed under the hail of bullets. Immediately he ducked, wrapping his arms about his head for protection. Wooden splinters flew into the kitchen, several of them striking him in the neck and arms, drawing blood even through his shirt.
"Get your guns!" Sands shouted. He was stumbling through the kitchen, his pistols already in his hands, trying to find the window.
All day Sands had sat out there, fully armed. And now El understood why. The agent had expected an attack. He had wanted to learn the sounds of the neighborhood, so when the attack came, he would recognize it for what it was. He had known -- even after El had lied to him -- that the village was not safe.
There was no time to marvel at Sands' cleverness. El raced through the house and found his shotgun in the living room. He picked it up just as the front door was kicked in.
Right at the moment when he pulled the trigger, he had a sudden terrified thought that the gun was not loaded. Then the weapon gave its satisfying boom, and the man in the door was hurled backward, his chest torn apart.
Immediately two other soldiers were there to take his place. Both of them carried automatic weapons. They sighted on El and fired.
El threw himself to the floor, ducking and rolling as he went. He was dimly aware that his house was being destroyed all around him, but he could not think about that.
Gunshots sounded from the kitchen. Someone screamed.
"El!" shouted Sands. "Get in here and help me!"
Little busy now, he thought. He rolled up to his feet, and the shotgun boomed. One of the men in black fell, but the other continued shooting. El was forced to throw himself to the floor again to avoid the spray of bullets.
Shots rang out in the kitchen. Voices cried out in pain, and this time one of them belonged to Sands.
"El! Where the fuck are you?"
El pulled the trigger. The remaining soldier dived behind the TV. El shot at him again, blowing up his own TV in the process. He didn't care. It was only an old black-and-white model anyway.
He got to his feet and started running toward the front of the room, and the dead men who lay there. He was about to run out of ammo. He wanted one of their weapons.
The soldier behind the TV came out from his cover, shooting wildly.
El changed his mind in mid-stride. He pivoted on one foot and turned to his right. He leaped at the sagging couch. There was just enough room between it and the wall for a man to fit. He planted one foot on the seat cushion, intending to vault the back of the couch and land behind it. The couch, which was on wheels, slid a little closer to the wall with his weight, narrowing the space where he had thought to hide.
He had just begun his jump when pain bloomed in the back of his arm, near his shoulder. He was thrown forward. The right side of his chest hit the back of the couch, hard. Immediately his ribs began hollering with pain. He let himself fold over the hurt, and just toppled over the couch, landing on his back on the dusty floor.
Behind him, the chatter of automatic weapons fire came to a sudden stop. El lay still for a moment, panting for breath.
Then he heard the man in black start to walk his way; broken glass from the TV screen crunched under the man's boots.
El rose to his feet and rested the shotgun on the back of the couch. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Out of ammo.
The man in black grinned. He raised his weapon.
Click.
Out of ammo.
El and the man stared at each other. El raised an eyebrow, mocking the soldier's sudden panic. He had been in this situation so many times before, and it always came down to one thing: What to do now?
The soldier was standing right next to his dead comrades. He glanced down at them. At their guns.
The second the man sprang, El made his move. Using the wall behind him for leverage, he shoved the couch forward with all his strength. Pain bellowed through his arm and broken ribs. He shouted aloud, unable to help it.
The couch barreled forward, slewing to the right as it went. The soldier, who had been bending down to retrieve his dead partner's weapon, looked up and saw it coming but couldn't move out of the way in time. He was struck right between the eyes by the wooden arm of the couch. He went down without a sound.
The house was silent.
El pushed himself off the wall and hurried forward. He was festooned with dust bunnies, he noticed absently, from his sojourn on the floor behind the couch. His right arm screamed with pain, and it hurt to breathe.
The kitchen stank of blood and gunpowder. Two men were dead on the floor. A third was crumpled on the threshold of the ruined back door. Sands was sitting in the corner created where the counter met the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink. A pool of blood was slowly spreading beneath him. One hand was pressed to his thigh, and blood seeped through his fingers. "Guess what, El," he said slowly, his voice tight with pain. "Looks like your sleepy little town isn't as safe as you thought it was."
El leaned heavily against the counter, fighting for breath. "There is one who is not dead."
Sands smiled. It was not a nice smile. "You don't say?"
****
El stayed in the kitchen. He could hear what was happening in his living room, and that was bad enough. He had no desire to see it.
Sands, it turned out, was skilled at the art of torture.
El never once heard him. The whole time Sands spoke softly, which somehow made it all the more chilling. He would have felt oddly better if Sands had shouted at the soldier sent by the CIA. Instead the only sounds he heard were the doomed man's screams of pain.
While Sands was doing his version of the dirty work, El gathered up the bodies of the three dead men in his kitchen, and dumped them in the corner. One of the men's eyes was still open, and a single blue iris stared at El accusingly.
He sat at the table, his head down. He had bound his injured arm as best he could, but the wound was high and he could not reach it well. His shirt was soaked with blood on his right sleeve and down his back. It hurt to breathe; he suspected a few of his ribs were broken.
A shot rang out in the living room. El's head snapped up, and he groaned as the pain flared higher in his arm.
With a tired sigh, he stood up. He shuffled into the living room, picking up his feet as little as possible, so he would not jar his aching ribs. He stopped when he was only a few steps inside the room. He could see the lower half of the dead man's body, but the rest was mercifully hidden behind the couch.
Sands was sitting on the piece of furniture that had seen so much action today. Blood coated his hands and stained the cushion under his leg. "Durango," he said.
El blinked. "What?"
"Durango. That's where they are. The CIA. They've made their headquarters in Durango while they hunt for us."
"He told you that?"
"Yes."
"And you believe him?"
Sands gave him another one of those ghoulish smiles. "Yeah." Blood had splashed on one lens of his sunglasses. A streak of it was drying on his cheek. He had cinched his belt about his thigh, but the wound was still bleeding. He was pale and trembling. He looked utterly insane.
El nodded. "We'll leave tonight." He hesitated, then said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Sands said brightly. "It's been a while since I got to torture someone. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it."
El scowled. Once again Sands had done it -- reminded him that sanity was not at the top of the list of the man's charms.
"I didn't mean that," Sands said.
"Yes, you did," El said. He felt dirty all over. Sometimes a man had to resort to ugly things like torture, but he had always hated it. To know that it had happened in his own living room disgusted him.
"Okay, so I did. Don't get all righteous on me now."
"No," El sighed.
"Good." Sands slumped back against the couch. "Give me a moment. I think I'm about to pass out for a little while. Wake me up when it's time to go."
El turned to go, then abruptly stopped. Those words. Give me a moment.
He turned back around, his eyes wide. "That was you!" he said.
Sands lifted his head. "What?"
"In the church. That day. That was you, pretending to be a priest."
"Well, goddamn, El, you finally figured it out. Good for you." Sands leaned his head back on the couch again. "I really didn't mean it, you know. But he made me do it. I had no choice. We had to have answers. You understand that."
El still didn't believe it, but he nodded all the same. Sometimes it was just easier to accept a lie than to keep insisting on the truth.
*****