Chapter 8

El Makes Confession

Disclaimer: Everyone say it along with me. I don't own El and Sands. They belong to Robert Rodriguez.

Rating: R for language

Summary: El makes a confession of his own, and our heroes prepare for their meeting with the CIA.

Author's Note: I owe a big thanks to Raquedan for some of the inspiration for this chapter, and future ones. She asked me why there weren't any female characters in the story, and I said I didn't want to do a conventional romance for either of our heroes. But then I realized, having a female character doesn't necessarily have to equal romance….

Also, I just couldn't help myself. There's a PotC quote in this chapter. It was just too perfect. I had to use it. Don't hate me too much.

****

After El had eaten his breakfast – and most of Sands' – he said, "I know where the CIA is staying."

Sands was sitting at the table with him. He had rolled a cigarette with the tobacco El had brought him, but he was not smoking it. The guitar was still on the bed, apparently forgotten. He had been moodily facing the window, but when El spoke up, his head snapped around. "You waited an hour to tell me this? What the hell is the matter with you?"

El shrugged, and finished the last of the eggs. "I was hungry."

"Oh, Jesus," Sands sighed in disgust. "So, what did you see? What's the place like?"

El described it carefully, in as much detail as he could remember. A lot could depend on Sands' ability to maneuver his way through the place on his own, and for that he would need to know what it looked like.

While he talked, he watched Sands carefully. Ever since he had forced the man to come with him on his quest to destroy Barillo's cartel, he had felt a sense of responsibility for Sands. God knew why -- it wasn't like anybody had made him feel that way. He couldn't explain it, either. It was just something he had felt, without reason.

But since Sands' admission of trust, El had felt that responsibility much more keenly. Sands needed him, and not just as a pair of eyes. The former CIA agent would have died before admitting it, but Sands was lonely. Madness made for a poor companion. He needed someone.

El too was lonely. There had been no one for him since Carolina's death. He was tired of being alone, of living his life of danger with no one there to share the quiet times. He needed someone.

And so, somehow, the amazing had happened. They were friends now, something El would never have thought possible just a year ago.

He trusted Sands with his life. With his secrets, his innermost thoughts. He had never cried in front of another man before. He had told Sands things he had never told anyone else, things he would never have dared to admit to Fideo, or Lorenzo.

And he knew Sands had done the same. The night they had sat there, drunk and full of self-pity, Sands had told him things no one else would ever hear. The fact that El could not remember what those things were did not diminish the trust that had been extended that night. And no matter how badly he had needed the emotional release, Sands would never have broken down in front of him in Puerto Vallarta, had there not been some measure of trust present, even that long ago.

It was because of that trust that he meant to do whatever it took to get the CIA off their backs. He had no intention of letting the U.S. government lay so much as a finger on him. He had lived all his life in Mexico. He would never leave. Nor would he allow anyone else -- especially agents of another country -- to dictate how he lived.

And he was going to do whatever it took to accomplish this.

Sands was nodding, an exasperated look on his face. He held up a hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're starting to repeat yourself. I got it."

The CIA had made their headquarters at an old ranch situated a few miles outside the city. Two U.S. soldiers had stationed just outside the gate, but El knew there were plenty of others there as well. After all, he and Sands had killed six of them in Villa de Cos. From what he could tell, it had looked like the soldiers were staying in the old stables, while the CIA agents themselves -- however many there might be – were living in the house. El had driven by twice, each time slowing down to stare. The soldiers at the gate had stared back at him impassively.

The entire ranch was spread out over several acres of hilly land. El had been glad to see this. If he was supposed to let the soldiers see him, and then run, he had to have somewhere to lay low while making his escape. The hills promised to provide the protection he needed, so that was one thing to be grateful for.

"Tell me," El said, "who we are facing. Who is in that house?"

Sands pursed his lips and sighed through his nose. "Took you long enough to ask me that," he said sourly.

"You know who it is," El pressed. He had suspected as much, given Sands' reticence to mention the actual people hunting them. He knew Sands had tortured the information out of the soldier in his house, but so far he had learned nothing other than the name Durango.

It was time to lay all the cards on the table. El gave his new friend a hard glare. "Tell me."

Sands looked like he would rather have undergone dentistry without anesthesia than say anything. But he did answer the question. "It's my supervising officer," he said, each word short and brittle.

El nodded. This made sense. After all, no matter how much the government in Washington might have wanted to forget all about their agent with questionable sanity down in Mexico, someone would have had to be here, keeping an eye on Sands.

"What is his name?"

"Her name is Belinda Harrison. Everyone but me always just called her Bel."

A woman! This took El by surprise. And it explained Sands' deep reluctance to talk about her. No wonder the man was so pissed. It had to rankle that the person in charge of bringing him in was a woman. "What did you call her?"

Sands smirked. "I called her, 'That Bitch.'"

El shook his head. "Did you ever meet anyone you liked?"

Sands thought about this for a while. "No," he finally said.

El couldn't help smiling. Sands was insane, all right, but no one could say he wasn't entertaining.

"She was my liaison to the States," Sands said. "She's the Station Chief for all agents in Mexico -- which meant me and one other person, I think. I never knew for sure. Security reasons and all that. Anyway, she works in the embassy in Mexico City, supposedly just a clerk. No one there knows what she really does, of course. I had a dedicated phone line to her, and I checked in with her every few days."

"Did she know about the coup?" El asked. He found it hard to believe the U.S. government would have sanctioned Sands' madness.

"No." Sands hesitated, then said, "I did call her, though. I told her Cucuy had talked to the cartel and ratted me out. I told her they were following me. I tried to make her think I was in danger." A hard, humorless laugh escaped him. "Of course, I really was in danger. I just had no clue how much.

"Do you know what I told her? I said, I said, 'This is no time to screw the pooch. This is the big dance number.' And she hung up on me."

This Belinda Harrison, El decided, was not a very smart woman.

"I called her once more, told her I needed a new phone line, that the first one had been compromised. She finally seemed to get it, that things were serious. She agreed to meet me." Sands stopped. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "That was when the dear Ajedrez sat down across from me in the cantina. I knew it was all over with then. I hung up on Harrison and I never spoke to her again."

"Did she try to find you?" El asked.

"Hell if I know. Probably. But knowing her, she didn't look too hard. She never liked me," Sands said with an unsurprising lack of emotion.

I wonder why, El thought, and wisely decided to keep silent.

"I did try to call her again…after. In the taxi. I figured I would find somewhere to hide, and they could pick me up, take me in." He paused, then said, "I was hopped up on the cartel's drugs then. Plus I had the fucking kid to worry about. I wasn't thinking straight."

El believed this. He knew Sands would never go willingly back to the CIA now, and that it had only been fear and pain that had made him try to call them on the day of the coup. He would have gone quietly that day, but that had been over a year ago. Things had changed since then.

Many things.

"Anyway, she had already cut the line. The call didn't go through." Sands shrugged, easily dismissing what had to have been a terrible moment for him, the moment when he had realized he was on his own. "I never expected to see her again. Funny how the world works, isn't it?"

El bit his lip, and waited.

Sands did not disappoint. "And by 'see her again', I mean figuratively, of course. But then, you already knew that," he drawled.

El let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Ever since walking back into the motel room with the guitar in his hand, he had been on edge. Even now, he kept waiting for Sands to explode. He found it hard to believe he had gotten away with it. He had been taking a big chance, bringing that guitar in here, but he had wanted to know what would happen.

He wondered how often Sands thought of Puerto Vallarta. He wondered if Sands had any idea how awful that day had been for himself. It had not been easy to bait the man into a breakdown, but it had been even worse to stand there and just watch it happen.

It was Carolina who had made him see that such things were necessary. She had asked him questions about his past, brushing aside his attempts to evade the truth, until finally he had demanded to know what the hell she was doing. Why did she want to know such awful things?

A person can't keep pain like that inside, she had told him. It has to come out, eventually. And if you weren't careful, it would come out when you least expected it, in ways you never imagined.

She had made him talk, and it had been terrible, just as he had expected it would be. He had cried, he had shouted with rage, he had almost struck her. She had let him pace and punch the wall, and when his anger was spent, she had opened her arms and held him. And he had felt better. He had been ashamed of himself, a little, and guilty for putting her through that, but he had been able to look at the past without so much pain. He had felt cleaner inside.

It was one of the many reasons he loved her. She had always known what he had needed, even when he had not known it himself.

In Puerto Vallarta, he had dreamed of her, as always. One morning he had woken up, and instead of grieving for her all over again, he had heard her voice still echoing in his head, reminding him of the price paid for keeping pain locked inside for too long. So he had made his plans. He had gone to the market and he had bought the guitar, and when he came back he had said, See for yourself, knowing full well how cruel it was.

And it had worked.

The amazing thing was that Sands had not killed him for it. He had walked out of the house the next day and driven off, fully aware that he was lucky to be alive. Not many people in this world could do something like what he had done to Sands, and live to talk about it. He suspected he might be the only one, in fact.

He cleared his throat. It was time to start thinking about the future, not the past. And there would be no future for him unless he got rid of the CIA threat first.

"Will she be alone?" he asked. "How many agents will be with her?"

"One, maybe two," Sands said. "A junior agent, someone new to the field. His first assignment. Something like that. The rest will be soldiers. They'll be bored and probably they'll hate her." He smirked. "She's not a very nice person. She doesn't make it easy for the men under her command."

A sudden frown drew his brows together. "You know something? I just realized, this is all her fault. If she hadn't been such a bitch, I wouldn't have fallen for Ajedrez's line of bullshit. But That Bitch has a way of making a man feel like less of a man. So when dear old Ajedrez came along, with her dirty talk and her sweet mouth, telling me how much she wanted me, it was a lot easier to believe she meant it."

Sands dropped his head and chuckled bitterly. "Jesus Christ, El. Why did you ever get married? All women do is fuck us over. We're better off without them."

El stood up. He had heard all he needed to hear. "Then let's go."

Sands tossed his unlit cigarette to the table. "Let's do it."

****

First they armed themselves. El wished aloud for a Kevlar vest, so he could shoot Sands without doing any real damage, and Sands laughed so hard he couldn't stand up straight. "You really know how to lighten a situation, don't you, El?"

This pissed El off. He hadn't said it to be funny.

The road leading out to the ranch was not well-traveled. They were the only vehicle around for miles. El rolled his window down all the way to feel the wind on his face. He was nervous, tense, excited, scared. His stomach was cramping; his heart was pounding. When the wind blew his hair back into his face, he pushed it away irritably.

He took a deep breath and held it for a count of five. He let it out slowly. "I feel like I should say something," he offered.

"Like what?" Sands asked, having no idea what he meant.

"Something...inspirational," he said.

"What the hell?" Sands sounded alarmed.

"Not like that," El said impatiently. He wasn't about to start hugging or getting sentimental. "Something about what we are going to do. Something like..." He cast about in his mind, searching for words to convey the meaning he wanted. "Something like, one for all and all for one."

"Okay." Sands nodded, getting it now. "That wasn't bad. But I've got a better one. Take what you can, and give nothing back."

"I like that," El said. He repeated it to himself. The words definitely fit their situation. "Where did you hear that?"

Sands shrugged. "I don't remember. Some stupid movie."

It didn't really matter who had said it first. What mattered was that they had just acknowledged the importance of what they were about to do. In their own strange, shorthand manner, they had just said everything that needed to be said.

Then he frowned. No, not everything. They could both be dead in an hour. He had to say this last bit, the one thing that still needed saying.

"I want to tell you," he said, "you are the truest friend I have had in a long time."

Sands did not react to this for a long moment. For the millionth time El found himself cursing those dark sunglasses, and the fact that he could not look in Sands' eyes to know what the man was really thinking.

Finally, when they were nearly at the ranch, Sands spoke. "Well I've never had any friends. Congratulations, El. You're the first. I guess that means I win."

"You always have to do that, don't you?" El asked irritably.

"Do what?"

"Win."

"There's not much point in playing," Sands drawled with a smirk, "if you don't play to win." Then he sat up a little, and the amusement vanished from his face. "I want you to know, though, I still hate you for what you did to me in Puerto Vallarta."

"I know," El said.

"Good."

"I have one more thing to tell you," El said.

"Christ! What is it now?" Sands snapped.

"We're here," El said.

*****

Note: This actually wasn't supposed to be a chapter by itself. This was supposed to be one short scene before the big showdown with the CIA (the original title for this chapter, in fact.) But as you can see, things sort of grew, all on their own. I'm telling you, trying to control these two characters is just impossible. I gave up on that a long time ago. Now I'm just along for the ride, wherever they want to take me.

Starting next chapter, things heat up.